There were some very good bits. Here is our riad – a bit far through the winding alleyways of the old town for geographically-challenged me, but lovely:
And the deceptive riad front door: Who knew there would be a sunny-ish courtyard oasis just inside? With clementines and dates and endless silver teapots filled with sugary fresh mint tea?
And here I am, on my first day in Marrakech, about to eat a decidedly average rooftop lunch, but very happy anyway, even though my dress was a little bit short and my pregnant belly just a little bit too sticky-outy.
The sign for the traditional hammam. We didn’t go to that one, because it looked a bit scary. We went to the lovely posh one. But look! The sign is so lovely!
And more signage of loveliness:
And the old town:
And me, at the Majorelle Gardens, looking smilingly colour-coordinated and a bit posey:
Those things, and the excellent company of Jo and Rebecca, and the souks and the Berber musician-seller-guy who kissed up and made us buy castanets and ugly drums and the terrible charlatan reiki healer who fleeced me £40 and the annoying hotel guide Hakim and the wonderful lamb tajines and the scarves made from 100% pashmina (hmmmm) and the sun and the hammam and the TIME OFF FROM DEMANDING TODDLERS was all wonderful.
The Bit That Gets Unpleasant:
On our first day I started bleeding a little bit. On our first morning in Marrakech I woke up to find a lot more blood. Throughout the day the bleeding continued and I figured out I was having a miscarriage. I thought I wouldn’t tell Mark, or go to a hospital, but just wait and see. By the afternoon, I was cramping and so we texted mark and he wanted me to go to hospital. We called a cab, and just as I was getting ready to go, I stood up and felt something come out in a flood. It was the placenta, along with a lot more blood.
We got to the hospital with me bleeding everywhere. The hospital was scary, and there was very little English spoken. I was seen by a besuited doctor, obviously on-call and mid-way through his restaurant meal when we was called to me. He examined me and said that the fetus was still inside and he needed to give me an operation to remove it. I was separated from Jo and Rebecca and wheeled away, into a room with a young nurse who spoke English. She said I would have another baby, and she would be beautiful. The anaesthetist came in and pumped my arm full of drugs which stung like acid, then I fell asleep for half an hour, only to wake up and start sobbing. The nurses stroked my hair and asked me why I was crying and I said it was because I lost my baby.
I was wheeled back into another room which had nothing in it, no flushing toilet, no supplies, and Jo and Rebecca found me. We stayed there for two hours, and I got cleaned up and was allowed to go back to the riad. I got to take the baby with me in a plastic container.
That part was not good. I called Mark and he was so sad. So was I. So we still are. I have never understood why miscarriages affect people. I thought if you didn’t know your baby, and your baby was small, and not ready, then you would be ok if it died. But I see now that I was wrong. I am really sad about my baby. I feel empty, and wounded, and weak, and quiet.
So, I am not pregnant any more, like I was, on Friday, when I arrived for my lovely weekend off. It was very odd leaving Marrakech thinner, emptier, older, wiser. I am tired, achingly-tired, and ready to sleep. I just thought you had to know.