How do you grieve something that never existed?
Or what if it did exist, but only barely? It scraped the edge of happening and then veered off course.
The cluster of cells inside me obviously managed to implant itself into the lining of my womb, or I wouldn’t have seen all those tests read positive. But what happened next? Did the cells fall out again? Was there a chromosomal abnormality, which meant that if they had grown to be the size of a baby—if my body hadn’t disrupted that chain of events—perhaps the cells wouldn’t have grown into a baby at all, but just one oversized spleen, or half an eyeball, or an unidentifiable lump of human meat?
There was something wrong with my baby, if I’m even allowed to call a failed embryo a baby, and I’ll never know what it was. I’ll never know if it was a girl or a boy, or if it could have rolled its tongue, or if it would have had a Darwin’s tubercle on its ear.
I’ve been in bed for most of this week, staring at the ceiling. I’ve given the baby a name: Lucy. I felt that she was a she while she was inside me, so that’s what I’m going to believe. Lucy is the name scientists gave to a three-million-year-old skeleton they found in Ethiopia. Lucy is one of our earliest ancestors, and, according to the Beatles song she was named after, she is also in the sky with diamonds.
I go to the shelves opposite the window and look at the boxes of equipment. I fetch the things I’m going to need: a tattoo gun, ink, machine tips, power source, needles, wet wipes, latex gloves. I lay them out on the desk by the wall and sit down.
The needles are all so big. Not like sewing needles. These ones must be fifteen centimetres long. I try to find a tip and needle that look like they fit together. It’s hard to tell without unwrapping them, so I put on a pair of gloves and take some out. Finally, I find a pair that match. This needle is one of the thicker ones, which isn’t ideal. In fact, it’s made up of about fifteen needles and looks like a miniature comb. Never mind. As long as it’s pointy.
I push the tip into the tattoo gun, then insert the needle carefully, knowing how easily these things can break. I secure the needle with a rubber band, as I’ve seen James do, and press the trigger to test it. The end of the needle pops out. When I release the trigger, it pops back in again. That’s good. This is going to work.
I attach the gun to the power source and pedal; then I pour out some black ink into a plastic container and dip in the needle. I rest my forearm on the desk, wrist up.
I’ve heard some people describe tattoos as pleasurable, and I’ve heard others describe them as torture. James talks of the pain curve. He says the first couple of minutes of getting a tattoo are intense, as your body is getting used to what’s happening. But soon, you start to make endorphins, and they give you an hour or two of natural pain relief. During this stage, James says, some people find the experience of getting a tattoo quite enjoyable. And then, if you’re getting a bigger piece done, your body starts running low on happy chemicals. When that happens, you’ll likely need regular breaks, and you’ll feel relieved every time the gun breaks contact with your skin. Even the toughest guys can be shrieking in agony after a five-hour-long rib piece.
I’ve never had a tattoo, but I have been in pain before. I had my wisdom teeth removed a few years ago, and the anaesthetic didn’t work properly on one side. That was bad. I’ve burned myself welding a couple of times too. Nothing horrific, but enough to cause the skin to blister.
I push my foot down on the pedal. The buzz of the machine startles me. I take a deep breath. Best way to do this, I figure, is quickly. Don’t overthink it. I press the needle into my skin.
Blood pools on my wrist. The needle must have gone too deep. I get a wet wipe and mop it up. I’m left with a thick, reddish-black smudge. It doesn’t look much like an L, but perhaps it will when it dries.
I hurry out a U and a C. This time there’s just a trail of black dots—I haven’t gone deep enough. I’ll have to redo it in a minute. I press harder for the Y.
“Solvig, what’s going on?” James is standing in the doorway, in his boxers. He hasn’t got his prosthesis on, and he’s holding the door frame for support. “Put down the gun. Please.”
I want to take my foot off the pedal, but I’ve turned to stone.
“Stop it, love.”
“It hurts so much,” I say.
When I release the pedal, the machine stops buzzing, but now I can hear the whooshing inside me.
James hops over to my chair and puts on some latex gloves, then sets about wiping up the mess I’ve made.
“What’s that?” I ask, as he applies a layer of ointment.
“Baby rash cream,” he says. “It’ll protect the wound.”
I can smell his body. It’s the smell I know well, but I feel as though I’m smelling it for the first time. I always thought it was coffee and garlic. Now it’s hazelnut, cider apple, moss. It’s the smell of the man who loves me, who is wrapping cling film around my wrist, taking care of me.
“Sorry,” I say, as James holds me.
“It’s okay.” James strokes my hair. “Let’s go back to bed.”
We lie between the sheets, and I mentally trace the name “Lucy” on the ceiling, wondering when the pain will
