… as well a massive shout out to my fab friend Annabel Clark who is the super harpist playing on this video as you watch Sara at work making one of the covers - it is amazing to see how much love care and attention goes into each and every book!

🎉 GOOD NEWS ANNOUNCEMENT 🎉 A 2nd limited edition run of 60 copies of #MOTH will be coming out in June and Ethel will be donating $5 from every book sold (matched by me) to a MH charity of my choice. So more on this soon!

For now a huge thank you to my readers at the launch event: , , , , Robert Frede Kenter, my wonderful friend and host Rachel Ali, and last but not least for his reading, his moth inspired shirt for the launch, and for all the support given over April with his reviews and posts about #Moth on The Book Bag for April’s Poetic Voice

To end also below is a review by James Hartley from who I hope to be following up with an interview in the coming months (and possibly a trip to Madrid in the autumn!)

Melon Moon by Eleanor Holmes, published by Ink, Sweat & Tears 25/12/2025

MELON MOON

for Idris, my light

One winter I remember he looked up and said:

‘the moon is a melon.’

We’d made a telescope out of used loo roll

to look for Father Christmas.

The Oak Moon on that longest night hung high

over Green Horse Mountain.

I followed his pointed finger into space,

remembered: ‘piel de sapo,’

the Spanish for his favourite fruit,

rind like the skin of a toad:

greenish yellow and white, darker

knobbly bits; slimy insides.

‘We should reach up into the sky and pluck

the melon from the night,’ I said.

‘Cut it into quarters to see if the light floods out,

plant the seeds to make baby moons.’

Eyes full of consternation: ‘don’t be silly mummy,

you can’t eat the moon.’

Filmpoem words, digital collage, drawings, photos and film by Eleanor Holmes, using Adobe Fresco and CapCut

1st toad photo by The New York Public Library on Unsplash

2nd toad photo by DIRK TOERIEN on Unsplash

Melon field photo by Muhammad Gulraiz Abid on Unsplash

the surrounding houses, some half-built,

contain whole lemon groves on their balconies

and a small cross in the distance marks the top

of the pine scented hills next to Sant Blai,

hermitage with tiny bell, anyone can ring (once a year)

the air is full and thick with electric birdsong

a van, worn now, from repeated repairs

displays a motorbike with go-faster stripes,

retro posters of the all-sorts they will take on,

the dilapidated state hardly an endorsement

but the van is grunge and i am all envy, suddenly

spying in the stones a message to DISOBEY

my son screeches like a banshee that he has something

super mega important to tell me,

leading me by his sweaty little palm

to witness a playground in the middle of destructive-

restoration, he tries to wriggle under the metal barricades

before realising this isn’t the kind of disobedience

we will tolerate, so he starts to work-out

his five year old cousin Vera is all muscles, apparently,

so our boy pumps iron in the ‘gimnasio de calle,’

beside a stone circle before an guy on an electric scooter,

crutches tucked in the back shouts at him to dismount

from the static cycle, as the old sod hobbles over

a mob of like- minded pensioners gather for their daily

constitutional, my son content to hunt for a large stick

returns to me with one larger than he is, tail wagging

as I pat him on his obedient little puppy dog head.

The Orangenum is Eliot North’s weekly digital scrapbook ‘ode to orange’, as she navigates living and working in Valencian Country, Spain, with her husband and three year old son.

My scrapbook posts will include (but not be limited to): images, poetry, language learning, story telling, music, translation, found objects and recipes.

Sent with curiosity from an outsider kicking through a carpet of rotting citrus and digging down to find the more unusual aspects of Valencian language and culture, and exploring the everyday rhythms of a life in La Marina Alta.

Sparrows hover, seen,

Cloud lips float in a peach sky

The dawn of your smile.

Baby kicks, beaks tap on glass,

Flutter of wings inside me.

© Eliot North, 2019

Alzira —Valencia Nord, 08.02

Today felt like a jeans day, with the comfy stretchy bit of my hand-me-down maternity pair pulled over my ballooning belly, worn with flip flops, naturally.

We have left the September mini heat-wave behind, named after another Saint, I forget which. All weather phenomenons here seem to have a religious name or explanation. With the arrival of temperatures to a more sensible mid-twenties I can now embrace my normal British summer attire: keeping the feet cool in flip flops, with jeans to keep my legs warm and lots of layers for the upper body that I can take on and off as needed: this is the only sensible way, surely?

The train to Valencia is packed today with all sorts of folks: business people, teachers, students (school and Uni age), drifters, arty types, techy types, normal folk I can only guess about, a few tourists. Women I notice tend to fall into two categories: those in impossibly high heels, hair coiffed and wearing designer gear and the kind of dresses and accessories I’d pull out for a wedding versus those with a pair of converse, (or flip flops), comfy jeans and backpacks like me. The men similarly are either the European metropolitan-chic type, sporting ironed chinos and button down short sleeved shirts, slip on shoes, and man bags versus the slouchy universal uniform of jeans, T-shirt and trainers. I don’t think this is probably any different to any large, modern city commute: save for a slightly less oppressive air and sense of drudgery on the train that a sunnier climate brings?

I grab a flip-down chair near the door, my pregnant state pretty obvious now. Would people give up their seat for me here if I needed them to? I think so. Children and it seems anyone or anything linked with pregnancy and birth is considered sacred in Spain. The way that strangers reach out to touch my growing belly, congratulate me in shops asking when the baby is due, is it a boy or a girl? I watch as babies are cooed over and picked up from their prams and passed around like communal property by gangs of clucking older women. I tend to find this funny rather than an intrusion, which could of course just be the novelty: ask me again in a few months time.

I kind of like how overtly tactile Spanish culture is compared to the ‘don’t touch me or my child else I’ll break your legs’ feeling you get in the UK: a nation of sharp elbows, orderly queues and the measured contact of handshakes and backslaps. However I suspect many women in Spain do not appreciate this very hands on invasion of their personal space when it comes to their pregnant bodies and newborn children.

A matriarchal society is evident here, but it feels as if it has a very defined scope of influence: a small enclave within the greater patriarchy, with all its normal power constructs and abuse. Women I have noticed — mothers, grandmothers and ubiquitous aunties — rule families, homes and communities. Deferral to the matriarch in all things related to home, health and care of old and young, raising of children, overseeing the family finances and potentially holding down several jobs in order to do so, as well as running the household including delegation of tasks, is firmly in the matriarchal sphere. This may be a generalisation, but from what I have observed, women seem to most definitely rule in these areas where men appear to simply do as they are told.

The mother-son relationship I’ve noted is particularly strong here, and plays into the this arrangement of a matriarchy within the greater patriarchy. Boys are generally favoured over girls as far as I can see (though difficult mother-daughter dynamics are surely universal.) Adored and fussed over, I have witnessed and conversed with other women who are married to Spanish men, that sons rarely seem to leave home or their mother’s sphere of influence completely. Yet I don’t see any lack of kick-back against these gender stereotypes from women and men, particularly as younger generations are increasingly exploring and rejecting traditional gender constructs and societal expectations both here and all over the world: a collective opening of young minds to sex, sexuality and embracing gender fluidity as well as challenging society’s attitudes towards them. How all of these things will change in Spain and the U.K. over the next twenty years will be interesting to observe and take part in, especially as I embark on the journey of motherhood with my own precious son.

But what is most evident to me as an outsider, is a general sense of ‘The Cult of the Child’ in Spain, of all genders, evidenced in the rows of boutique children’s clothes shops. There is it seems at least two children’s clothes shops for every child in Alzira. I noted a tendency while watching a recent religious ceremony and spectacle in Algemesí last month, for mothers to match their flamboyant Sunday outfits to their sons and daughter’s designer gear. Meticulous care is taken to buff and polish children like precious jewels and involve them in absolutely every aspect of life. Children of all ages were at the heart of this particular celebration whether they were singing, dancing, performing mini-theatrics or being integral to the acrobatic displays of Muixeranga. Children it seems are always in the spotlight, held up, even thrown up in the air and celebrated for their innocence, energy, laughter and beauty: that coveted prize of youth.

“You could call it The Tyranny Of Children,” my husband noted when I mentioned I was writing about this subject. That, I think, speaks volumes as to the reality of living in this way, with your children seeming to dictate your every move as a parent, rather than perhaps a healthier integration?

Children accompany their parents and extended family members everywhere, especially to restaurants and cafes and in the warm evenings where the noise of kids playing in the street mingles with the chatter of adults on the evening air. There is no sense of that old British Victorian hang-up of ‘children should be seen and not heard,’ and I have to say I love this about Spain. The inclusive way in which children are welcome in all public spaces.

On my way to a cafe in Russafa before my language class today I watched mothers and fathers walking their children to school, chatting and laughing with them as they toddled, scooted or biked along: almost universally this felt a really natural and relaxed way to start a day that made me glad to be here, living in Spain, beginning this voyage into parenthood with D for the first time in a place where the pace of life seems a little less frantic and definitely more child friendly.

I felt the first kicks from our baby last night, a flutter-flip or bubble-pop inside that I have been waiting for but made me jump and laugh out loud when it happened for the first time. Now I feel our baby moving inside my belly all the time, perhaps doing somersaults inside as I write this, maybe sticking a leg out: practicing for Muixeranga.

It is both exciting and terrifying to be at this stage, approaching twenty weeks. Names have been chosen, we watch and wait, D tries to listen in, we talk to our baby, sing to and dance with the baby bump as we cook in the kitchen in anticipation of his arrival: almost half-way. It makes me giddy to think of how much we have already invested, as I try and surpress the anxious-medic part of my brain that tells me not to be complacent, that tells me so much could go wrong.

But these unknown leaps of faith; hope held in balance with fear; the trust that love will overcome all, are surely what life is all about? Come Brexit, come rain or shine, as the day of this birth arrives, as the world continues to spin, whatever happens, I will do my best to remember this fact: that love overcomes all.

Hasta luego, for now,

Eliot x

Nipples like saucers

Belly balloon, I am high

My moorings ruptured

Your heat inside me, baby,

Sets me on a new course

Poem © Eliot North, 2019

Alzira — València Nord, 08.16

I am back on the train, travelling sideways towards Valencia. The sun burns a bright disc in the sky in front of me. It has risen from the Mediterranean sea and hangs over and to the left of La Murta, Murtle Mountain, just outside of Alzira. The landscape slides past me, rows of orange and kaki trees, palms fringing the region’s industry and farming.

It has not been easy to get back on this horse.

There is news too, buena noticia, I am now eighteen weeks pregnant: it has been both wonderful and exhausting to get to this point. The anxiety of the early weeks, the inevitable worry that it would be another ectopic, the relief of that first scan and knowing that this time our embryo had made it through to the relative safety of my womb.

This summer, back in the North East of the U.K., was not the rest my husband D and I both needed. It was a frantic time of decisions and action, a cutting of that cord with the country and region that had been my home for so long.

The need to decide on where I would have this baby, either commitment to antenatal care and birth in the UK and the NHS that I was so familiar with, or a clean break and a leap of faith to Spain.

We chose to take the leap. There wasn’t much of an option to be fair, given our respective work situations, but the decision needed to be made. With it came a month of hectic organisation: finding a tenant and setting up to be a landlord for the first time, clearing the flat of more than twenty years of accumulated crap. I am by nature a hoarder and live in a state of semi-organised chaos most of the time. This has to change, a baby is enough chaos for one household.

I turned forty this summer, the nausea and exhaustion of early pregnancy hit me like a brick. I couldn’t have felt older. We could only have achieved this together, D and I, but we did it.

This transition has not been easy-peasy, no es pan comido, but it is done now and I feel a sense of relief that the decision has been made. I now know the direction of travel, even though the final destination still seems a long way off: I have a map that has opened out before me, drawn in pencil and half completed, but a map nevertheless.

Hasta luego, for now,

Eliot x

I : Stumped

I saw the Physio,
She said, ‘It’s back.’

What’s back?

The Prolapse, like I said.

Despite me being a GP
My mother doesn’t believe
Anything I say about her health.

I’ve got a tablet,
To put in my fanny.

Excellent news,
I’m pleased for you.

Vag- Vagi- ?
Hang on, I’m just going
Upstairs.

I rest the phone between ear and
Shoulder; listen to her footsteps.
It was Laxi-do-do the week before

Vagifem! Est –ra –di –ol
10 micrograms, insert every
Night for two weeks.

Yup. I know the one.

I was worried all night,
What if the thing had got stuck?

What thing?

You know, the applicator,
It didn’t go click.

Hmm.

I thought the tablet
Might fall out in the morning,
In the middle of my Pi-la-tes class

The way she stresses the syllables makes
It sounds like a Starbucks promotion.

Well that would have been
Something to talk about.

It’s not funny Eleanor

Oh, it’s just the way
You tell it Mum.

Well anyway, my drawings are
Coming on nicely. For the first time
I feel like something I’ve done is good.

Congratulations.

Really good. I’ve got the magic touch.
These two apples, they’re brilliant.

You’ve always been
Good at drawing Mum.

Yes but I’ve never been happy before,
It’s taken sixty-four years for me to be happy
With something I’ve done.

You should send me a photo.

It’s never as good as seeing them
In-the-flesh.

Well, do it anyway.
I’ll frame them and put it
On the wall.

No. They’re not that good.
I’ve got everything lined up
Against the skirting board.

I just bought a Tortillion.

A what?

Tor-till-ion. It’s a rolled up
Paper drawing tool,

For smudging and shading.

I Google it: ‘Similar to a blending stump.’

You can make them yourself,
I watched it on YouTube.

Given my mother’s recent hysterectomy
And prolapse repair, something about
This paper ‘stump’ reminds me…

It stops the oils in your skin
Ruining the drawing.

Did they leave your cervix behind?

Pardon?

A cervical stump?

I’m not sure I know what you mean…

Ignore me, your Tortillion -
So did you make one?

No, the guy in the art shop said
They’re so cheap, it’s not worth it.

You’re still going to those
Classes then.

Oh yes, I’m the best one there.

Of course!

Send me a pic,
Of the apples I mean.

I’ll try. You know,
Me and computers.

I think you’ll manage.

By the way Mum, how would
You feel about me recording
These phone conversations?

Well I don’t think I’d say anything.

No, didn’t think you would.
I won’t do that then.

I’d prefer you not to.

Fair enough. Bye Mum,
Speak to you next week.

The consultation over,
We go our separate ways.

II : Damp

Let me tell you about my damp:

It’s creeping up the walls, like fingers.

This damp guy, he’s really dishy.

So nice Eleanor. So interesting.

Restores my faith in the male species.

Too young for me of course!

Expensive divorce, I heard all about it.

Let me tell you about this system though,

For damp in the walls of old buildings.

Some clever German scientist developed it

Used it on vaulted churches in Eastern Europe.

They’re going to inject all the buildings in Auschwitz

Preserve them over seven years. It’s fascinating.

You don’t need to take the plaster off,

He showed me on the Internet.

I’d never be able to go there mind. I’d cry too much.

Everyone cries. How could you not?

He’ll send the quote in the post:

Five hundred pounds, give or take.

Not bad at all — I think he liked me.

III : Corpsing

I was trapped… for hours

Oh! Hello Mum

Hours…

What are you talking about?

The mattress

What mattress?

Exasperated noise

The huge mattress, my mattress,
You know on my big bed.

OK. You tried to move it?

Yes. I’ve decided to get
Two single ones instead.

Easier to clean.

You tried to move it on your own?

Well no one else was going to help me.

I guffaw. You?

My mum is all of 5ft and ½ an inch tall

Yes. I needed to get it downstairs.

Downstairs? Why?

To put it on the pavement.
For the council to collect.

Silence from my end as I process this information

Yes, well it wasn’t very easy:
Once I got it off the bed, that took long enough,
I had a right sweat on, pulling and heaving it.

Then it was on its side and it kind of fell on top of me.

I laugh, a kind of strangled noise comes out.

I was trapped Eleanor!
Pinned against the wall by a mattress.

The strangled noise continues…

I could have died
No one would have found me!

What did you do? I manage to squeak

Well I lay there panicking and struggling for a bit…

Yes…

Then I had a rest to conserve my energy.
Maybe an hour, I’m not sure.

Yes…

Well after I had thought about it for a bit
I really concentrated and with one big push,
managed to get out.

The image of my diminutive mother
Trapped under the bigger than super king size,
Hand-made feather mattress in her bedroom
On the third floor of her crazy house,

Suddenly makes me laugh uncontrollably

I don’t know why you’re laughing.

She starts to giggle

That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard

I’m now wiping tears from my eyes
On the other end of the phone

Well that’s not the half of it.
Then I had to get it down three flights of stairs.

Mum, stop, you’re killing me…

The bend was a struggle, and the little bannister bit.

Stop…

Then it got wedged

Hahahahahaha

She’s on a roll now

It took hours, all afternoon

Ah man (snort) you really are something else.

Well that’s not the best bit.

There’s more?

Yes well I got it outside 
after it was dark, of course…
*The neighbours*

What do you mean, ‘the neighbours?’

Well I didn’t want them to see.

A mattress?

Noooooo. The stains!

She says this in a stage whisper

Mum, seriously… you are pulling my leg, right?

No! I can’t have the neighbours knowing all my business.

Hahahahahahaha

I’m off again

But that wasn’t what I was going to say.

Hahahahahahaha

I had to check it in the night.

What?

I just had this feeling, in my bones
as I lay in the spare bed. It’s a good job I did.

Why?

The mattress had fallen over
Across the pavement and into the middle of the road.

The stain visible to everyone under the streetlight.

That does it. I’m unable to breathe or speak

I had to push it back up against the wall.

No…. stop…

In my nightie!

With that perfect image in my head, I’m gone.

IV : Numb

My feet keep going numb

Mum is up to visit.
We’re walking up the incline
From Priors Haven to Front Street

Uh huh

They’re going numb right now

Would you like to stop?

No. I’m just letting you know

Are you sure?

Yes. I might start walking funny though.

Right

Or fall over

I stop

OK. We should stop

No. I’m fine. This is what I was talking about

She’s been talking about nothing else since she arrived
The day before…

Going up hills or on the flat as well?

Both. It just comes and goes.

Hmm

But I can play tennis…

Well when’s your appointment?

Oh in a month or two. Ages.

It’s not really mum. What did your GP say?

Nothing. Just that they’d refer me.

Well shall we keep going,
or do you want to go home?

No, I’m fine.

We carry on

It’s just annoying Eleanor.
Why is it happening?

I don’t know Mum,
I’m not an expert on numb feet.

You must have some idea…

Perhaps. But I’m your daughter
not your doctor

Yes. But what could it be?

I sigh

Lots of things. Back related,
trapped or damaged nerves.
Something or nothing.

It’s not nothing.

I didn’t mean… Shall we change the subject?

Well you wouldn’t like having numb feet

No. No I wouldn’t

Well then…

We continue and find a seat at Riley’s Fish Shack
On King Edward’s Bay

It’s gone now, the numbness.
They’re fine again

Well that’s a relief

There’s no need to be like that

Like what?

You’re so unsympathetic

What do you want me to say?

Well you could be nicer

I am being nice!

We finish our coffees. Head up and around to Longsands

They’re going numb again…

Mum, really,
The running commentary.

I’m just letting you know.

Groan

You’re horrible!

I’m not. We can stop. I can get the car

I don’t want to stop

Fine, fine.

We walk… slowly, in silence

Are you like this to your patients?

No, I’m lovely. I use up all my
Niceness and compassion on them.

Harrumph!

I’ve got none left.

V : Benchmark

Cheers Mum

Cheers!

We clink wine glasses on the bench,
Outside Mum’s house on Castle Lane

This is nice

A peacock struts and calls on the wall above our head

Noisy things, always screaming

The Kaiser Chiefs are playing Warwick Castle
It’s a balmy evening

I think it’s singing along

Mum spied this sunny spot next to the castle entrance
As we meandered back from M&S, with our bottle of Sauvignon

I do like to people watch

There’s nothing like drinking a crisp white wine 
on a public bench outside your house, 
when there’s a half decent concert on.

What do you reckon to them?

The Kaiser Chiefs. They’re OK. Better for being free.

Ha. Cheers to that!

A man stops near us, with a Cocker Spaniel.
Neither of us are dog lovers

We nod to the owner, raise a glass

Nice evening for it!

I often marvel at my Mum’s ability to talk
To anyone, anywhere, any time.

She soon has the man’s confidence,
Knows where he lives, his situation:

Divorced, recovering alcoholic,
Wife got the children,
Rebuilding his life –

As we chat and drink our wine 
I marvel at how Mum puts this
Stranger at his ease.

I listen to them talking and stroke the dog,
His name (the dog’s) is Wilson.

The man and his spaniel eventually leave,
Mum has a new friend.

He was nice

Yes, lovely dog too. I don’t normally like dogs.

You can chat for England you know.

Well, what else are you going to do on a sunny evening?

Precisely

We sit in companionable silence for a while, on the bench

It’s a gift Mum

What is?

Your ability to talk to anyone and everyone

She looks at me, then narrows her eyes

That dog is a child substitute

I smile and then laugh; it comes out like a bark

Yes. You’re probably right

I was thinking exactly the same thing

Fancy a top up?

Sometimes, Mum and I are more similar than I like to admit

Yes please

She hands me her glass and I trot inside
As Mum marks our bench,

Swinging her legs in time to the music.

VI : A. Measles

after Grayson

It’s early. My phone buzzes.

Morning Eleanor!

Mum sounds unfeasibly excited

Hi Mum. What’s got into you?

I’ve found an inflatable Alan Measles. On eBay

Oh right …
I didn’t know he made inflatable ones

The fact that I understand immediately what she’s on about
Is one of the many miracles of genetic inheritance

£50 Buy Now+ postage… It’s bright pink and stands up

Mum’s obsession with Grayson Perry has reached new heights

How big is it?

I imagine a life-size inflatable bear 
glaring out of mum’s sitting room window

I’m not sure, you can’t tell from the picture

Where will you put it?

Maybe next to the framed silk handkerchief
Or Alan Measles bags,
Or the wall mounted plates,

You mean your Grayson Shrine?

Mum does obsessional collecting.
She has Grayson tea towels, mugs, silk scarves, tote bags

It’s not a shrine. I appreciate his work

Whatever you say Mum

When we were young it was Victorian glass tea-light holders:
The rare ones had gold in them and shone like garnets,

Then fine bone china cup-saucer-plate hybrids
Of increasingly outlandish designs,

Then bold studio pottery and fabrics by Tibor Reich
And now anything by Grayson Perry… that she can afford

Well how much are they going for?

Around £50. They’re from a gallery exhibition in Holland.

Limited edition?

Yes I think so. Shall I put in a bid?

Well why not. Won’t hurt to try

Mum loves a bargain,
We like to call her Lovejoy

I think I might. Oh I love Alan Measles,
I’m going to have him all over my house

Yes. Your collection is spreading

He’s the key to all his work Eleanor:
My framed Alan bags, 
The boy one with the dewdrop on the end of his penis,

And now a pink inflatable Alan 
Brandishing a club studded with nails…

Despite appearances,
Mum delights in all things subversive

Yes, the dewdrop.

This particular detail springs up 
With alarming regularity in our conversations

I better make a bid then, I’ve only got 36 hours to go

Well let me know if you get him

I will. Oh I’m so excited! He’ll look really good
On top of the dresser next to the handkerchief

Bye Mum

Yes, yes…
She mutters as I put the phone down

I know she’ll be watching eBay all night.

Post Note:

Mum won the inflatable Alan Measles for £27.80 plus £10.00 postage and then sent me the following text:

>> Alan now lives with me, in Warwick.

Love Mum xxx <<

VII : The Trouble with Ezra

Mum and I are in London.
My brother and I are treating her.

But I don’t like Afternoon Tea

We’re off to The Wolseley.

Since when don’t you like Afternoon Tea?

I don’t fancy all the cakes

You must be the only mother
In the whole of the UK
Who’d turn this down.

Well, I think I might fancy something savoury

Luckily my brother has been here before.
He knows (from extensive personal research)
That they have an all-day menu

You’re in luck Mum

We settle down, in our finery

Ooh look. Omelette Arnold Bennett

I roll my eyes at my brother.
He then decides against Afternoon Tea as well

Not you too?

(Like mother, like son.)

Well I’m going to have Afternoon Tea

Mum and I are going on to the Poetry Society’s Do afterwards,
For the announcement of The National Poetry Competition.

With champagne…

I’ve been commended.

Yes. I’ll have one of those too

You don’t won’t to get too drunk Mum,
Especially when you are going to meet your idol.

He’s not my idol!

Grayson Perry is going to be there.
He’s one of the three judges for the Ted Hughes Award.
Mum can barely contain herself.

I wonder what he’ll be wearing?

Something fabulous I suspect.

Yes. But who will he be? Grayson or Claire?

I guess we’ll just have to wait and see…

I’ll be watching her like a hawk

I bet he’ll go as Claire.

She looks wistfully up at the Wolseley’s deco ceiling

I look up too…Yes I suspect he will

My brother finds this all very amusing,
(But he would.)

The last poetry thing I was invited to
He came with me and proceeded to tell everyone there
That he didn’t ‘get poetry.’

Cheers Mum. Happy Mother’s Day!

When we’ve finished my brother walks us to The Savile Club,
Waves us off with a smirk, as Mum bustles inside.

Hey. Wait for me.

We are on time, to the minute. I feel overdressed;
The fluoro jacket was a mistake and I hate wearing dresses.

Come on Eleanor

We go inside and Mum asks the way.

What’s the rush Mum? Slow down.

I’m suddenly very nervous. All my childhood social anxiety
Comes flooding back as Mum proceeds with confidence,
Down the plush carpeted corridors and spiral staircases
To hand her coat to the waiting attendant.

There aren’t many people here yet.

I smile at a woman who I think might be a poet.
She doesn’t smile back.

I need the loo Mum.

Yes, me too.

I take refuge in a cubicle for a moment:
‘What am I doing here?’

I sit and contemplate my predicament.

Eleanor. Have you fallen in?

No. Coming.

After few deep breaths and a talk to myself
I emerge and put some lipstick on.

Stop fiddling with your hair.

I give my best withering look at Mum in the mirror.

You look fine. Let’s go.

I follow her out and up to The Ballroom.

This is nice Eleanor

We round the corner towards the sweeping staircase,
And are hit with mirrors, gilt and cherubs.
Perhaps I’m not overdressed after all.

I spot someone I know and wave.
There are bags for us with poetry related goodies
And introductions to be made.

Hello, this is my Mum.

Mum is all smiles and graciousness.
We make small talk and are introduced to
Judith Palmer, director of The Poetry Society.

This venue is amazing, the painted ceilings,
Gold everywhere.

My mouth hanging open in awe, I miss the entrance of a woman
Who Judith moves promptly towards to welcome.

Shall we go up Mum?

There is a photographer looming on the stairs
We turn and Judith is there, with the woman,
Who I can’t place.

I know she is important from the way people are behaving.

We are introduced. I shake her hand,
She shakes my Mum’s hand.

Who was that?

She glides up the stairs and is photographed with minimal fuss.

Alice Oswald.

Who?

A poet.

Oh. I thought she looked like a poet.

Bloody hell! I just shook Alice Oswald’s hand
And introduced her to my Mum.

Let’s get a drink.

I force a smile for the camera as we ascend the stairs,

Full of regret for not having looked up
The poets shortlisted for the Ted Hughes Award.

This is very swish

I head straight for the wine table and pick up two glasses of white.

Here you go. Cheers.

We clink glasses and I take a large gulp,
Mum is already scanning the room for people to talk to.

We shuffle off to the side and soon find a friendly woman
Who owns a poetry press.

What’s the order of things then?

I’m not sure.

Oh look, canapés.

Are you hungry again?

I reach for a smoked salmon tartlet

Well I’m not going to turn down these!

The canapés are delicious and the wine flows
A little too easily as the room begins to fill
With the great and the good.

Have you seen Grayson?

Nope. Not yet.

I confide in the woman, tell her that Mum is here
Primarily to meet Grayson Perry.

No I’m not. I’m here to cheer on my daughter.

Ha. OK!

And meet Grayson

Our little circle grows in number as we meet
A variety of people from the poetry world.

I spot famous faces in the crowd,
Some whom I can name, others not.

I feel a little bit more relaxed.
It’s actually quite fun and Mum is on good form.

I should say hello

Mum has spotted Carol Ann Duffy

Well, I’m not sure that she…

Judith Palmer takes to the microphone not a moment too soon,
As I hand over another glass of wine to Mum and grab a passing canapé.

Later maybe

The announcement of the National Poetry Competition passes in a blur.
Readings, presentations and photos follow.

Well that was nice to meet everyone.

I feel more in the mood for celebrating, less anxious.

Did you get a photo Mum?

Mum is staring at something.
I turn and realise she’s seen Grayson Perry,

Resplendent in a multi-coloured haute couture dress,
Platforms, blonde wig and fabulous make-up.

Look! He came as Claire.

A moment of panic hits me as I see Mum gearing up to accost him.
Hang on Mum, I need to get a photo of you.

Carol Ann Duffy steps up to the microphone.

Damn

Mum steps down from her pounce position.

The Ted Hughes award is announced, and much to Mum’s annoyance,
Grayson stands at the front with the other judges.

Andrew Motion receives his prize
I clap enthusiastically.

I am now feeling pretty relaxed and continue to drink
The delicious white wine that is perpetually poured in to my glass.

What a great evening

The group of women that Mum and I have befriended
Are really fun. We are all getting steadily more inebriated…

Where’s Mum?

I look around the room,
One of the women points to the far corner.

Mum has reached Grayson Perry
And is introducing herself…

Shit!

I walk-run across the room

Coming to an oh-so-casual stop
as Mum turns and says

Here she is. My daughter Eleanor

I shake Grayson Perry’s hand
Hello. Lovely to meet you

We’ve had a great evening, haven’t we Eleanor?

Yes. Yes we have.

I’m very proud of her.
She was commended in the National Poetry Competition,

Her pen name is Eliot North.

I smile. Grayson smiles. I pull out my phone.
Can I get a photo of you and my Mum?

Grayson chats away to Mum
As I try to make my phone camera focus properly
Whilst balancing a wine glass in my other hand.

Say cheese. Oh damn, it’s blurred. Hang on.

Mum and Grayson continue to chat.

OK. And again. That’s it.

Mum says a final few words and we cross back over
To the women on the other side of the room.

Well that went better than I’d expected

Of course Eleanor. What did you expect?

I raise an eyebrow and show her the photos.

They are a bit blurred Eleanor.

Mmm, sorry about that.

What a lovely man.

Yes he was really lovely.

(Now I can relax.)

We continue to talk to the women and the other winners,
Mum and I circulating and all of us taking advantage of the wine
That continues to flow as the cherubs, on their clouds,
Look down on us beatifically.

After a while I notice Mum is talking and laughing with two men.

I’m certain one of them is chatting her up
So I decide to go over and check him out.

Hello Mum.

Oh there you are. This is the poet Michael Horovitz.

Mum introduces me to the older gentleman,
The younger Mum tells me is his agent.

My head is starting to spin

Nice to meet you

I shake hands and try and work out what they are talking about.

The younger man, my Mum’s age, is definitely flirting with her.
Showing off even.

Ha Ha. Yes, that’s what I thought.

Mum is in her element.

Their conversation is about poets and poetry.
I catch some of the words and smile
At the man blatantly chatting up my mother.

‘Well what with Ezra Pound, being right here in this room…’
The younger man quips…

I look around, swaying slightly. Ezra?
Really. He’s here? I blurt out

Michael Horovitz and his agent look at me.
Mum raises an eyebrow.

Where? I look around.

Mum shakes her head and begins to extricate me.

It was very nice to meet you.
I think we might need to think about going home Eleanor.

What, but that guy really likes you.

Shh. He’ll hear you.

Ha. Is George Ezra really here?

I scan the room for the singer

Who’s George Ezra?

Oh Mum, don’t you know anything.

I think you might have had enough Eleanor.

Yes, I do feel a bit drunk
We say our goodbyes,
We’re one of the last groups standing.

Well that was fun.

Yes, it was. I had a really good time.

We find our coats and chat to the Poetry Society Team
As they head to the pub, which Mum declines on my behalf.

What were those two guys talking about Mum?
She laughs and links arms with me,
We weave our way to Bond Street station.

I’ll tell you in the morning.

He fancied you, that agent guy.

Yes. Yes I suspect he probably did.

The Actor Moves In

I: Grandma’s Lair

Push your way through fur and silk,
Talc and Yardley Lace,
Then close the door behind you.

Before The Actor moves in

Try on her clothes,
Lie on the bed,
Sit at a mahogany dressing table.

Look into the oval mirror,
Puff powder,
Slick lipstick.

Before The Actor moves in

II: Interloper

It wasn’t right
He isn’t wanted.

That thick brown beard,
His booming voice.

You listen with a glass against the wall.

About Stratford,
The Royal Shakespeare Company,
Who might play Coriolanus.

You don’t give a damn

He shouldn’t be there
In her place,
With his stuff.

It’s all ruined.

III: Eye Spy

After The Actor moves in

He tries to talk to you.

You stare at him,
Force him to turn away.

You are all powerful,
He doesn’t know.

You watch his every move.

From the dusty carpet room
With Dad’s binoculars.

Go back through the secret door

Make adjustments,
Move his things.

Plot.

IV: Battle Lines

After The Actor moves in
Two things happen:

First:

Garlic sausage sandwiches
Thrown from your window,
Block the guttering
Near his front door.

You know and don’t tell,
Predicting correctly.

The flood.

Second:

The rats in his pantry
Next to the kitchen,
Feast on finest Gouda
Then have loads of babies.

It doesn’t take long,

The Actor Moves Out.

Poem © Eliot North 2019

If you liked this by Eliot North you might like:

Flower Press
in the quaking-grassmedium.com

Potassium and Water
Poetry Sundaypsiloveyou.xyz

Just Married
Poetry Sundaypsiloveyou.xyz

Wells-next-the-Sea

Aged ten you went with her family
to the cottage by the sea.

Played cards with her uncle
in the upside-down house.

Ate fish and chips with vinegar
on the wall by the harbour.

Went across tidal-flats to
explore the estuary and swim.

Slithered like muddied eels
as helicopters circled.

Jumped in a rowboat
with the just-dipped sun.

Wound your way home
making zig-zags on the water.

Sang and laughed your heads off
because back then, you always could.

Poem © Eliot North

If you like this by Eliot North you might also like:

Just Married
Poetry Sundaypsiloveyou.xyz

Potassium and Water
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Flower Press
in the quaking-grassmedium.com

Churros, dogs and chips

Inflatables deflated

We all breathe a sigh

Animals out of hiding

Our Lady of Mount Carmel

Words and photos © Eliot North

Flower Press

in the quaking-grass
I stalk like a cat
Raven’s head down low,
only my bottom visible in the 
scrappy patch out back.

I’m flower hunting
with a net and my press
looking for wildflowers,
colourful flowers, oddly shaped
flowers, smelly ones too.

My painted eye like a butterfly
opens, closes, opens
the sunshine on my back
makes me want to arch.

A tell-tale rattle as I wriggle
on my belly: today 
I’m a venomous variety 
of snake. A curious thing 
to hear in Warwickshire,
near my father’s veggie patch.

Sustained by the nectar of
dead nettle flowers,
I take shelter under cane
wigwams of runner beans,
Cabbage White landing 
on my nose. I look at my hoard,
name my flowers one by one.
Arrange them artistically
before I press them close,
leaved between corrugated
cardboard, handmade paper
careful to tighten the screws, 
just so.

The smell of flower-death
makes me totter. I feel sick.
The grass around me waving
their purple-green hearts.

Eliot North 2019

Inspired by Robert Macfarlane, and the following post on Twitter about ‘quaking-grass’ as well as comments made by the poet Kyla Houbolt on this same thread linking to rattlesnake grass in the US

Thank you also for permission to use the beautiful close-up image of quaking- grass above, by Adam Long: check out his fantastic website in this link!

If you liked this, you might like the following by Eliot North:

Baby Bat
Haibunmedium.com

Ser y Estar
Poet or Doctor / Identity or Circumstance?medium.com

Potassium and Water
Poetry Sundaypsiloveyou.xyz

Potassium and Water

I remember our chemistry teacher
Requested we stand back.

Made us wear lab coats,
Safety goggles,
Before she revealed the Potassium
Safe in a jar of oil.

How carefully she unscrewed it.

Showed us how soft it was
To cut. How quickly Potassium
Tarnished in air.

I now know that some
Elements, when combined,
Can be volatile

Like people.

Best then we never tried to mix

Potassium
And
Water,

To feel the lick of lilac flames
Explode in our faces.

Poem by Eliot North

If you liked this, you might like the following:

Flower Press
in the quaking-grassmedium.com

La Tormenta
Poetry Sunday, for Davidpsiloveyou.xyz

Just Married
Poetry Sundaypsiloveyou.xyz

Last week we spent some time discussing these Spanish verbs — Ser y Estar — and the explanation I’ve found most helpful, to remember when to use which form of ‘to be,’ came from our teacher Borja: use ‘Ser’ when talking about a person or object’s identity or characterists (identidad) — fixed and unwavering — and ‘Estar’ when talking about circumstances (circunstancias) that are generally seen as changeable, including the place you find yourself in.

The one mind bending exception to this rule is: ‘estar muerto’ = to be dead. Death would seem to be a fairly permanent state of being, fixed and unwavering, but I wonder if the thought of the body being a transient vessel or the concept of an afterlife and religious connotations came into the use of the verb ‘estar’ in Spanish to indicate the state of ‘being dead.’ You could perhaps suggest that death was just a set of circumstances that your very soul or essence found yourself in?

I am reminded of the Mario Benedetti poem — that we read together in one of our lessons — to help us examine the difference between ‘ser’ and ‘estar’, filling in the gaps our teacher had made in the poem as a listening exercise and translating as best we could afterwards:

Ser y estar
by Mario Benedetti

Oh marine
oh boy
una de tus dificultades consiste en que no sabes
distinguir el ser del estar
para ti todo es to be

así que probemos a aclarar las cosas

por ejemplo
una mujer es buena
cuando entona desafinadamente los salmos
y envía mensualmente su perro al analista
y sólo enfrente el sexo los sábados de noche

en cambio una mujer está buena
cuando la miras y pones los perplejos ojos en blanco
y la imaginas y la imaginas y la imaginas
y hasta crees que tomando un martini te vendría el coraje
pero ni así

por ejemplo
un hombre es listo
cuando obtiene millones por teléfono
y evade la conciencia y los impuestos
y abre una buena póliza de seguros
a cobrar cuando llegue a sus setenta
y sea el momento de viajar en excursióna capri y a parís
y consiga violar a la gioconda en pleno louvre
con la vertiginosa polaroid

en cambio un hombre está listo 
cuando ustedes
oh marine
oh boy
aparecen en el horizonte
para inyectarle democracia.

Mario Benedetti (full name: Mario Orlando Hardy Hamlet Brenno Benedetti Farrugia — how awesome is that name!) was a Uruguayan journalist, novelist, and poet as well as being an integral member of the ‘Generación del 45’: a Uruguayan intellectual and literary movement. A poet I had never heard of but who in the Spanish speaking world is considered one of Latin America’s most important writers.

I loved this exercise in class but I’m not going to post an English translation, just yet as I’m still working on it and want to enter it into the Stephen Spender Prize for poetry in translation. It reminded me how political language is, and how poetry as protest is such a powerful thing: something I know only too well from talking to my husband about Catalan politics, culture and identity.

When I first met D, my husband, we shared a lot of poetry with each other. I wrote poems in English for him and he translated these into Valencian and Spanish, as well as sharing his favourite Catalan and Valencian poets with me, and I my favourite poems in the English language. Our wedding day was a celebration of Valencian and English literature and poetry, the wedding order of service something we worked on together and translated into our respective mother tongues for our Valencian / British families and friends.

That we fell in love over a mutual fascination and passion for our own and each other’s language is something we still share on a day-to-day basis, as evidenced by many of my posts on Medium: it is the very bedrock of our relationship.

That I can now say ‘soy escritora’ has a comforting sense of permanence in terms of my identity as a writer, alongside ‘soy doctora’ or ‘soy médica.’ The order in which I place these identities when people ask, something that changes as much as my mood or the warm winds blowing over from Africa: these states of being something I can’t ever see changing in terms of my identity, whether I work clinically as a doctor or not.

Hasta luego, for now

Eliot x

If you liked this, you might like the following by Eliot North:

White Rabbit
Creativity and chaos: chicken or egg?medium.com

Rice and Rain
Who’s story is it anyway: appreciation or appropriation?medium.com

Exit Through The Gift Shop
Is writing memoir good for you?medium.com

Winter Aconite, a golden path.

You go to see the doctor with a baby bat you have found, grounded on the pavement, carrying an injury. Picking it up in your scarf, you cradle the velvet broken-softness in two cupped palms — whisper words of comfort until your afternoon appointment — where nurses line the corridor to watch your measured walk along the hospital-grey route from reception. You enter with your changeling. The doctor listens and leans in, the bat’s body trembles, clings to your jasmine scented scarf with tiny claws, eyelids closed, barely breathing. The doctor doesn’t recoil. Together you talk about what you might do. You have already phoned the National Bat Helpline and are waiting for a call back.

Two women coo over a little bat-ling.

Rescue mission discussed, action plan in place, you leave. The doctor continues with her afternoon surgery, but she doesn’t forget. Weeks later, when you see her again, she asks after the baby bat. A story unfurls: your colleagues were not supportive. They were unimpressed by your request to keep the little creature warm in the office — inside a shoebox with holes punched in the lid, a tea-towel and a thimble-sized plastic cap of water — just like the Helpline had told you to. Your boss made you take the injured bat outside, told you to leave it in a cold garage.The Bat Conservation People couldn’t save this one, they had to put it down. One good thing came from it though, the doctor locates your eye with ease. A moment passes between you like an echo.

Finally you handed in your notice; you no longer feel grounded.

Scent of Moonflower — 
beauty lies in broken things,
 — our guide in the dark.

© Eliot North 2019

If you liked this, you might like the following by Eliot North:

Flower Press
in the quaking-grassmedium.com

La Tormenta
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Breakdown
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13th December 2018, 10 PM

Black Void

The bleeding — not really blood more rusty discharge, like I’m a faulty pregnancy machine — doesn’t stop. I have cramps that worry me.

When D, my husband, asks again if I want to go to the hospital, after we have cooked curry together in the kitchen and danced as we chopped veggies, I finally say yes. The public hospital isn’t far, he says.

It’s late in the evening. Something feels wrong.

Chucking it down now, we park next to emergency. I run in clutching my umbrella and we stand in line to register amongst the growing crowd: sick babies, worried parents, walking injured, young and old, local and foreign. I have my EU health card, passport and there is only a small delay as they try to locate the code for the UK, they don’t get many British people here.

Inside, I feel like a fraud. Like I’m being a paranoid doctor, but something feels wrong.

The Gynaecology Department is on the second floor and we are led straight up from triage. Pregnant women are fast-tracked out. I’m grateful for this.We wait outside key-coded doors for my name to be called. I notice partners are not allowed through. Women have to go in alone, ‘hospital policy,’ D says.

I quietly practice how to say 5w4d pregnant and bleeding. I am nervous, both of us are. We hold hands while we wait. D has been here before, in another life, and I know hospitals only too well.

Inside, I feel like a fraud. Like I’m being a paranoid doctor, but something feels wrong.

The cramps intensify. I feel sick. All the possibilities run through my head. Miscarriage is top of the list, but at less than 6 weeks I know it’s probably too early to know on scan, that I shouldn’t be too pessimistic. Other possibilities in early pregnancy I’ve considered and ruled out in my head, discussed them with a medical friend, then discounted.

Denial is a powerful thing, I’ve been there before.

Then it dawns on me, finally and fully. Our grain of rice is not a healthy, growing ball of cells with a personality already formed. The little person we have a name for.

When I’m called through, the young, female doctor doesn’t introduce herself. No one does. Rather she looks at me expectantly, and waits for me to speak. I tell her about myself and the bleeding, as I have practiced: I am a doctor from the UK, a General Practitioner. I apologise for my poor command of Spanish. She instructs me to remove my underwear and lie down on the couch for an examination. A midwife shows me a side room with a toilet to change in, a green sheet to cover me. She is kind amidst all the efficiency.

The internal exam is cold and brief, the doctor shows me the rust coloured discharge on the speculum. I intuit nothing is particularly abnormal from her rapid-fire Spanish. Ultrasound next, covered probe inserted, Spanish or is it Valencian falls from her lips too fast for me to catch as she talks to the midwife? Then another colleague is called in.

Something feels wrong.

I try to interpret the grey-scale screen, ultrasonic snowstorm. The probe is uncomfortable, the female doctor not particularly gentle as she wields it. I try to make conversation, say in my broken Spanish that the system here is very efficient. So quick to have a scan, in the UK pregnant women with bleeding often have to wait longer. I’m not sure they understand what I’m trying to communicate.

A midwife shows me a side room with a toilet to change in, a green sheet to cover me. She is kind amidst all the efficiency.

Together the two doctors discuss something intensely; I don’t follow at all.

They ask if I am on holiday and I try to answer that we are living between two countries at the moment. I feel completely at sea, dislocated, apart from myself. Eventually it dawns on me that they want to know how long I’m in Alzira for. I say until the 29th of December when we fly back to the UK for New Year. My husband is in the waiting room.

I watch the screen. They keep focusing on a black void that I fail to place amongst the moving grey images: maybe womb, maybe ovary, a black oval void. They debate, moving the probe around and pressing on the right. My legs scissor with discomfort. Finally they remove it and indicate I am to dress.

When I emerge from the toilet, I am so pleased to see D there. The communication difficulties have led to a rare change in protocol and they have fetched him in. Maybe this alone should have worried me.

Something is wrong.

They are talking to him in Valencian and then with us both in Spanish, he translates the medical speak as best he can. I need a blood test, beta-hCG hormone levels, as expected. Too early, I think, most likely a miscarriage.

They keep focusing on a black void that I fail to place amongst the moving grey images: maybe womb, maybe ovary, a black oval void.

They don’t say anything more, but they are debating something, the black oval on the screen D tells me later. I have blood taken by a nurse.

We wait outside.

14th December 2018, 1 AM

Expecting

Time appears to move in slow motion. Midnight passes, as we wait on the plastic chairs. Trolleys pass by with exhausted women, small red babies tucked into the crooks of their arms.

An older woman tries to comfort me, she’s waiting for news about her daughter’s delivery. She asks in Spanish if it’s my first, I nod. D explains the bleeding, that I’m waiting for blood tests. The woman thinks her daughter should have had a C-section. Once you have had one, you’ll have more. Women never stop at one, they forget all this, she waves her hand, out more pop. I smile, she is a good distraction.

Trolleys pass by with exhausted women, small red babies tucked into the crooks of their arms.

While I read a book D sits and frets and I lean against him. He tells me they were debating something on the scan, between themselves. I say I think it’s just too early. Possibly an empty pregnancy sac. He knows about miscarriages, the devastation of them.

At least there is nothing too serious, I say. No ruptured ectopic, else I’d have been rushed straight off for emergency surgery.

Sometimes medical knowledge can be a curse.

When they call me through there are two new doctors. They tell me the beta-hCG hormone level is 2,389 and they want to scan me again. My legs shake as I undress and clamber on to the uncomfortably familiar examination couch with the stirrups. They ask me about pain. I say its like period cramps and not so much pain, more discomfort — one of the doctors this time is fluent in English.

D waits and listens behind the curtain.

They scan and talk with each other, then me: the black oval is clearer, and there is a yolk sac, in the right fallopian tube. I feel like I am falling. The examination couch has disappeared.

Ectopic they say. No heartbeat. The uterus is empty. I see this amidst the snowstorm on the screen.

At least there is nothing too serious, I say. No ruptured ectopic, else I’d have been rushed straight off for emergency surgery.

The word ECTOPIC bounces around my head. Tunnel vision. My body vibrates with fear. The shock of this diagnosis like a punch to the womb. I stumble from the couch.

I look at D, he is pale. I say it’s not good news. His look of devastation tells me that he knows.

We hold hands as the doctor explains, in English, the blood test is too high for them not to see an intrauterine pregnancy. What they see in the right fallopian tube they are sure is an ectopic pregnancy. No sign of free fluid or rupture. I must stay in.

Was I not expecting an ectopic?

I want to shout: NO I did not expect it! Who expects an ectopic?

Lost in translation. ‘Yes, I realised an ectopic was possible,’ I manage to say. ‘However I wasn’t expecting this, no. It wasn’t what I expected.’

There are two choices, they tell me. The drug Methotrexate or surgery to remove my right fallopian tube. They won’t do anything now, I’m stable and it’s 2 AM. Talk it through together, in the morning we need a decision. Sign this consent form, or this one.

I stare at the papers in front of me. D is standing behind me, a hand on my shoulder. They talk through each option, success and failure. Complications, future ectopic risk, anaesthesia, follow up after Methotrexate. With this drug you cannot get pregnant for six months afterwards, they say. I’m 39 years old, 40 in July next year, I say. I look up at D, he looks just as shell-shocked as I imagine I do.

I mumble, reading the consent forms that they have helpfully found English translations of. They are certain. Their certainty floors me. I manage to ask about blood tests. I think about my blood count and how important it is to check in ectopic pregnancy. I saw two ectopic cases during my Obs&Gynae training, on my way to becoming a GP: both women required emergency surgery, for one of them the bleeding was catastrophic.

I want to shout: NO I did not expect it! Who expects an ectopic?

They say the nurse will site a cannula and then take the bloods. Of course, I nod, this is what I’d expect to happen.

I get a twinge on the right. They ask if I have pain, tell me I needn’t put up with pain. Do I want pain relief? I say Paracetamol is fine and they nod to the midwife who gets an infusion ready. I am to be nil by mouth. When did I last eat and drink? I look at D. At home, 9pm last night he says. Nothing now until the morning and a decision. Which might be surgery.

I note everything is ready, in case of rupture.

14th December 2018, 2.30AM

An Empty Cot

Then it dawns on me, finally and fully. Our grain of rice is not a healthy, growing ball of cells with a personality already formed. The little person we have a name for. Basmati is a 17mm oval of black on a screen, with a yolk sac and no heartbeat: a pulseless threat to my life.

I thank the doctors for speaking English, taking the time. The nurse inserts an IV, draws blood, while D helplessly looks on.

Basmati is a 17mm oval of black on a screen, with a yolk sac and no heartbeat: a pulseless threat to my life.

When she leaves I finally break down in tears. My husband holds me. We hold each other tightly until we are ushered down the corridor, past the old woman who starts to speak and then stops when she sees my face.

They lead us into a cold hospital room with an empty cot by the bed: where we both sit down on the edge, and cry.

© Eliot North, 2019.

The full Ectopia diary manuscript and accompanying chapbook of Tanka poems are currently out to publishers: please contact me for further details

If you liked this, you might like the following by Eliot North:

Shame, Denial and Reproductive Trauma
The conversations we need to have, and don’tmedium.com

Writing, Learning & Living After Loss
Notes on a train, Alzira – Valenciamedium.com

White Rabbit
Creativity and chaos: chicken or egg?medium.com

Some Ectopic Pregnancy Resources I have found helpful:

The Ectopic Pregnancy Trust:

This is fantastic website full of information and forums for patients, partners and professionals. I found the section ‘Your Experiences’, where women have posted creative responses to their ectopic pregnancies, particularly healing to read.

The Ectopic Pregnancy Trust
Supporting people who have experienced an early pregnancy complication and the health care professionals who care for…ectopic.org.uk

The RCOG/BJOG has more detailed information and resources for both professionals and patients wanting to research ectopic pregnancy diagnosis and treatment. Not all the information given to me was accurate at the time of diagnosis and these sites were an invaluable resource.

OBGYN
BJOG: An International Journal of Obstetrics & Gynaecologyobgyn.onlinelibrary.wiley.com

08.01 Alzira – València Nord, 24 degrees (and climbing)

New Spanish phrase: Ola de calor = Heat wave

Dust bath of sparrows
Shimmering heat, rolls in waves,
Thirsty I dive in

I am now travelling sideways not backwards on the train. A perfect view of the morning sunrise over La Murta mountain. Horizon line a misty smudge of distance, the sun starting to crank up its heat.

My language class is all change today: Salvatore, Giovanna and Charles have left. Our teacher Pilar who has held us all together with her energy and enthusiasm had her last day on Wednesday before she starts a new life with her husband and kids living in England. Now we are down to four pupils: me, Caroline and Vincent and a new recruit in the form of Harry, the first Brit I’ve encountered here, other than in the Bluebell Café!

These classes have been such an important part of my rehabilitation from burnout, working as a GP in the UK as well as the fallout of grief and loss after my ectopic pregnancy. This course has become a reason to get up and a necessary structure to my week, where before I had none. I feel we are winding down as a group for the summer, this is how it goes, and D and I will return to the UK for the whole of August. There we will escape the unrelenting heat of Alzira, where 40 degrees is not unusual, and reconnect with friends and family.

I will weigh up in class today if carrying on makes sense after the end of this cycle. Change is in the air; I feel it in my body. I am refreshed in a writing sense, making headway finally with poems and stories I have held back on my computer that I am finally getting out there. My Spanish language confidence has improved, I am more able to converse on subjects that interest me, and I have a grammar book I need to digest before September classes start.

For now, I must survive the heat wave that is shimmering across Europe, my family at home texting me regularly to check I am still alive! They know me well, but I am acclimatising and learning to move more slowly. Allowing my thoughts more room so my head feels expansive. I have time now, acres of it, and this feels necessary and good. Years of stress and high pressure at work, and my frantic way of being in the world are peeling away: my doctor identity left like a pile of crumpled clothes at my feet as I step out into something new.

Perhaps this is my original self I am finding again, an authentic me emerging from this necessary process, the shy girl who barely spoke as a child and who lived inside her head creating: heat burning off the clouds from my horizon line so finally I can see.

Hasta luego, for now

Eliot x

If you liked this, you might like the following by Eliot North:

Baby Bat
Haibunmedium.com

Orange Groves and Drizzle
A commuter Haibunmedium.com

Writing, Learning & Living After Loss
Notes on a train, Alzira – Valenciamedium.com

This story is published in a Few Words, Medium’s brand new publication which only accepts stories that have less than 500 words.

If you have a few meaningful words to say and want to be a writer in our publication, visit our page.

I: Lost

A storm blows in
bruising the sky
fracturing connection,
I am a wild bird, flying
backwards over dunes
scanning the horizon,
looking with your eyes
watching the seasons
change on the delta:
blue, green, yellow, brown
the rice fields flood
Tyne and Ebre
our rivers combine
a hologram of you
hovers over me
as I reach, grasping
to hold on to something
more substantial than air,
words blown on the wind
whipped up in the glassy
eye of a storm, images
disappearing as fast
as I can recall them.

II: Found

Fragile as spun sugar
A flamingo balanced on one leg,
Cobwebs strung with morning dew.
My breath froze last night
When I called out your name,
Panic a paper bird in my chest
Your voice broke through:
‘Sometimes to love someone you have to be a stranger.’
Nature relented, I was carried to you
Kisses soft as rain on my forehead
You wrapped me in your words
Brought me back to earth’s embrace,
Allowed me to draw strength
From your substance.

Poem © Eliot North 2019

If you liked this, you might like the following by Eliot North:

Just Married
Poetry Sundaypsiloveyou.xyz

Potassium and Water
Poetry Sundaypsiloveyou.xyz

Flower Press
in the quaking-grassmedium.com