Icebreaker

I went to a training course a couple of weeks ago. For work. About a subject I did not expect to be particularly interested by. But the woman delivering the training was absolutely fantastic, a very charismatic and articulate person. The sort of person that I would like to be, in my dreams. The sort of person that I would like to say something witty or memorable in front of, the sort of person that I would like to impress.

We were arranged in four round tables, five or six of us to a table. I did not know anyone else attending the training so I gatecrashed the table that looked the friendliest. All went well until the icebreaker. We had to introduce ourselves, talk about our experiences of the topic in hand and tell a story about ourselves that nobody would be able to guess simply by looking at us. This is by no means the first time I've done this particular exercise. It must be an old favourite with the companies that organise these training sessions.

But, for the first time, I was struggling with my story. The moment that sentence fell from the trainer's lips, tell us something about yourself that nobody would guess, my brain went into some sort of high alert mode. Sirens wailed. Internal brain workers dashed about on teensy scooters. Memos were posted. Because, after all, this is my favourite topic isn't it? I spout on and on and on here on this blog about something that is not visible, something that nobody would ever guess from a glance.

My thoughts went something like this. Dead baby story? Tiny baby story? Both? Dead baby story? Tiny baby story? Total lie and pretend I have living twins story? Dead baby story? Dead baby story?

I came to, you'll be glad to know. I didn't tell either of those stories, although I was sorely tempted by the lie. Because part of me still wants to tell people that I'm having twins, that I had twins. Many moons ago.

I thought to myself. How sad. How almost . . . pathetic.

I used to have stories about myself. I used to mention things that I had done. Not earth shattering stuff because I'm not that kind of a gal. I'm a' slow and steady wins the race' type. But I had my own little stories for trotting out on occasions such as these.

Now the only thing I can think of is my children and the birth of my children. I don't have any other stories. All those things I thought were cute, or clever, or vaguely interesting, about myself got swept away in the avalanche of the birth of my girls. I don't actually have anything left to say for myself. Nobody wants to hear about the death of a child in a marketing training session. Nobody wants to know that my daughter was 1lb 7oz at birth and spent four months in hospital. These simply aren't the sort of stories we are looking for here people.

The story that made me saddest was the lie that I contemplated telling. Even sadder than the fact that I sent my little internal brain people off on their scooters to the Catherine W 'interesting story' storage facility and this was the best they could muster.
A tragic tale.
A story of extreme survival starring an incredibly small baby instead of Ray Mears.
And a lie.

A couple of years ago, if I'd heard someone else tell the story of 'their twins' during the icebreaker, I would have thought, how sad. Is that honestly the most interesting thing you have to say for yourself? That you happened to conceive two children simultaneously? Well whoop-di-do for you. Get a life. Get a brain. Get a more interesting story.

Yet now it is all I have left.
Those three stories.
And I swear there was more in that box.
That there was more to me, more about me.
Once.

I didn't tell any of those three stories. I told a boring story that I've told a million times before about how I've dissected a human brain. It makes people go ick and it makes them laugh and it makes them remember me. In the fug of dead baby / tiny baby / twins I found I had somehow volunteered to introduce the rest of the table. At least I remembered their names. And most of the pertinent facts in their stories.

All those other people in the room. I wonder what their first thought was?
What else went up on the ether as an accompaniment to my own 'dead baby, tiny baby, twins' wail.
There were at least thirty other people in the room and do you know what?
I dread to think. I don't want to know.
There is more sadness lurking under the surface than I ever dreamed.

I miss Georgina. I miss her so terribly. I miss my daughter, Georgina. I miss her. I miss her so very much.
With every atom. With everything I have. I miss her.

I miss her in training courses. I miss her whilst I am driving my car. I miss her when I am changing nappies and whilst I am reading Dr Seuss. I miss her when I see twins and I miss her when I see babies and I miss her when I see sisters and I miss her when I see her sister.

I wish. I just . . . . wish.

I feel so defeated.

What is your icebreaker story?



'Year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found?
The same old fears.
Wish you were here'