Category Archives: Gemma Burgess

On… miscarriages

Well, I wrote something about the three miscarriages I had in 2017. It’s here if you would like to read it. Or just scroll to the bottom of this post.

It was a hard year. I’m so grateful and fortunate that a year later, I had Arthur.

And I wasn’t sure whether to ever talk about it. I’m hardly the confessional self-analyzing type. There are so many more interesting and important things in the world to talk and think about than me. But after I had Arthur, I remembered how when I was going through that hard year, I searched high and low for uplifting and understanding articles about multiple miscarriages. And I couldn’t find any (apart from this lovely one). Just horror story after horror story. And awful statistics. I was paralyzed with sadness, and I wanted someone to say to me: I know you are sad, my darling, but I’ve been there, and I survived, and so will you.

So, since I couldn’t find the essay I wanted at the time, I wrote my own.

Here is a very flattering photo that they took of me for the piece.

Incidentally, I used to look for similar uplifting empathy in literature when I was heartbroken, in my 20s – oh so many heartbreaks! – and when I couldn’t find any modern, genuinely funny stories about real girls who fucked and drank and partied and loved their jobs and made mistakes with men, I wrote my own, and that was how I became an author, despite never really wanting to be an author. Now I write screenplays, and I tend to write things that I want to read or watch, and can’t find. But anyway: the essay! Enjoy.
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IN HER WORDS: GEMMA BURGESS ON MISCARRIAGES

One in three pregnancies ends in miscarriage. That’s what I told myself when I had my first miscarriage, in early January 2017. I had two little boys, then aged five and almost three. It was my third pregnancy. C’est la statistical vie. A swift D&C operation and I woke up in the hospital, empty, and chatting with the nurses. I decided not to be sad, so I wasn’t. It’s fine! It won’t happen again.

So my second miscarriage, about five months later, was a shock. I’m not the kind of person to have two miscarriages in a row, I’d told my husband breezily. So not moi. And yet, since peeing on the stick, I’d had a sort of – not quite cramping, but an awareness of something. In bed, late at night, I’d focus on it, with a tiny zap of fear. But I calmly reassured myself, because calm reassurance is my thing. It’s even my mantra. Everything is going to be okay.

Then one early summer morning, the awareness turned to light cramps and then severe cramps and then light bleeding and then severe bleeding and then appalling bleeding, just the worst bleeding you can imagine. Bleeding that goes through a pad, knickers and sweatpants in 15 minutes, chunky bleeding, bleeding with intent. There was no need for an operation to remove it this time. It was removing itself. It took a long time. It hurt a lot. (If anyone ever gives you the option of a D&C or “letting nature run its course”, take the D&C. Nature is a bitch.)

After the second miscarriage, I felt lower than I’d ever felt before. I told myself it was hormones, and I had to wait it out. One morning I sat at my desk for an hour, staring into space, and then got back into bed and closed my eyes. This is not the end of the world, I told myself strictly. You have a family. You have deadlines. If you don’t write, you don’t have a career. Get up and keep going. (Tough self-love!)

I got up. I kept going. I won a WGA award for a comedy spec script. I Instagrammed things that made me smile. I went to LA and sold a new TV show. I came home to New York and wrote the pilot. I took phone calls and meetings and made jokes. (The other thing that I am quite good at, apart from reassurance, is compartmentalizing like a sociopath.) A specialist did a bunch of tests and said, nothing is wrong, this was just bad luck, go have some sex.

When I got pregnant a few months later, I was very nervous.

The doctor said my first scan looked fine. Great hCG levels. Too early for a heartbeat. Come back in seven days. I skipped home. My husband high-fived me every time I puked: a good sign. Everything is going to be okay. The next week, the doctor frowned at the screen. Come back next week. Seven days after that, it was over. No heartbeat. Just a black hole of nothingness on the ultrasound.

My husband was travelling for work. I walked out of Mt Sinai, stumbled along Fifth Avenue as the leaves fell from the trees in Central Park, and called him, weeping. I’m so sorry, I kept saying. I’m so sorry. He begged me to stop apologizing, but I couldn’t. I was too full of sorry. I texted my friends. Please don’t send flowers this time. I couldn’t bear it.

Another D&C. I lay on the operating table waiting to go under, hot itchy tears running out of my eyes and pooling in my ears. I tried to apologize – I can’t stop the damn things – and then I looked over at the anesthetist, and she had tears in her eyes, too. Afterwards, I didn’t wake up and chat happily to the nurses. I just woke up and then closed my eyes again.

November and December were very hard. A little voice in my head kept whispering Three! Three! Who has three miscarriages in one year? It was obscene. Ridiculous. Laughable. Tragic. I kept telling myself: You will feel better tomorrow, just hang on. But every day, I felt worse. The earth was jelly under my feet. I couldn’t catch my breath.

I compartmentalized hard. I didn’t want to do anything at all except cuddle my sons or escape into writing (deadlines: always a comfort). I avoided seeing anyone except a handful of my best girlfriends, who kept me laughing when I wanted to cry. But if they asked questions about the miscarriages, I deflected. I didn’t want to talk about it. I was just too sad.

Kind people offered advice. Get reflexology. Try acupuncture. Have your thyroid checked. Take Coenzyme Q10. And baby aspirin. Do yoga. Meditate. A friend gifted me a fertile eating program, and I obediently gulped down raw milk and bone broth. I didn’t know if it would improve my eggs. I couldn’t imagine ever trying again. But it was nice to be told what to do.

One morning I forced myself to go to Pilates, sure that I’d feel better if I just exercised, and then had to leave, because I kept dropping big fat tears on the reformer machine. I stood on the corner of Prince and Broadway in Soho and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. I called my husband and told him I was drowning in sadness. I could hear the fear in his voice as he tried to comfort me. Everything will be okay.

But it wasn’t. The thing I’d always relied on – my delusional, reassuring optimism – was powerless against a heart full of tears. Three! I told myself I was lucky to have so much I loved: my family, my career, my friends, my city. And I told myself to ditch the stupid mantra. Everything will be okay? Who was I kidding? For millions – billions! – of people every day, things are not okay. For refugees and abused children and people whose loved ones are killed and women who have stillbirths and people who can never have babies at all, okay might feel impossible. Three miscarriages, in comparison, was nothing. What kind of insane privilege made me think I deserve to get what I want? And a third child, at that? The indulgence of it! How dare I ask the universe for more?

I went through the holidays on a sort of numb autopilot. We got home to freezing New York City in January 2018. I spent a couple of days settling the boys back into our normal routine, with that familiar heaviness in my chest. Then one morning I sat at my desk and thought: Enough.

I went for a walk in the crisp winter air and looked up at the beautiful buildings and the flat blue sky and the people around me and said goodbye to my three losses. I didn’t cry. I didn’t name them or have a ceremony or anything dramatic. I just said, I’m sorry I couldn’t give you what you needed to become a baby.

Then I went back to my desk and sat down and wrote. And I felt better. Lighter and clearer. I played Guess Who and baked cakes with my sons while it snowed outside. I read books about The Beatles. I worked out. I ate boiled eggs with butter and sea salt. I put on lipstick. My ABC show wasn’t picked up, so I wrote a movie spec, a romantic comedy about grief, and sold two more pilots. I went out for dinner with my husband. I saw my friends. I remembered how to laugh and forgot how to cry.

And I got pregnant again. Unexpectedly quickly. I wasn’t ovulating (at least, according to calculations). It just happened. Maybe it was all that raw milk.

I was very sick and very, very anxious. I was mute with tension before every appointment. I didn’t tell anyone at all as long as possible, and I hid the bump for as long as I could. I didn’t want people to congratulate me, or check in with me, in case I had to give them bad news later. If someone talked about ‘when the baby comes’, I would change the subject. I assumed something would go wrong. With apologies to Obama, I couldn’t risk the audacity of hope.

But there was a heartbeat, every single scan. Then arms and legs and a little nose. I ordered a baby Doppler, and listened to the heartbeat myself, day after day. Then he – another boy! – started kicking and didn’t stop. He kicked all the time, and he kicked hard. I’m here, he was saying to me, I’m here and I’m strong and healthy and I’m not going anywhere. I love you, I would say back. I love you I love you I love you I love you. I didn’t exhale the entire pregnancy.

And then on September 27, 2018, he was born.

He is perfect.

Arthur Noel Barry. He is sleeping on my chest as I write this. I am so lucky and so grateful.

I wasn’t sure whether to ever talk about this. I’m private when it comes to the big stuff, and I’m also aware that so many people struggle to even get pregnant once, and that miscarriage is a verboten subject. But over the last two years, every time that I read something about someone else surviving multiple miscarriages, it gave me huge comfort. So if this can comfort someone who is, right now, drowning in tears, the earth jelly under her feet, then I am telling my story for her.

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On… footwear

On… new books

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Am reading The Time Traveller’s Guide To Medieval England, on a recommendation from a friend from London, and I AM SO HAPPY. It’s a simple premise – a history book, written in the present tense. Somehow it makes it all seem so real, which is a stupid thing to say, but truly profound when you’re experiencing it. Wonderful writing and delicious details. Even for a dorky history nerd, like me. (Did you know that medieval sailors took almonds in barrels on ships, to make almond milk? HOW CRAZY IS THAT.)

Next, I’m reading The Time Traveller’s Guide To Elizabethan England, and I cannot wait.

On… skinnnn

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I was on IG the other day chatting to someone about why I don’t post more beauty stuff. The honest answer is: because I’m not an expert just a chatty enthusiast, I have nothing new to say, and I’d mostly just be repeating myself, and surely that would be boring and annoying for you guys. I still think the secret to great skin is SPF, lots of moisturizers like Le Roche Posay Hydraphase Riche or Ceramide Rosette Gel, and no wine. (I know, I’m sorry about the wine thing. Maybe it’s just me because I had an eczema problem in my 20s. It still makes my skin like parchment the next day. Stick to vodka, kids, and stay beautiful.)

But THEN I realized: I do have a couple of new skincare products that I am slam-dunk OBSESSED WITH. Or should I say, WITH WHICH I am slam-dunk OBSESSED. Yes. That is much nicer.

I kept hearing about this brand Clark’s Botanicals on the Fat Mascara podcast (incidentally, if you love make-up and skincare, it is delicious – helmed by two beauty editors who really know what they’re talking about, and it’s just the amuse-bouche I need after way too much Pod Save America, Pod Save The World, Slow Burn, The Bag Man, etc etc). Now: I don’t usually buy expensive skincare. I truly think most of it is bullshit overpriced, and I have great luck with my under-$40 moisturizers. But then my skin went into exhausted-blotchy-canvas-freefalling-hormone mode after Arthur was born. So I tried the tester set you can buy on the Clark’s website, fell deeply and passionately in love with two of the products, and treated myself to them: the Clark’s Botanicals Marine Smoothing Cream, which has glycolic acid and makes your skin tingle delightfully, and the Clark’s Botanicals Deep Moisture Mask, which is the only moisturizer I’ve ever tried that rivals the Hydraphase in terms of pure fucking buttery unctuous awesomeness. I have been wearing them on alternate nights ever since he was born, and am about to re-invest in both as the pots are almost empty. With each of these, you wake up the next day and your skin is plump and replete – even mine, and I am tired, my friends. I cannot overstate how much I love them. I wish I didn’t love them, as they are a bit spendy. But, eh, what can you do. Anyway, try the sample kit, it’s good value and maybe you will love them, too.

Since we’re here anyway, a little chat about makeup. Again, I am probably irritatingly consistent: Cle de Peau concealer or NARS Glow in Gobi on my red spots (chin, nostrils, between the eyebrows which is bizarrely splotchy lately, what is UP with that?) with this Real Techniques brush, I dust over Bobbi Brown Pale Yellow pressed powder afterwards with this brush, and if I’m really in the mood, pat it with this old-school powder puff thing (the secret for truly velvety skin: pat in a slightly downwards motion) THEN! Then, my friends, I wear this marvelous Impassioned blush from NARS. Impassioned is a new discovery and it’s the only blush I have worn for months. It’s a vintage pale dusty rose, it’s satiny and gorgeous and impossible to fuck up even when I’m really tired, and I want to marry it. (The images on screen never, ever do it justice, by the way, do not judge it by that.)

Now (lowers voice) I don’t love looking too glowy anymore. Entre-nous, I think glow has jumped the shark a little bit. All those iridescent highlighters look greasy to me, and surely everyone’s make-up is slipping right off their damn faces if they’re applying copious amounts of thick cream under everything in the morning. I want my skin to be velvety and smooth, dammit, and I don’t want to think about it after I’ve put my make-up on or have to reapply later, because who has the fucking time. So I’ve been skipping my old friends Becca and RMS, but if I look super-flat, I dash on a splodge of Hourglass trio, just lightly and messily over my temples and the tops of my cheekbones, with this lovely brush.

And that’s about it. My days are writing-baby-writing-baby right now, so I don’t need more, and at least I look put-together enough to not despair at my tired crone face when I wash my hands after I pee. Arthur doesn’t mind that I have no eyebrows and non-existent eyelashes. (Side note: am getting my eyelashes permed and tinted on Thursday and I am VERY EXCITED. Pathetically excited. It has been a long, long time, my friends, what with a huge heavy bump making it hard to lie on my back for 90 mins and then the whole breastfeeding a newborn thang for the last four months, I might even get a manicure, who know, who knows, it’s wild.)

Anyway, tell me your new make-up and skincare obsessions, this is a safe space.

On… Pressure by Muse

1 Reply

New favorite song.

The video being an homage to BTTF, with Terry Crews, just makes it even better.

On… looking human with a newborn

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I have an eight-week-old baby. (YAY ME.) He is absolutely lovely and delicious and, as far as newborns go, excessively easygoing. But it’s still been a pretty intense few months, because I also have deadlines. It’s actually easy to write with a newborn. It is. Truly. They eat, more or less, every three hours. Then they sleep for two hours. So you can write in that two-hour period, and then feed them and gaze at them adoringly until they sleep again. If they’re fussy, you can pop them in the ergo, and keep typing. That’s all there is to it. (This is assuming you don’t have a nightmare hellbaby who screams all the time. Ned was like that. But Arthur, blissfully, is not.) While we’re on the subject, writing with a toddler is a fucking nightmare, because toddlers are tiny cavemen with giant egos. But newborns are easy.

However. I’m the don’t-expose-a-newborn-to-outside-germs-unnecessarily type, and my baby is the fuck-your-bottles-I-only-want-the-boob type, which means we are pretty much at home ALL the DAMN TIME and so doing anything apart from eating / sleeping / writing is challenging, if not impossible. All of this is a very boring and long-winded way of saying: I’m doing a lot of home grooming in order to look human.

This lovely dpHue gloss allegedly extends the lifespan of highlights, so is hopefully helping me to avoid the hair salon. I also use this as a conditioner once a week to keep the ol’ tresses bright and sunny rather than dull and brassy. My hair got all dry during pregnancy, so I put this It’s A Ten stuff on right out of the shower, before I blow dry. And then, on dry hair, I swear this Mise En Scene shit has magical bouffy-shiny properties. And of course, my hair probably needs a trim. (It always probably needs a trim). This collagen protein thing swells the hair shaft so it looks slightly less bedraggled. (Why does shaft always sound so filthy?) (I know why, I know why.) (Because PEEN.)

The skin on my body is dry AF after having a baby. Always is. I think it’s a hormonal thing; it gets all burlap-esque. I’ve been using this AHA moisturizer and it does some magic tingly exfoliating shit and I swear to go, leaves my skin all creamy and even-toned. And the skin on my face is recovering from a ghastly bout of pregnancy-induced melasma over the summer, so I’m alternating Clark’s Botanicals Smoothing Marine Cream and this lovely French Ystheal retinol. You can’t use retinol when you’re knocked up, and I’ve been knocked up on-and-off for about two years when you think about it, so retinol and I have some catching up to do.

My nails are terrible. I cut them short with toenail clippers and never think about them.

I look tired all the time, because, um, I am quite tired all the time, and I’ve made peace with that fact. I’ve been fantasizing about getting fillers in the dark troughs under my eyes. In my fantasies I don’t become blind from it, which is apparently a legit risk, and the reason I won’t be ever doing it. So instead, I’m splatting this on and smushing it around with the NuFace in the hope that it pushes my jowls up into my eyebag troughs. (Does the NuFace really work? IDFK darlings. It is extremely expensive – but I *think* it helps with puffiness.)

What else is there? Oh, I know. Make-up. Most days I cannot be bothered, but when I can, I just want to look fresh-faced and put together, and not like this. I discovered this Hado Labo face mask during a late-pregnancy-insomnia-fuelled Reddit deep-dive – and it’s genuinely GREAT! It plumps out pores and leaves your face all smooth and dewy and divine. Then I throw on this SPF, which has a very subtle glow, and use my fingers to push NARS concealer around my chin and nostrils and eyelids, with a little extra Cle de Peau concealer on any particularly blotchy bits. Then lots of Bobbi Brown Pale Yellow Powder with this brush, then some of this nothing-looking-yet-totally-something NARS Impassioned blush. Hourglass Platinum blonde, some L’Oreal Voluminous mascara, and Bobbi Brown Baby matte lip stain stuff. This is not a make-up look to get excited about, but it makes me look like a human in about three and a half minutes. And that’s a win.

On… surprise!

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I totally had a baby last week.

Surprise!

I kept it quiet – in fact, almost entirely mute – because, well, you know, 2017 was a rough year of false starts, baby-wise, and even *thinking* about the pregnancy ending with an actual baby was almost impossible. So I crossed my fingers, threw up a lot, hid from the world and wrote and wrote and wrote, and in the end, made a perfect little boy born on September 27.

Arthur Noel Barry.

So so happy. Mwah. x

On… Meet Me In The Bathroom

1 Reply

One of the best and yet worst things about growing up is figuring out what you’re good at (writing, keeping small people alive, staring into space while thinking about writing and keeping small people alive) – and what you’re not (singing, staying out past 11pm, hangovers from staying out past 11pm).

I LOVE this book. I wish I was living in NYC in 2002 with nothing but a wild urge to party and a trust fund. If you do, too, read Meet Me In The Bathroom:

Here’s the blurb:

“Meet Me in the Bathroom charts the transformation of the New York music scene in the first decade of the 2000s, the bands behind it—including The Strokes, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, LCD Soundsystem, Interpol, and Vampire Weekend—and the cultural forces that shaped it, from the Internet to a booming real estate market that forced artists out of the Lower East Side to Williamsburg. Drawing on 200 original interviews with James Murphy, Julian Casablancas, Karen O, Ezra Koenig, and many others musicians, artists, journalists, bloggers, photographers, managers, music executives, groupies, models, movie stars, and DJs who lived through this explosive time, journalist Lizzy Goodman offers a fascinating portrait of a time and a place that gave birth to a new era in modern rock-and-roll.”