This blog post is a little different. Some of you may have arrived here after finishing my book Warrior, to read what happened next. If that’s the case you’ll have left off when I was trying to conceive for baby number two and I’d had a miscarriage. You can pick right up from 5 January 2019, below and carry on.
If you’ve arrived here fresh, I wrote this because the lovely Sheila Lamb, author of several fertility books, approached me to ask if I’d write something for her new book which is about pregnancy after loss. People assume that once you’re pregnant everything is okay. Don’t get me wrong, it’s amazing to see those two lines again but, unfortunately, after a loss, it’s also terrifying. Without further ado, Here’s my story:
5 January 2019
I swing my legs into my sister’s car and place my handbag at my feet.
‘How are you?’ she asks.
‘I think I’m pregnant.’
A beat passes. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘Well, my period is late so I took a test just now and it’s positive.’
‘Right…’
It’s Friday night and we’re on our way to meet our mum and our Aunty for dinner.
‘So, yeah, I guess I am pregnant. For now.’
I rub at the fabric of my jeans. They buttoned up just fine. They don’t feel tight. I’m not bloated. And yet, I’m pregnant. It’s good news. The best news. The reason for the less-than-jubilant atmosphere is that I had a miscarriage seven months ago. I was pregnant and the baby just went away. Ceased to exist. Before that I was infertile. I say that because we didn’t conceive ‘naturally’ after two years of trying and that’s the definition. My first daughter was conceived through IVF after many tests, lots of waiting and wondering, much heartache.
So, my current teeny tiny bit pregnant state is fraught with trepidation.
‘I feel like I’m about to get my period,’ I say to Cait. ‘Like it’ll just come and I’ll do another test and the line will be fainter, then in a few days it’ll be negative.’
Cait is quiet. She just listens.
‘I want to be happy. But I don’t dare be.’
‘Give it a few days.’
I nod and place a hand on my lower abdomen. It’s cramping with period like pain. After two and half years trying to conceive, I thought I could accurately analyse my body. Turns out I’m just as clueless as ever.
‘Are you going to tell Mum and Aunty Linda?’
‘Not sure.’
In the restaurant, my Mum is having a night off. My dad has dementia and she’s fast becoming his carer. It’s a difficult time and we’re trying to provide a bit of light relief with our ‘girl’s night’. She talks us through the latest developments from the dementia support groups they’re part of, options for respite care or care workers going in during the day while he’s home alone so she can carry on working. It’s sad and hard to listen to, but she’s in good spirits so we go along with it and try to pretend it’s not as gut wrenching as it actually is.
Then we read our menus. Then the inevitable conversation about sharing a bottle of wine comes up.
‘Do you prefer red or white?’ Aunty Linda asks me and Cait.
‘I’m driving,’ Cait says. ‘I’ll just have a coke.’
Aunty Linda looks at me, waiting for a response. ‘I uh, well, I’d probably have red to go with the pizza, but actually, I think I’ll just get a coke too.’
Cait makes a show of studying her menu.
‘You okay, love?’ My mum asks.
‘Yeah, I’m just not drinking.’
I see the moment the penny drops. I can almost hear it click into place. ‘Oh!’ she says. ‘Is it…are you?’
I nod.
She half leaps out of her seat then reigns herself in and sits back down, but opts for stretching across the table to take my hand and awkwardly kiss my cheek.
‘What? You’re what?’ Aunty Linda asks, looking at us each in turn.
‘I’m pregnant.’ I say quietly. ‘But it’s very early and after last time…I’m well…I’m worried.’
Aunty Linda nods. ‘Of course. Lovely news though. When did you find out?’
‘About an hour ago.’
‘Oh, right. Very early then!’
‘Yeah, I’ll be four weeks. I’ll do another test in the morning to check.’
I’m jittery. I’m elated and terrified. This could be real. I might have another baby in eight months. But what if it’s not real? Or what if it is real but I’ve already damaged the baby? I had a gin and tonic last night. I had several drinks on New Year’s Eve and over Christmas. I’ve already worked out that I must have conceived either the night before or the night after my work Christmas do, so I’d potentially been drinking then too. My stomach cramps again and then twists with anxiety.
‘Ladies!’ the waiter arrives at our table. A man who cannot read a room. ‘Are we celebrating tonight?’
‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘Just a girl’s night out.’
‘Great. Well, what’ll it be? Champagne? Prosecco? Nice bottle of red?’
‘I’ll have a diet Coke please,’ Cait says.
‘Me too,’ I say.
‘Come on! It’s Friday night! You’re young! Let your hair down.’
‘I’m driving,’ Cait gives him her best polite smile.
‘I’m…I just fancy a Coke.’
He does an exaggerated eye roll and writes our orders down on his pad.
‘Just going to the loo,’ I say, when he’s gone.
I sit down on the closed lid and take some deep breaths. I could get my period in the morning and if I hadn’t taken a test I’d never have known. I’m pregnant right now, but I know only too well that doesn’t mean I’ll stay that way. I think back to my first pregnancy. The elation at seeing a positive pregnancy test for the first time in my life. I didn’t stop to consider then that a positive test doesn’t necessarily equal a baby. I was lucky then.
At the end of the night, we go our separate ways outside the restaurant.
‘Congratulations, love,’ my Aunty says in my ear as she gives me a tight squeeze. I well up. She’s right. Whatever happens next, congratulations are in order right now, in this moment. I smile and squeeze back.
6 January 2019
6.19am
I squint at the clock on my bedside table. Craig is fast asleep next to me. It’s pitch-black outside and the heating has only just clicked on, so it’s still cold as I swing my legs out of bed and pad to the bathroom. I have three pregnancy tests waiting. All different brands. I open them and wee on them all at the same time. I don’t have to wait long. Two pink lines, a blue cross, the word ‘Pregnant’ on a digital display. I breathe a little.
25 January 2019
The bottle of water they’ve given me to drink is ice cold and it’s chilly in the waiting room. I can’t stop shivering. Whether it’s purely from the temperature is difficult to say. We’re waiting for our ‘reassurance scan’ at a private clinic. The NHS wouldn’t scan me early because there’s no medical reason to, despite my lovely GP doing her best. It’s okay, I didn’t really want to go back to the early pregnancy unit in the hospital where I’d been after my miscarriage. Bad memories. Here they sell photo frames for your scan photos, teddy bears, gender reveal balloons. The floors are wooden, the walls white. There are plants and fish tanks. It feels expensive.
I’ve made it this far. Pregnancy tests are still very definitely positive (yes, I’m still doing them) and my period didn’t come the next day, or the day after that. And the cramping stopped. I should be around seven weeks pregnant.
‘Tori Day?’
A young, dark-haired woman pokes her head out of the only door.
I stand up and Craig follows. The room through the door is similar to a scanning room in a hospital, but it smells different. Instead of disinfectant, it’s incense. Imagine BUPA clinic meets yoga retreat and you wouldn’t be too far off.
‘Come, lay down on here.’ The woman pats the bed.
I do as I’m told.
‘Are you okay? You’re shaking.’
‘Just cold.’
‘Yes, sorry about that. Takes a while to warm up in here and I’m afraid this gel is going to be cold on your tummy as well.’
‘Oh, is it not a dildo cam? Erm, sorry,’ I cough. ‘I mean an internal scan?’
‘No, we’re not medically trained. But if you’re seven weeks, we should be able to see from the outside.’
I don’t like the word ‘should’. But what can I do? Demand she insert a probe into my vagina? Not socially acceptable. Leave? Not a chance.
My shaking ramps up and I try to think warm thoughts. I breathe deeply and will my body to stay still.
The gel goes on. The wand moves over my stomach. The woman squints at the grainy screen. I can’t breathe. I close my eyes. It’s quiet. The wand is still moving.
‘I’m afraid…’ my stomach drops through the bed, through the floor and to the centre of the earth. ‘…I can’t get a good enough look. Your bladder is not full enough. I’m really sorry, but I’m going to need you to drink some more water and give it twenty minutes or so.’
My body is rigid with the effort of stopping the shaking.
‘Come on, it’s okay,’ Craig has hold of my hand. ‘Finish this and we’ll come back in.’ He hands me the ice-cold water and we go back out to the waiting area.
It’s not bad news, it’s no news. I tell myself as I look at the teddy bears, the fish, the balloons. What if she couldn’t see it because there isn’t anything to see? Nope, stop it. Stop it.
‘Not long now,’ Craig says.
Somehow the twenty minutes pass at the woman calls us back in. I close my eyes again. Hold my breath.
‘That’s better. I’ve got a nice clear view now. And here’s something…yes, here’s the heartbeat.’
I open my eyes. There’s a grainy flicker on the screen.
‘Are you sure?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’ She smiles and points to the flicker. Craig is squeezing my hand.
A sound that is half laugh and half cry bursts out of me. The shaking stops. Tears slide down the side of my face and wet the pillow under my head.
‘Oh,’ is all I can manage.
‘Can you tell how far along?’ Craig asks. I’m grateful one of us is able to string a sentence together.
‘Seven weeks, one day. Estimated due date 10 September.’
The tears come thick and fast now. I can breathe for the first time in three weeks.
‘Are you okay?’ the woman asks for the second time this morning.
‘Yes, I just…I had a miscarriage before and my first baby was conceived through IVF, so I can’t quite believe this is happening.’
She smiles. ‘It’s happening. Would you like some photos?’
Tori Day 