If you’re looking for advice about options surrounding fertility, pregnancy or counselling, always consult your doctor
“So I want to tell you something,” she says. And just like that, I know.
She’s pregnant. There’s a quivering smile on her face, a little excitement in the tension that runs up her neck and tilts her head just so. She’s pregnant. I’ve been here for hours and she’s only telling me now?
“I’m pregnant,” she says. Of course she is. I feel a little sick. I smile, tell her that’s so exciting. I look at her again. Try to see if there’s anything different, something I should have noticed when I walked in. There’s nothing. It’s too soon, of course. Jeans and a black t-shirt are hardly maternity wear.
She’s still talking. I can barely keep track of what she’s saying. They found out on the one-year anniversary of her last miscarriage. There have been ultrasounds, heartbeats. She talks about hormones and therapies and nausea. Midwives and obstetricians. She talks about spring babies. May. Her birthday is in May too. She’ll never really celebrate it on her own again.
My mouth is moving, saying the things I’m supposed to say. Inside, I’m screaming. I always thought that was a metaphor, but it turns out you really can do it. It’s deafening, so loud I can’t hear myself speak. There’s too much. Too much inside. My limbs shake. My organs feel like they’re going to twist themselves apart. They’re all telling me we have to run, that something is very wrong and we shouldn’t be here. I know it’s grief and it’s trying to swallow me. I haven’t let it win yet. So I keep talking.