Warning: This post deals with post-natal depression and might be triggering for some readers.
I was 29. Married. With three children and a husband due to have his vasectomy in 14 sleeps.
Not that I was counting or anything.
I was a Lady Start Up. I had purchased my first new car. One that could fit all three offspring in the back snuggly. One that did not give away my ‘breeder’ status.
I was sculling green smoothies. I had abs. Actual abs. I wore crop tops and blushed when people told me how amazing it was that I could have this body after having three kids.
And then I got sick.
At first, I assumed it was because of the burritos we had ingested the night before. I had been gluten free for a while. One does not maintain abs by eating such gooey mess. One has things that are green. And steamed. Or both.
So, I hoped it was a cheese, cream, wheat combination reaction. And not the morning sickness that was completely recognisable to me.
I didn’t have to wait for the two blue lines when I peed on the stick. They appeared before I had even wiped.
Still, I remained in my precarious puddle of denial and convinced myself, and my husband that it was a false positive. I’d do another one in the morning. Again, with the two blue lines. I sent him out for a different brand of test. And the lines kept coming, in pairs, that where blue.
I was up the stick. Morning sick. And I did not want to be.
Cue the conversations. My husband fully supported either me. “Whatever you want to do babe.” So I talked to my bestie.
A continent away, I voice messaged her. I listed all the reasons I shouldn’t keep the fetus. My new studio. My new car. My abs. She replied immediately. She agreed. Get rid of it. And then I knew I couldn’t.
I had to keep it. I was in a stable relationship, with a roof over my head and food in the fridge. I couldn't terminate this pregnancy.
And so, with my husband’s either way support, my head in a bucket, and a heavy sigh, I decided to keep the baby.