Please note: this piece contains content and descriptions of loss that some readers may find upsetting.
Now I am here, hoping again. Same spot, same fear. Maybe this time, it will all go well.
It’s a positive. It was a Thursday morning, right after the alarm clock went off. I had been wide awake for hours pondering whether to take the test or to wait a little longer. It is well known amongst women to wait long enough to take the test. You wouldn’t want to test too early, get a negative but actually be pregnant without you knowing. Also, you do not want to take the test too early in fear of being disappointed because it is a false negative. But, if you are like me, as soon as you get the positive, the two lines or the plus, depending on the brand, a lot of women test daily, either because holding a positive test makes them happy or because they are afraid the outcome will change, or the lines start to fade. Holding the test, my imagination ran wild. I saw myself carrying and nursing my future baby, imagined family gatherings and proudly introducing my child to family members and friends. I even saw both of us sitting at the dining room table and trying to figure out mathematic exercises for school.
Weeks later, after the pregnancy had been confirmed and I had informed my boyfriend about it, fate kicked in. My boyfriend rushed into the bathroom after he had heard me scream loudly. It was impossible to make out a word. It was a piercing, long, high-pitched scream. He froze as soon as he saw me. I stood in the middle of the modern bathroom at his parents’ house. To this day, I hate this room with all my heart, holding on to the greyish washbasin for support. I grabbed the washbasin so hard that my knuckles turned white. My boyfriend looked down at my legs where you could see thick lines of dark red blood running towards the feet and the bathmat. A second scream and I started to cry hysterically. I sank to the floor. I was trembling, my head buried in my hands. ‘No, please, no’ was the only thing I mumbled. I cannot recall how long I sat there or whether I kept crying or uttered anything else. I felt weak. No energy to get up. No reason to either. My boyfriend grabbed some toilet paper, cleaned me the best he could, looked at the WC. Blood. The amount of blood was frightening. What was happening to me, my baby and my body?
We had to go to the hospital, it being a late evening and all. We were almost asked to leave but my boyfriend would not have had it. It was one of the few occasions in all the years we have spent together where he wasn’t polite. No, he demanded to see a doctor. Period.
I remember feeling out of place, like my body didn’t belong to me anymore. This was not my life; this could not happen.
‘So, what can I do for you today?’
‘I am nine weeks pregnant,’ I said, ‘and I am bleeding quite heavily. I guess I am having a miscarriage.’ My voice faded out towards the end of the sentence.
‘Let's see what's going on. Okay. The heart is still beating. Now, it can go either way. There is not much that you can do right now. Either it was old blood from a haematoma or... So either everything will be fine, the bleeding will stop or it will continue and you will experience some dizziness. In this case, you will lose the foetus. I recommend bed rest for now and then ask for an appointment with your physician on Monday. All the best to you.’
I will never forget these words, uttered calmly, dry, in a professional manner, but killing me inside.
I spent the entire weekend in bed. I tried to distract myself by watching stupid romance movies, not really paying attention to the storyline, basically just existing. Later, I had to go to the bathroom, so I stood up slowly as if fast movements would harm the pregnancy even more. I felt dizzy. ‘Oh no, that’s it.’ I cried and cried.
I mumbled at my stomach: ‘If you must go, go, it is okay. But if there is any chance, please hold on to my body, hold on, please. I would love to meet you and be your mum. Please.’
\The next Monday, my boyfriend and I went to see my physician. When she told us that the heart had stopped beating and I should now take a few days to consider my next steps, my boyfriend gasped and put his hand on my shoulder for support. I disconnected from my body.
Never in my life had I felt this lonely as if I was the only one, as if my body was unique in failing.
I bled for six weeks until my uterus got rid of the entire tissue. Six weeks of being reminded several times a day, of being hurt or seeking a reason. I have never found one.
This happened six months ago. Now, in the same bathroom in our home, I am yet again holding a test in my hands. A big fat positive. In about nine months, I could hold you in my arms, finally meet you, kiss you. We could be a small family of three. We would find out how to be the best parents we can be, how to live without sleep, see you crawl, stand up and even walk. Later, we would get to know your personality, read books to you, see the world with your eyes. You would learn from us, and we from you. I cannot wait. I hold on to my hope.
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