It finally happened.
It worked.
Linda was pregnant.
She peed on a stick well before she was supposed to, and we stared through bleary morning eyes at the undeniably present second pink line. And so became the routine, the next day and the next: a party trick that never got old, mornings spent in awed silence taking side-by-side photos of an ever-growing number of peed-upon sticks. The phone calls from Fertility Associates, so different to the ones before: it worked, it stuck, it's growing.
The morning routine changed again: sea sickness bands, the snapping of Salada crackers, watered-down juice delivered gently to a groaning bedside. Cats hiding under couches, eyes wide, as the sound of retching fills our tiny house. The numbers are perfect, top percentile, maybe it's twins. Doubling and doubling and doubling again.
The baby is due on October 18th. We'll have to host Christmas - no way we can travel with a baby that wee, and surely everyone will want to gather around - the first grandchild, the first great-grandchild, the first niece or nephew. We tell our families, we tell our workplaces. Linda has to, because of the sickness. I have to, because I can't keep it in.
Our first scan. The night before, I feel suddenly terrified. I sit alone, awake, afraid. I send out a tweet: if there's no heartbeat, we'll be okay... right? The next morning, I need to be coaxed into the car. I don't want to go in, I'm on the verge of tears as we walk across the carpark. I don't know why I'm so sure, but I am: the numbers are perfect, Linda's sick and swollen and sore, but there will be no heartbeat.
There is no heartbeat.
The fetus stopped growing sometime around a week ago.
The doctor can't be sure, yet, because it's still so small. We have to come back in a week for another scan, if it hasn't made its way out by then. If he was a betting man, he tells us, he'd bet it'll be more bad news.
Something hollow burrows into my chest, a weight settles in my stomach. I can't quite remember how to be a person. We both call in sick, crawl home, and wait for time to heal us.
Linda is still sick. The retching fills our house again, but our hearts are empty.
The next scan: our doctor wins his bet. The fetus is still dead.
We are still hosting Christmas.
The contents of Linda's uterus does not make its own way out. The doctor puts her to sleep and removes the "retained products". I go to the supermarket and buy things we don't need, then I take home my wife but not my baby. Somehow, I do not scream.
Linda gets an infection, because of course she does. We have to go to the hospital, to the labour and delivery ward, to a room off the side where there are not enough nurses so we're seen by a midwife. It's two in the morning and this is not how it is supposed to be. She puts her underwear on inside out, her maternity pad stuck to the outside like a military epaulette, and we laugh until we cry, mad with exhaustion and grief and love as big as mountains.
We go back to the beginning of the line.
It worked.
Linda was pregnant.
She peed on a stick well before she was supposed to, and we stared through bleary morning eyes at the undeniably present second pink line. And so became the routine, the next day and the next: a party trick that never got old, mornings spent in awed silence taking side-by-side photos of an ever-growing number of peed-upon sticks. The phone calls from Fertility Associates, so different to the ones before: it worked, it stuck, it's growing.
The morning routine changed again: sea sickness bands, the snapping of Salada crackers, watered-down juice delivered gently to a groaning bedside. Cats hiding under couches, eyes wide, as the sound of retching fills our tiny house. The numbers are perfect, top percentile, maybe it's twins. Doubling and doubling and doubling again.
The baby is due on October 18th. We'll have to host Christmas - no way we can travel with a baby that wee, and surely everyone will want to gather around - the first grandchild, the first great-grandchild, the first niece or nephew. We tell our families, we tell our workplaces. Linda has to, because of the sickness. I have to, because I can't keep it in.
Our first scan. The night before, I feel suddenly terrified. I sit alone, awake, afraid. I send out a tweet: if there's no heartbeat, we'll be okay... right? The next morning, I need to be coaxed into the car. I don't want to go in, I'm on the verge of tears as we walk across the carpark. I don't know why I'm so sure, but I am: the numbers are perfect, Linda's sick and swollen and sore, but there will be no heartbeat.
There is no heartbeat.
The fetus stopped growing sometime around a week ago.
The doctor can't be sure, yet, because it's still so small. We have to come back in a week for another scan, if it hasn't made its way out by then. If he was a betting man, he tells us, he'd bet it'll be more bad news.
Something hollow burrows into my chest, a weight settles in my stomach. I can't quite remember how to be a person. We both call in sick, crawl home, and wait for time to heal us.
Linda is still sick. The retching fills our house again, but our hearts are empty.
The next scan: our doctor wins his bet. The fetus is still dead.
We are still hosting Christmas.
The contents of Linda's uterus does not make its own way out. The doctor puts her to sleep and removes the "retained products". I go to the supermarket and buy things we don't need, then I take home my wife but not my baby. Somehow, I do not scream.
Linda gets an infection, because of course she does. We have to go to the hospital, to the labour and delivery ward, to a room off the side where there are not enough nurses so we're seen by a midwife. It's two in the morning and this is not how it is supposed to be. She puts her underwear on inside out, her maternity pad stuck to the outside like a military epaulette, and we laugh until we cry, mad with exhaustion and grief and love as big as mountains.
We go back to the beginning of the line.
My heart goes out to you both. How has it been since?
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