Nobody thinks it will happen to them. It only happens to other people.
A new personal blog series exploring the highs and lows of the conversations you have at brunch.
This is Part 11 of a series. For a recap, click here.
--
In the space of just a week, I had gone from the highest of highs to the lowest of lows.
Nobody goes into 'baby making' thinking they are the ones who will have problems.
I don't have miscarriages.
Other people have miscarriages.
My pregnancies are going to be perfect.
In school, we are taught that sex leads to communicable diseases, and pregnancy. Both of these things can be true. But what they don't tell you is, just because you may want a baby, doesn't mean it will happen.
Anyone who has tried or successfully 'made' a baby will tell you that it's actually not as simple as it seems.
For one, women are pretty much only fertile for five days of the month, with two of those really being the peak times for pregnancy. Of those that succeed, the statistic is that one in four will miscarry, although many doctors have since said to me they believe it could be as high as one in two, with many women not even realising it is happening or that they were pregnant in the first place. In Australia, one in six couples will have trouble conceiving, and one in every 20 babies are now born through IVF.
But still. This won't happen to you. This happens to other people. Right?
I mean, this was my somewhat obnoxious and naïve view. The day it happened, I knew something wasn't quite right.
We were on our way to a family member's birthday, followed by a baby shower, and the only people who knew of the pregnancy at this point were my mum and sister, who were not present. At the time, not wanting to 'make a fuss' and being a perennial people-pleaser, we went to the family birthday, even though I just knew something was off.
I will spare the specifics, but we'll just say that when it happens, you don't need someone to tell you. You see it, and even though it's miniscule... you just know.
When it did happen, I froze.
We were at my in-laws house, celebrating a birthday. I was in the bathroom. What the f*ck was I supposed to do with this information, ruin the whole party? I stared at it for a while, not sure what to do, before finishing up and silently going back to join the family.
Outside, I told my partner. He was obviously very upset, but was more focused on making sure I was okay. I didn't really know what to do or say, so I just went on autopilot and stuck to the course. Stupidly, instead of doing what I should of done, which is go home and let myself grieve, I felt that it was rude of me not to attend my friend's baby shower. Baby shower!
I know. I'm a f*cking idiot.
At the time, I was someone who just didn't know how to say no to these things. I didn't want to be rude, I didn't want to disappoint, I didn't want to be a bailer. And to be fair, no one put this on me. They would have understood. Heck, they would have insisted I go home and do some self-care. But I just didn't know how to disappoint. So I sat there, still miscarrying silently, as my friend who had had a perfect pregnancy opened gifts and talked about life with a baby as everyone laughed and cheered.
I was't really sure what I was supposed to do. Go home? The doctor? The hospital? I ended up going to the hospital as it was close by, where they seemed to find it a bit strange I was presenting. I know some people had ectopic pregnancies, too much blood going, things going wrong. I didn't really know what to do, so I went just to... check. Alone.
After some check-ups confirming everything, like all the other shit the Covid years brought, somehow, we had to get on with it.
Work, my friends and family were extremely supportive, and while I cursed myself for telling my mum so early because I was so devastated for her loss, I don't regret telling people about the miscarriage. I needed their support, and I got it, and for that, I am extremely lucky.
My partner threw himself into work, and I told him I needed a break before trying again. It was now December of 2021, and I had well and truly had it. The weddings, the trips, the jobs, the deaths, the miscarriage, all of it. I wanted a Christmas and New Years Eve where I could f*ck the year off in a spectacular fashion. I just didn't care about anything.
I spent New Year's Eve partying harder than I ever had, was last woman standing at a raving bush disco and promptly spent the next day spewing, but not regretting. I wanted a summer of cocktails and parties and travel and fun, and I wanted to forget all the shit of the past year. I didn't care anymore. What did it matter?
In April of 2022, I fell pregnant again.
It would prove to be even worse than the first.
---
Like what you read? Subscribe so you don't miss out on the next instalment here.
