And so six years later... it begins again
I was sat in Nottingham, waiting for some family members to arrive for my father-in-law’s birthday meal. It was drizzly late November day and I was uncomfortable. We were in the Gurkha Kitchen (an awesome Nepalese restaurant on the edge of town – check it outs, its amazing!) when I suddenly felt the need to head to the bathroom. I slipped off politely, not realising I would take as long as I did to return.
It was only when I had finished in the toilet, stood up and leant over to flush that I noticed it. There was blood in the toilet pan. I was not on my period nor expecting it any time soon. But then again my periods were never particularly regular and. But then it dawned on me.
IMPLANTATION BLEED.
Stephen and I had discussed how we would ‘not try but, not not try either’ in the New Year. We naively assumed that it would take us a few months of trying at the very least. How could I have been so wrong!?
So there I was standing in the toilet in the middle of this restaurant in Nottingham knowing fully well that a ball of cells was developing inside of me and so I started pacing wondering what the hell I was to do.
Eventually on my return, I made the face at Stephen, the one where he knows I really need to talk to him about something (usually something stupid or irrational like, I’m uncomfortable with all these people smoking around me or, I need to get some dulcolax because my IBS is playing up…. Another great by-product of my anxiety).
I didn’t even really need to say an awful lot for him to gather what I was try to communicate, but we were in a very busy place and therefore not the ideal venue to broadcast such a discussion.
It was a long drive home.
Almost exactly a year to the day previous we had found ourselves in the exact same position. I hadn’t been feeling right for days, odd nausea and crippling lethargy. That’s was when the pregnancy test came back positive. I tried to surprise Stephen, I even printed a little sign that said ‘A tiny Huddersfield town fan lives in here’ with an arrow pointing to my tummy. I thought I could gauge how to move forward based on his reaction to my probably over-the -top gesture. His initial response was not that of a man excited to become a father in a little under a year’s time. It was neither here nor there. And that lasted a good few minutes before the nondescript reflex turned to obvious deliberation and resistance of responsibility ‘how will we afford it?’, ‘you’ve just started your new job’, he went on.
He was absolutely right – we couldn’t afford it and I HAD just started my new job (as much as I hated it from the get go and knew it was 100% just a means to an end) I wasn’t happy, not really, I knew I wasn’t.
The following weeks (all 3 of them) were bumpy. We had decided, after many tears and discussions that it wasn’t the right time.
I made the phone call to BPAS, the pregnancy clinic which deals with abortions. The date was booked. I had to attend a consultation in Northampton, where they took me through the options and the procedure itself. I was not swayed albeit terrified.
The day rolled around quicker than I would have liked it to and I was admitted into the clinic. After a very long wait, lots of pain and a Cuban man armed with a funny looking hoover, the problem that I had gone in with that morning, was gone.
In my short 24 years, I have lived many lives, lives that have not been easy but have at least given me some wisdom.
The pain was sharp and sickly, I was wide awake and conscious of everything, the hurt, the guilit, the bittersweet relief.
I was so fragile at that point in my life, I had tried so hard to build myself up after my redundancy and even getting that shitty little part time job was a confidence boost – until this came and shattered it all into a million pieces.
I had read a number of articles in the lead up to my procedure, some said it wouldn’t hurt, some said it did. It did. It really did hurt me. My blood pressure plummeted dangerously low following the treatment and I had to stay behind for monitoring. When I finally got home, I felt isolated pain and a physical emptiness which took me back to being 16 when I experienced that same emptiness once before.
The next day things had to return to normal – nobody need know (or more appropriately nobody need judge- so long as they didn’t know) and things naturally just ticked over and I got through it just like everything else.
But here I am again, all of the fundamental facts are exactly the same, I’m still broke, treading water and climbing uphill trying to making it all work, I still have my doubts surrounding the sustainability of my relationship ans my mental health,I still don’t love myself like I should. But.
I will tell you one thing is for sure, I will love this baby and I will not give it up for anything or anyone.
Because, this experience has taught me one thing: there is NEVER a right time to have a baby.
Not my angel baby from 2010
Not my Annabelle, who is now flourishing and growing into an absolute dream
Not my angel baby from 2017
And not my little bundle of morning sickness I’m harbouring now!
But, I am stronger and wiser than I was yesterday and more determined to make tomorrow better than any day of any life I’ve lived already.
The moral is this post is….
Always follow your instincts, even if it leads to an unpopular decision or one that hurts. Pain is temporary.
Love yourself and embrace your life’s disasters, you never know they might just bring you something remarkable.