Pregnancy after loss

This didn’t work out for me this time. It’s still way too raw for me to really try and process what’s happened. Right now I’m watching Magic Mike XXL and basically not thinking about it. But before there was this, there was the fact I was pregnant. And this is what it’s like to be pregnant after a loss. For those of you going through this or having gone through this, I’m sorry. It’s shit.

There you are, second blue line. It’s faint. I can’t quite make it out, but it’s there if I squint. Am I ready?

The first feeling is of excitement and relief – we did it! – but it’s quickly – as in a matter of seconds – replaced by anxiety. Will I tell anyone? Will this one stay? I cannot go through another loss. Oh God, when will I be able to scan to see if the baby is there and alive? All of these thoughts preceed the image of me holding a newborn for the first time. In fact, I am yet to have that.

This is what it is like to find out you are pregnant after a loss. I end up telling almost everyone I come into contact with, just because I think I want them to know if I lose it. I will need their support, I think. People (Danny) says he won’t tell anyone and doesn’t understand it, says he will keep it to himself. That’s fine. But I know from before that talking about it, writing about it and processing it will help me.

I do two or three tests a day for a week. The line gets stronger. Still, I don’t rise to the excitement. When there is a solid line I smile. But that’s it.

Everyone I know congratulates me and I warn them that they don’t know what might happen and not to get too caught up in this pregnancy.

We realise that Danny might be travelling over my due date. That we were supposed to be going to the Lake District for his mum’s 70th – we’ll probably still make it, I say, before I realise what I am saying.

I eat runny eggs.

I read back over what I wrote last time I found out. The time I found out and I was excited and I thought that after Nives there would be no more losses and it was all fine and I see the excitement coming off the page at me. It’s so different this time.

I hold Nives tight. She keeps asking me if I have a baby in my tummy – she’s not super perceptive, she asks everyone at the moment since Mummy Rabbit had a baby on Peppa Pig and since my (obviously pregnant) friend Jo came to stay.- I whisper: yes, but it’s a secret. She won’t remember I think. But she does. She keeps asking if the baby is sleeping, if it is crying. I can’t let myself imagine this. I tell her that I don’t have a baby, that she is my baby.

What is wrong with me? I want this baby, we tried for this baby. Why can’t I love it, like I loved the others? Why do I just think of it as a ticking time bomb?

My friend tells me she is pregnant, that she is going to see the doctor. Se reckons she is about four weeks. I keep quiet. I don’t want her to know. I know that if her baby lives and mine dies that I won’t be able to see her when she is pregnant. It’s irrational and hateful, but I know I can’t go through that again. Watching bumps grow while my stomach stays flat (okay, not flat).

I watch what I eat so I don’t put on loads of weight. I won’t eat for two because if there isn’t two then I will have to lose it all in a matter of months and I don’t want to have to see my figure and measure it without a baby.

Just a few more weeks to go until I can know for sure. But it feels like a lifetime.

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