You know that conventional wisdom that says you don’t tell anyone about a pregnancy until 12 weeks? That conventional wisdom which I have long-derided as Dreadfully Boring and Anal and Paranoid? Yes, that. Well, now I get it. Totally get it. That same wisdom also probably advises you hold off from buying the lovely second-hand red Bugaboo pram and the Victorian crocheted christenening cap and playing enthusiastic “Name Your Imaginary Daughter” games with your friends on Twitter, until at least you have a scan to make sure your pregnancy is viable and your baby is not developing into a star mole.
All of which unfortunately leads me to this awkward post. I am no longer pregnant as of yesterday and I am now spending the day on the couch enduring a ‘medically managed’ miscarriage. I am not moving except to refill my cup of tea. Dog on the road? Child hanging from radiator? Mouldering washing? Tom and Jerry DVD stuck on a scratched frame? Too bad. Today, I am just going to suck it up and sit it out under a blanket. I am an island. Or a rocky outcrop. Or something. But I am not moving, nor am I conversational, or very much fun.
I am sorry that this post and others have referred to my fertility, successful or otherwise. Yuck. It isn’t that interesting, or appropriate, and certainly wades forthright into that old chestnut of Too Much Information. It is awkward. But spew it out I must, or I will have to fake a birth in December for faithful readers with long memories. So awkward. Of course, I have also told every single real-life human being I have come into contact with over the last ten weeks so my awkwardness is will keep repeating on me like an oniony burp. Supermarket, school gates, the traffic guy on Bishop’s Bridge, teachers, potential business partners, the staff at Pret. SIGH.
Things that I imagine everyone in the world will say/think, privately or otherwise:
1. It was the worm tablet
2. It was the jogging
3. She carries her groceries home by herself – it was them
4. The school run did it
5. The coffee did it
6. Her body doesn’t want any more children, OBVS
7. She needs a rest anyway
8. She should be grateful for her four healthy kids
9. She should take a hint
10. She should get a cat
11. Her poor husband needs a rest
Yep. Ok. Alright.
Anyway, that is that. I will be fine tomorrow and I will get through the well-intentioned comments from everyone I meet as best as I can. And I promise there shall be no more talk of babies and pregnancy tests and the ‘evacuation of retained products of conception’. OH MY how the NHS has misfired in that particular piece of helpful take-home literature!
And on the bright side, I can resume my enthusiastic efforts to sample much more New World sauvignon blanc, and I can toast the Queen on the Jubilee weekend with something stronger than tea. And I can take my geriatric-speed-jogging up a notch and actually overtake someone. And just maybe fit the Erdem black dress I bought on eBay which just now won’t quite fit down over my middle region. And I can go eat foie gras until I am SICK and spread my toast with stinking cheeses and I can throw away the folic acid tablets and replace them with parma ham! And go do some extreme sports or something. There is always a bright side.
Thank you. I am done – no need to speak of today again. Ahem.