I’m going to put some jelly on your tummy and it’s going to feel quite cold. Okay?”
I want to tell the sonographer I’ve done this before, but I don’t feel inclined to say anything. I’m frozen with fear. My tummy is exposed. With me lying down, it looks pretty flat. Empty.
“Okay,” I say, only it comes out more like a squeak.
“Right, then I’m going to move this around your stomach and let’s see what happens.”
I close my eyes as she rolls the probe across the cold jelly, then slowly peel my eyelids back, staring sidelong at the screen watching without any comprehension of what I’m seeing.
“Well,” she says, all merry and singsong. “There you go, Mummy. Clear as anything.”
“What’s clear? I can’t see anything.”
She points at a blurry gray blob as it shifts shape, looking completely meaningless, and I feel the strangest sensation as she sweeps her hand across my stomach.
“There’s baby,” she says, and I lurch.
“Are you sure?”
She laughs. “Positive. Look! See its little heartbeat!” She pushes quite hard into my stomach, making deep circles and I feel a little bit sick, but I’m trying to see a heartbeat. Then she travels over my tummy, making like a massive whoosh as though she’s shifting my insides, “And here’s the head. Look, Mummy!” She’s staring at the activity on the screen, lapping it up as if it’s a revelation to her, too.
I swallow the lump of anxiety that’s gathered in my throat. “Listen,” I say, quietly. “I know it’s all very lovely but would you mind not calling me Mummy. Not yet.”
“Oh,” she says, sounding a bit taken aback. “Oh! I’m sorry. Most women get excited when I say that.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say. “But most women probably aren’t forty-three, nearly forty-four, thinking they’re in early menopause.”
She looks across at me. “Oh dear,” she says. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea that’s what . . .” She’s prattling, pedaling anxiously. “I’m very sorry. Someone should have told me.”
I shake my head. “It’s okay,” I say. “It will be okay. It’s a bit of a shock, that’s all.”
“I understand.” Her voice mellows, sounding less effusive, probably more like her own voice.
Silence. Just the sound of whooshing coming from the speakers on the screen.
“Would you like to know how many weeks?” she ventures.
Please don’t tell me. Just say it’s not true.
“No,” I say, then I put up my hand. “And I don’t want to know the sex, either.”
“That’s fine, it’s too early for that.” She carries on in an uncomfortable silence. She stops and then starts again, then stops and turns toward me. “Listen. This is not my business but I hope you don’t mind my asking. . . . Do you want this baby?”
I feel it rising, that sense of fear, that sense of not knowing what’s happening to my body. One minute I’m dying, the next I’m creating life. I’m aware of the responsibility. A new life. One I wasn’t expecting. It’s so confusing. Of course I want it. But under these circumstances?
“I don’t know,” I say.
She takes my hand. “Well, that’s perfectly fine. Not everyone is sure. And it’s been a shock for you. Think carefully. You may never be totally sure, but be honest with yourself. And your partner. You’ve still got time if you want to do something about it.”
“If Mother Nature doesn’t get there first.”
Everything crashes down on me. Every shock, every high, every low of the past few months. It’s all too much. I burst into tears in front of this stranger.
To my surprise, she takes me in her arms and I sob on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “This has all been so overwhelming. It’s been an emotional few months.”
She holds me until my sobbing subsides, then looks at me, taking my hands in hers, her eyes brimming with sympathy. “It’s okay,” she says. “You mustn’t feel guilty about not wanting it. It’s your body. Your right.”
“No,” I say. “Maybe I do want it.” I’m shaking her hands with emotion. “But maybe not. I mean, I’ve always wanted a baby, but this is so not what I was expecting. Not now. Anyway, I daren’t allow myself to believe that I’ll be the one to make the decision.” I swallow hard. I start to sob again. “I normally lose them before twelve weeks.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says. “But let me reassure you on that one. There’s a fetal heartbeat. That’s a good sign. But I completely understand where you’re coming from.” She gives me a hug and looks me in the eye.
I nod. “I’m good now. Thank you.”
She grabs some paper towel and wipes the jelly off my stomach, then from the front of her white coat where I’ve rubbed against her. “Let me get you some water.” She pops outside and the door swings softly shut behind her.
I blow my nose, glad that this woman has been so understanding. I guess she sees people like me all the time. She walks back in and hands me a plastic cup of ice cold water.
“I might have had a tiny show, last night,” I say, knowing I should tell her.
She eyes me with that same concern. “How tiny?”
“A drop. Literally just a drop. But fresh blood.”
“Well. it could have been the placenta shifting. If that happens again, you should come in straightaway.”
“I had just had sex.”
“Hmmm, well,” she says. “The biggest indication is the heartbeat. Just go easy.”
“You mean no more whips?”
She all but recoils.
“I’m kidding,” I say.
Reality is, I might never have sex again. Not if Harry knows I’m pregnant. I’ll be waving him good-bye, that’s for sure. He won’t want a baby, least of all someone else’s. Or will he? God, I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now. I need time to collect my thoughts.
The sonographer is standing at the sink scrubbing her hands. “Well, I hope this works out whichever way you want it.” She gives me the sweetest smile. “And maybe I’ll see you again. Can you find your way out?”
“Yes,” I say. I unhook my cardigan and my coat from the back of the door and throw them over my arm.
As I wander through the reception out into the street, I think on that encounter.
I’m glad I asked her to stop calling me Mummy. Before, I would have stayed silent, allowing her to trill on merrily, her hand rolling across my exposed stomach making me feel vulnerable, getting silently pent-up. I would have festered all the way home and we wouldn’t have had the important conversation we ended up having.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from these last few months, the more I speak up, the more I make myself heard, the better people seem to respond. Good people. The rest of them—the ones who get defensive and mean and bitter—those people don’t matter.
But what does matter, what matters overwhelmingly, is
I.
Am.
Pregnant.