‘And remind me of how far along your pregnancy is?’ It’s John who answers Dr Trevor’s gentle question in the strangely familiar confines of Dr Maher’s old office. The de Valera picture on the wall is gone, but it still has the same olive-green wallpaper and surprisingly comfortable wicker chairs. Sadhbh would love them, although Dr Maher definitely wasn’t being trendy when he installed them about twenty years ago.
‘Aisling, do you want to lie down here while I examine you? Nothing scary, I just want to feel your tummy.’
He walks over to the black leather bed in the corner and pulls out a ream of blue tissue paper to cover it. It’s still early in the morning. After waking John up and racing back to the bathroom to vomit, we waited another hour until it felt decent enough to ring Dr Trevor. He told us to meet him at his surgery. I wonder did he tell Mammy.
I slip my feet out of my runners and swing my legs up to lie down on the rustling blue paper, grateful to have John beside me. He stays in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck and then his eyes. It all feels so surreal.
‘Any pain when I push here?’ Dr Trevor’s hands are warmer on my skin than I anticipated.
‘No.’
‘But you have been having cramps?’
‘Yeah. Like period pain. A bit worse, maybe.’ Tears leak out of the corners of my eyes because I know this is probably not a good sign.
‘And how much blood would you estimate?’
‘Not loads, maybe like the first day of my period. A couple of tablespoons.’
‘And the colour? Red or more brown?’
‘Red. Bright red.’
‘Okay, Aisling, thank you. You can sit up now.’
Dr Trevor returns to his desk and starts tapping away at his computer. ‘I’m referring you to the early pregnancy unit at the General. They’ll do a scan so they can’ – he pauses – ‘so they can figure out what’s going on.’
He taps away for another few seconds, and I just have to fill the silence. ‘Do you think it’s a, a thing? A miscarriage?’
He stops typing and looks from me to John and back to me. ‘It’s very hard to know without a blood test and a scan. I’m going to draw some blood now and then again on Monday morning so we can compare your hormone levels. You’ll have the scan on Monday morning too, so we’ll have a much clearer picture then.’
‘Monday?’ John’s voice is surprisingly loud. ‘She has to wait until then? It’s only Saturday. That’s inhumane!’
Dr Trevor nods gravely. ‘I’m afraid so. They don’t open at weekends any more and all emergencies go in via A&E. I don’t want to put you through that unless absolutely necessary. It’s better to wait if you can. Now, Aisling, I’ll draw some blood if that’s okay.’
I make a fist like Dr Trevor asks. Usually if I see or hear the blood whooshing into the little catcher yoke I feel a bit funny, but this time I watch it with fascination, thinking of all the secrets it’s hiding. I look up at John and he’s staring at me. I give him a little half-smile and he gives one back. It is absolutely berserk how brand new this situation is. I have a split second of positive clarity and think, ‘Sure, everything will be grand, no matter what,’ but then in the next breath I think about the tiny feet in the tiny socks and my eyes spill over.
Dr Trevor places a large warm hand over one of mine. ‘Try not to worry too much.’
‘What should she do between now and Monday?’ John asks, still sounding incredulous about the wait.
‘Because you’re already experiencing some cramping and bleeding, I need you to be vigilant on observing more pain and bleeding and any signs of it intensifying.’ Dr Trevor busies himself labelling the vials of blood. ‘If anything becomes worrying or very painful do go straight to A&E.’
‘Have you told Mammy? Like, did you tell her I was coming in?’
‘No, no, of course not – God no. This is confidential. Completely.’
****
Back out in the car, we sit in silence for a minute before John reaches over and takes my hand. ‘Are you alright?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know.’
‘What’ll we do now? We can go back to my house? Fran and Ray should be gone by now. We’ll have the place to ourselves. I’ll mind you.’
I smile sadly and nod through my tears. ‘That sounds nice.’
****
There’s no need to be ‘vigilant’ for the pain because it comes with gusto from around lunchtime and continues in waves, along with what Google seems to think is ‘standard’ bleeding for a miscarriage at nine weeks. John takes away the stack of baby books and fills and refills hot-water bottles as I lie in the spare-room bed, one of the mattress-sized sanitary towels provided by Dr Trevor between my legs.
We watch episode after episode of the American version of The Office on John’s laptop. I laugh along with it at times, and then feel guilty for laughing. I avoid a phone call from Majella and text her to say I can’t talk and will ring her later, but I never do. I compose an email to Mandy and Aubrey saying I’m sick and think I’ll need to take a few days off next week. I scrunch into a foetal position when the pain is bad, and John gets panicky and talks about A&E, but I know myself that there’s no need for that. I just know that I have to exist with this pain and the blood clots I glance at in the toilet before scrunching my eyes closed.
We fall asleep before it gets dark on Saturday evening, and I wake up really early on Sunday morning. I can tell by the light behind the curtains. The giant pad between my legs reminds me that it wasn’t all a horrible dream.
I turn over and John’s face is illuminated by his phone. ‘Stop googling it, there’s nothing we can do to stop it happening,’ I whisper to him, and he gathers me up in his arms as I cry for the millionth time. When I eventually stop he asks me if I want to watch something. ‘Something cosy,’ I say, and we go for the octopus documentary on Netflix. It feels safe. Majella said it was lovely, but she was convinced the lad in it was horny for the octopus, so at least we can look out for that. I find myself enthralled from the start. Yes, maybe the man is a little bit horny for the octopus, but she’s his best friend. At the bit where it looks like she’s gone missing I cry so much that John asks if we should turn it off and I say no. There’s still a good bit left so there has to be some kind of positive news coming, I figure. The octopus makes a reappearance after a battle with a shark takes one of her legs, but she grows it back.
‘I’ve never rooted for anything more in my life,’ I say to John, but he just stoically nods.
As the film ends and the octopus dies after hatching her eggs, I cling to him, and as we watch the footage of the man swimming with his son and seeking out more octopus friends, I feel John’s chest jerk up and down. He furiously wipes away tears as I look up at him.
‘It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,’ I say gently. I scooch up the bed and take him in my arms. He clings around my waist and lies his head on my belly and cries and cries. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him cry, which makes me cry.
When his sobs have petered out, I run my fingers through his hair. ‘So, do you think he was horny for the octopus?’
It’s a relief to laugh.
****
Later, John gets up to heat up some soup and make toast, and Dr Trevor rings. I tell him about the pain and the bleeding, and his voice sounds serious as he tells me that it is likely I am miscarrying. Like I didn’t already know. Sunday night brings more of the same, and I worry about ruining Fran’s sheets. John tells me, ‘They’re only sheets,’ and skips the whole season of The Office where Pam is pregnant. We stay in bed when we hear the back door announcing Fran and Ray’s arrival home.
‘I don’t want to go downstairs,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t want to see anyone.’
‘Stay here. I’ll bring up some crisps. I won’t say anything until we know.’
‘I wish we had our own place. Just the two of us.’
‘Me too.’
****
On Monday morning, Dr Trevor takes more blood and gives me a referral letter for the hospital, where he says they’ll do an ultrasound. I wish he’d been more specific about the type of ultrasound because this one involves a wand going right up my vagina. They confirm that there’s no heartbeat and tell me my body is doing everything it should and advise that I continue the miscarriage without intervention. ‘Conservative management’ they call it. Neither of us cries during the whole hospital visit, but when Dr Trevor rings when we’re on the way back to Knocknamanagh and says the blood test results seem to confirm what the hospital has said, John pulls in to the side of the road and we cry together until the Micra windows have steamed up.
‘What’ll we do now?’ John asks as he starts the car. I’m at a loss, but I feel like I need to tell Mammy. Dr Trevor knows. It’s not fair that he has to hide it from her.
I tell John he can drop me off if he wants and he looks upset. ‘I don’t really want to leave you.’
‘Okay, good, I didn’t really want you to go.’
I love him so much in that moment.