In commenting on another post about their month of remembrance and sadness, I realised December had arrived, my own month of memories. I realised that it was at this time that I found I was pregnant for the first time. I was in Manila on a business trip, and calculated that I was late. I had been as regular as clockwork. In fact, by the end of the day my period was due, I suspected something was up. I stopped over in Singapore for the weekend with family, and put it to the back of my mind. When I finally got home, I plucked up courage to go buy my first ever pregnancy test.
By that stage we had been trying for almost two years. I travelled a lot for work so being in the right place at the right time wasn’t really working for us. I hadn’t really been stressing about it, though I was feeling a little sad as I suspected it wasn’t going to happen.
I remember seeing the line come up. I walked downstairs and showed my husband. I remember sitting down, in shock, not knowing what to think. I remember my husband sending me flowers the next day at work, and a few days later being particularly innovative about managing the “why I wasn’t drinking” stories at some functions I attended. But it had no sooner sunk in that I was pregnant than I started bleeding. My wonderful GP acknowledged I’d probably had a miscarriage, but insisted on testing my hCG levels to ensure it was exactly that – a miscarriage. Of course, it wasn’t. I do wish all GPs exercised her caution – there would be fewer deaths from ectopic pregnancy, fewer emergency surgeries and medical treatment, fewer women traumatised by coming face to face with their own mortality.
I look back today, and realise it has been ten years since that first BFP. It seems like yesterday; it seems like a lifetime ago.