Friends, this is part three of a three-part series I’ve been sharing over the last few weeks. If you haven’t already, you might like to read part one and part two first.
Content warning: this post touches on the idea of miscarriage. If that is a confronting topic for you, I’m so sorry — please skip this if you need to.
25 January 2025
I lie in our double swag in the oppressive heat of the early afternoon, annoyed at myself.
Matt and the boys are down by the river, racing each other along on boogie boards. A few people have stayed back at our campsite, reading books in the shade and making a dent in the afternoon’s cheese board.
I want to be part of it all, but I’m just so tired. I’ve slept and woken up twice now, and still can’t find the energy to get up.
My period cramps are out of control, and yet every time I visit the camping grounds’ long-drop toilets, I don’t see blood.
It’s starting to weird me out.
27 January
We listen to The Paper Kites on the three-hour drive home from our trip, passing honey soy chicken chips between us as the hills rush by.
My period still hasn’t come, but the cramps have been so intense that I know it’s on its way.
That’s good, at least, Matt says gently, encouraging me that getting a period at all is a sign that the medication is finally working.
I stare at the trees and try to squash the faintest sliver of hope that creeps in.
What if?—
I cut the thought off, putting my feet up on the dash to help quell the cramps.
Then it comes out all on its own, the thing I haven’t let myself ask aloud in months:
“What if I’m pregnant?”
//
We pull into a supermarket on our way home and Matt runs in, returning to the car soon after with the little blue cardboard box of tests.
He sighed when I asked him earlier whether I should take one; we’ve had this conversation too many times and it’s always for nothing, but he understands that the spark of hope eats away at me more than a negative result ever can.
//
We unpack from camping, pop on a load of washing, roll out the swag to dry, and then crash.
I think about the little box of tests waiting for me on the bed, but I’m not ready. I’m too tired to deal with the disappointment, I tell myself.
My sister makes me an elderflower cocktail and I put my feet up on the couch, digging into a plate of leftover camembert and crackers.
This is my way of preparing for the negative result; telling my body it isn’t pregnant, before my heart catches up.
//
The cocktail and camembert finished, I slip a test into my pocket and head to the toilet, ready to extinguish hope for another month.
I hold the stick between my legs, well-versed at the right angle to use so nothing drips on me, and glance down to make sure the tip turns pink.
My chest tightens.
Was that a line?
I look away quickly in shock, sure that I must have just seen the control line.
I make myself wait the full, excruciating three minutes. My heart is already pounding in my ears, clinging to that little black line that looked—almost—like a positive.
//
I look up from the test in shock.
I’ve spent months trying to imagine this moment, and it isn’t at all what I pictured.
There are no tears. No gushing smile.
Just disbelief. Fear.
Joy too, I think, though it doesn’t feel real yet.
//
Matt is in the living room with my family, oblivious to the life-changing news I’m holding.
I sneak out of the toilet with the test tucked behind my back and head straight outside.
My voice wavers as I call back to him:
“Hey Matt, could you please give me a hand with something?”
He jumps up obligingly and follows me outside. I’ve barely closed the front door when I blurt it out in a fervent whisper:
“I’m pregnant.”
“What?” he asks, searching my face.
I repeat myself, holding up the stick so he can see that little line that sprung up long before the three minutes were over.
He looks at the test, then walks to the caravan and picks up the box of tests, pouring over the instructions with such intensity. Neither of us want to be disappointed again.
//
Once inside, we sit on our bed and cry and dream and praise God. We do the maths and work out the due date, our minds reeling.
We’re having a baby.
31 January
Who would sign up for our meal train?
Who would I invite to a baby shower?
I don’t have answers for either, and that’s weighing on me.
Papa, I need friends. And community.
2 February
“Rain came, wind blew, my hope is firm in You. I’m safe, with You, I’m gonna make it through.”
I cry in church as we sing, wondering if my hope will stay firm if we lose this baby.
12 February
I thought I’d be worried about a miscarriage because of the grief of it, but outweighing that now is this single, guilty thought:
I can’t do this first trimester again.
24 February
The little ultrasound room feels familiar, but this time we aren’t here to count cysts, we’re here to see our baby.
My bladder is so full that I can barely answer the sonographer’s questions. He turns his screen away so we can’t see it as he sweeps the wand over my abdomen. Barely ten seconds go past before he puts the wand down, wipes the gel off me, and turns to face us:
“Alright, there’s a lot happening here. I can see you’re pretty uncomfortable, so why don’t you go to the bathroom now, and when you get back, we’ll have a chat.”
I sit up awkwardly and don’t meet Matt’s eye as I leave for the bathroom. My chest is clammering and my jaw feels tight.
A “chat”? We’re not here for a chat. We’re here to see our baby. And he’s barely had a chance to see anything.
I don’t want to face what this must mean, but I force myself to, drawing in a ragged breath and staring at the white-washed cubicle wall.
Oh God, we must have lost the baby. Help me.
It takes all my willpower to leave the bathroom and rejoin Matt and the sonographer. I know what I’m about to hear, and I don’t know if I’m strong enough to face it.
//
I’m silent as I lie back down on the table. I pull my shirt up obligingly and feel the cool smear of the gel glide over my stomach once again.
The sonographer turns his screen to face us now, and I brace myself to say goodbye to whatever our little baby-blob looks like.
“So this is baby one here,” he says casually, pointing out a little white jelly-bean shape on the screen.
I’m flawed. I steal a glance up at Matt and he squeezes my hand tighter. Our eyes exchange the same question: Did he really just say “baby ‘one’”?
It feels like minutes before the technician moves his wand over and confirms it with a chuckle:
“And this is baby two here.”
A laugh bursts out of me and the screen goes black as my belly shakes with the force of it. Matt laughs too, our relief palpable.
We listen to their heartbeats, both healthy, and ask him to double-check he hasn’t missed a baby. I’m relieved to hear it’s just the two there.
I giggle through the rest of our appointment, like my body can’t keep up with my flooded mind.
We pay at the counter and walk out into the sunshine, squinting as we look at each other before heading to the car. I take a quick selfie of us before we get in to show our babies one day.
We don’t stop laughing all the way home.
Friends, thank you for reading this and sharing in our joy. If any part of this series has been confronting for you to read, I’m deeply sorry. I’m always here to chat or hear your thoughts!
Soon I’ll be sharing more of this pregnancy journey in ‘How to Plan a Gender Reveal’. It would mean a lot to me if you subscribe below so you can read it and other bits and pieces I’ll write from time to time!
Thanks for following along. I’m grateful to have you here, and I can’t wait to be writing more as I transition in the next few weeks out of full-time work and into motherhood. x
p.s. If you’re wanting to connect further and get random, unpolished snippets of life and all its in-betweens (and updates on the babies, once they’re here!), you can find me on Instagram as @maddygracehope, or click the button below!
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