Page 62 of So Thrilled For You

Implantation bleeding or miscarriage?

Signs of chemical pregnancy

Why won’t the world let me have a fucking baby fuck fuck fuck this fuck my fucking life

The last search term, admittedly, didn’t yield the most helpful of results, though I did find a lot of ‘emotional support’ articles. But I don’t need emotional support because this isn’t a miscarriage. It isn’t. I refuse it to be one. Plus, there’s only a 21.3 per cent chance it is one. If I was given a 79.7 per cent chance of surviving cancer or something, I’d be delighted. Not worried in the slightest. OK, maybe I’d be slightly concerned and want the dodgy mole to be removed or whatever, but I wouldn’t think I would die. So, this baby won’t die. It’s fine. It’s just nestling in and dislodging some bleedy cells in the process. That scientific description hasn’t come up in my frantic toilet research, but I’m sure that’s what’s happening.

I should probably call the doctor though, just to check. Google tells me I need to go and get a scan to see if there’s a heartbeat, and if there is a heartbeat, that means there’s a 90 per cent chance of the pregnancy being viable. That would be amazing, wouldn’t it? Usually, you have to wait twelve weeks before the first scan. I’ve already booked a ‘reassurance scan’ for seven weeks through Seth’s BUPA, but, with this happening, I can be reassured even quicker. By the end of today, even. Wow, I’m going to hear my baby’s heartbeat today. That’s so magical. How lucky is that? It’s actuallygoodthis bleeding is happening. Not ideal timing, obviously, but it’sclearlya test from the universe. I need to continue making this the best baby shower ever, to show the world I’m at peace with my endless fucking totally unjustified and inexplicable fucking infertility fucking universe, and then I’ll be rewarded by hearing my baby’s heartbeat.

That’s science. I’m certain of it. I’m calm. I’m serene. I’m at peace with the world and everyone in it.

I want to stay in the bathroom and repeat my affirmations in the mirror, but some idiot keeps fucking knocking. I stuff my knickers with quilted toilet paper and look at myself in the mirror. My hair’s wilting quite spectacularly in this heat and I’m glad I’ve got some good photos in.

‘You’re not having a miscarriage,’ I tell myself and my wilting hair. ‘You are pregnant. This is just the universe testing you, but you have never had a test you didn’t get an A in.’

There’s more knocking. ‘Sorry but I really am desperate,’ some fucking impatient cunt bitch calls through the door.

‘It’s OK. Just coming.’

Honestly, I TOLD Nicki’s mum we should let people use the upstairs bathroom, but did she listen? No. Too worried itwasn’t clean enough, but 25 women sipping mocktails and only one toilet is just a disaster waiting to happen.

I breeze out, apologising to the knocking woman – that girl from Nicki’s job with the freckles and strange haircut – and return to making the present opening run smoothly. I feel blood drip into the toilet roll, but it’s alright, it’s quilted, it will hold until I’ve logged the gifts. I retrieve the printed-out spreadsheet I folded into my handbag alongside my special fluffy pen I bought especially for today. Nicki won’t be able to keep tabs on who gave her what, not with baby brain, so I’m jotting it all down for her. Part of my gift is a big pile of thank-you cards with envelopes already addressed and stamped, to cut down Nicki’s post-baby-shower admin. I read this idea online. Total genius. Honestly, how did anyonecopebefore Pinterest?

I take in Nicki’s aura as we all settle around her and she’s truly glowing. Her body is swollen with baby and blessing – her face almost distorted with the bloat of everything coming her way. I wonder if my own face will swell when this not-miscarriage turns into my most longed-for baby? I almost want to reach over and touch her, to get her essence on me to give me luck. She’s unwrapping some home-knitted booties, squealing and exclaiming she can’t believe how tiny they are. She holds them up to the bulge of her stomach and it’s so perfect it hurts my teeth when I smile. I want this. I want this for myself so badly. It can’t go wrong and it won’t go wrong, even as I feel the loo roll dampen in my knickers.

I start asking the universe for signs as to when it wants me to leave. After the presents? If I wait til then will I pass this test? Then I remember the gender reveal. I’ve still got at least another hour. I can’t duck out before then, I’m the only onewho knows how to coordinate the surprise. A cool panic settles on my skin but this spreadsheet isn’t going to fill itself, so I concentrate on inputting Nicki’s presents with my best handwriting.

Present number two.Home-knitted booties from Nicki’s mum’s friend, Jill. I must get her address before she leaves. A lovely sentiment, but rather neglects the obvious which is we’re living through the worst heatwave on record and this baby is likely going to be naked until September if the long-term weather reports are anything to go by. Still, I’m sure Nicki will keep them for sentimental value. She’ll need to get a photo of the baby in them to send onto Jill as a thank you. I put a tick in the relevant column of the spreadsheet for presents that require a photo of the baby wearing an item. The giver gets pissed off otherwise.

‘I can’t believe their tiny feet will fit into these tiny things,’ Nicki says, holding them at arm’s length. She’s taking longer to open this present than I thought she would. I budgeted one minute per present, and this has already strayed into two. If she takes this long with each, it’s really going to throw off Matt’s arrival. Usually, he could just wait outside in the air-conned car, but he’s arriving in a taxi now because of the other universe test I’ve been set.

Thankfully she moves onto the next gift-wrapped box and dives inside the baby duck wrapping paper. My hope is, as the novelty of the present unwrapping wears off, she’ll go faster and we can make up time. Nicki must think of her guests too. It’s rude to make people watch you receive presents for too long. You need to balance the time of thank yous and exclamations so each gift-giver feels appreciated so youdon’t need to rush the end, leaving the last gift-givers feeling under-appreciated. I wonder how many seconds precisely . . .

I’m miscarrying, aren’t I?No, shh. There must be a golden ratio of maximising appreciation demonstrated by a gift by time saved opening it and—

‘Oh, these little dungarees! I love them! Thank you. They’re so cute.’

Who sent these? Oh, Jeanie, her school friend with the toddler. She’s chatting Nicki through her choices. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I’ve gone a size up or two,’ she explains, ‘as I thought you’d be getting loads of newborn stuff and bigger sizes might be more useful.’

‘That’s genius!’ Nicki squeaks, holding up a onesie. She’s now taken one minute twenty seconds with this gift. ‘Isn’t that genius, everybody?’

They nod and coo and I pretend to nod and coo, but I’m actually really frustrated at Jeanie’s huge mistake. She’s right – giving baby clothes in larger sizesisvery helpful to expecting parents. In fact, if she read the same article that I did online, it’ssix to nine monthsandnine to twelve monthsthat are the most useful. That’s when the presents dry up, and, also when the baby starts weaning so you need more outfit changes from all the mess. However, Jeanie has fallen at the final hurdle and not accounted for the change in seasons. These dungarees and sleep suit are both summery and lightweight. They’ll be useless, sadly, in December, when the baby fits them. Poor Nicki. Two weather inappropriate choices in a row. What a waste. People always talk about what a drain babies are on natural resources, but then they go and buy a pair of yellow dungaree shorts in July in sizesix to nine months!What’s wrong witheveryone? Why are they all so fucking stupid? I almost writefucking stupidin the spreadsheet with my fluffy pen but I stop myself and realise I might, in fact, not be coping very well with this definitely-not-a-miscarriage.

Next present is a Sophie the Giraffe. Standard. Of course, there’s no way they would’ve bought one if they’d watched the videos I have, of mums cutting into them with scissors and finding all the black mould inside. I make a note in the column marked ‘Need to warn Nicki about this present’, just so she’s aware of the mould risk. It should be fine if she dab-washes it with a damp cloth, rather than immersing it in water. However, my writing’s coming out all wobbly on the paper, the letters slipping out of their allocated boxes. Now I come to think about it, I’m not breathing very . . . efficiently. It’s so hot in here, isn’t it? I feel more blood leave my body. It feels like a period, only it can’t be a period because I’ve had a positive pregnancy test. If this blood becomes a period it will be a miscarriage after a ‘chemical pregnancy’ which is essentially just a Google term for people who are so desperate to know if they’re pregnant they take tests too early and get a positive result which becomes a miscarriage that most women wouldn’t even notice because their cycle isn’t regular,orthey’re so smug they don’t take a test right away because their fertility hasn’t been the most painful agonising part of their entire lives . . . and I should really ground myself in this room, shouldn’t I? I’m spiralling.

I look around at all the women straining in Nicki’s direction. Lauren’s chatting quietly to someone on her left, her baby monitor in her lap. She laughs and finally seems to be having a good time. Steffi, however, is curled up on a chair in the corner, facelost in her phone screen, scowling. Anger gnaws my stomach. Oh, lucky Steffi, who never wants kids. Her biggest worry in life is people judging her for that, when I wish she’d realise being child-free isn’t this glorious feminist whateverthefuckchoicefor every woman. Some of us have it forced upon us. I stare back at Nicki’s stomach, at how it strains through the fabric of her dungarees. The only time I’ve come close to my stomach looking that bulbous and fertile was on the day of my egg retrieval. Day after day, Seth had injected me with hormones that made me even more manic than usual. My skin got so bruised that Seth ran out of sites to puncture that weren’t already marbled with purple. And, not long after, as my follicles bloated me like proving dough, it got even harder to pierce through my skin with our delusional hope.

‘I almost look pregnant,’ I’d said, taking multiple selfies in my hospital gown just before they put me under. I’d documented every inch of my IVF journey to merge into a multimedia set-piece to upload when I’m finally pregnant. It’s part of my manifestation. I’ve even edited all the footage up until now.

Seth had stood behind me in the private hospital room, and gently lifted my gown to show off my bloated abdomen. He kissed the top of my head.

‘And soon you will be pregnant,’ he’d said. ‘This is going to work, Charlotte. It is.’

But he must not haveactuallybelieved it because the first round of IVF didn’t work, and Seth’s lack of genuine manifestation was something we argued about when we didn’t yield anything. Like nothing yields in my inexplicably barren body.

That’s my official diagnosis, by the way.

Unexplained infertility.

---