Page 88 of Spiralling Skywards: Fading
2015
I was pregnant.
I hadn’t done a test yet, but I had been through this enough times that I knew the signs. And I knew. I was pregnant.
We had drunken, unprotected sex in the spa on the last night of our holiday in the South of France. We had been back just two weeks, but I knew. I just knew.
It was my own fault. I made Liam promise me earlier that day that if I got messy drunk and we ended up having sex he’d either use a condom or pull out. He obviously did neither. Ultimately though, it was my body, my responsibility. I was to blame.
I came back from that holiday in such a good place. For two whole weeks, I had felt like myself again. The fog I’d been living under was there, hovering just around the edges, but it was lighter. I could see, hear, and feel in colour again. I hadn’t felt like I was pretending when I said I was fine. While we were away, I really was fine.
I was fine.
And now I wasn’t.
I was pregnant.
I couldn’t go back to that, back to feeling the way that I did.
I couldn’t let that happen.
I couldn’t let this baby happen.
To be the best mother I could be for my four boys, I couldn’t have this baby.
I couldn’t tell Liam, either. He’d talk me round. He’d have me bare foot and pregnant until I hit menopause if he could, and that was not what I wanted.
Maybe in a few years I would feel different, but at that moment in my life, I couldn’t do this.
So, I took the test.
I made the calls.
I booked the appointment.
I arranged a baby sitter.
Then, on a sunny September morning, I took myself to a private clinic and did what I thought was the right thing for my family and myself.
