“Never miss a good chance to shut up.” -Will Rogers

The Genetic Counsellors, who I only saw 6 months earlier, are sitting across from me. I’m at my first Genetic Counselling appointment, with the same doctors who gave me the detailed autopsy findings last time. What a horrendous meeting that was. This time, they gaze at me with eyes of delight. “Congratulations! Are you feeling excited?” Ah… no. They assure me that my response was to be expected. Ok, I’m normal. The professionals say so. “So… where is your husband?” Ah, not invited. I now feel a little less ‘normal’ but I plea my case for his absence. At the conclusion of my defence, they are convinced. Why didn’t I study law? I could be rich, I say! Rich! They give me the low down on how I will be looked after, the gist of their ‘role’ and that I was not to worry myself too much, as ‘statistically’ this pregnancy should have no issues. I can tell you where you can put your statics! Now, now… be nice.

I quiz them regarding my evidently popped belly. It’s huge! Someone has already asked me if I was pregnant, which I persuasively denied. While another someone cornered me until I confessed (never, ever ask… It’s the rules!) In light of this, I’ve resorted to wearing hessian sacks and moo-moos (well, just loose fitting tops really) as a disguise. The docs explain this phenomenon called ‘uterine muscle memory’. You get bigger quicker because your body already knows that it needs to ‘make room’ or something like that. Hmm… Interesting. It’s just not good for my efforts in keeping this all hush-hush though and I know there are already lots of suspicious people – the polite kind – the ones that keep their mouths shut.

After this meeting, I’m sent upstairs to book my first appointment with the Feto-Maternal Unit for my nuchal translucency scan (a.k.a. Facebook ultrasound). I’m greeted with a huge smile from the receptionist, “Oh, I remember you! Nice to see you back”. I’m told to have a blood test at the hospital three days prior to my appointment. She assures me that pathology will still be open at the hospital, despite the fact that my blood will need to be taken on New Years Eve.

Ok, all I need to do now is get through Christmas! No wine, no hot tub, no salads, cold meats or seafood. No vomiting on the dining table. No sitting with belly poking out. No bringing attention to my 5kg weight gain (did I tell you I can eat… no, I mean EAT-hungry-all-the-time-there’s-a-famine-coming-EAT, despite my nausea and vomiting… gross, hey!)

It’s Christmas Day. A friend announces her pregnancy on Facebook with a cute poem. We’re due 1 day apart. I’m imagining her celebrating this wonderful news with her family on this momentous day. How she must have been busting to shout the news from the roof tops. Christmas must seem extra special and I’m genuinely delighted in the baby news. I look at my family in all their wonderful Christmas craziness chaos. How I love them. How I’d like to share this with them…but I just can’t do it. To me, this news is not yet joyful or special. I want to write my news on a note and toss it down a well. A deep one… where no one will find it (Wow, that’s a bit ‘dark’, don’t you think?… snap out of it crazy lady!) But Christmas day is not for wells or the thoughts of the fragility of life. It’s not about dwelling on what was or what may be. So with my moo-moo and bread roll, here’s to my favourite season of celebration, without any thoughts of babies… well, besides the Jesus kind, that is. Merry Christmas.

“Some women are lost in the fire. Some women are built from it.”