We have been dealing with this miscarriage inappropriately.
While we were waiting for the scan to confirm whether I had an ectopic or not I stated calmly: ‘Last time round I made the mistake of only asking to get pregnant. This time, I remembered to ask for a genetically normal embryo, but stupidly forgot to mention in the uterus.’
Once we’d discovered it wasn’t ectopic: ‘Ah, see what I did there? I forgot to ask for viable. I need to make a list.’
While we were walking home from the hospital the first time round, after blood tests and a thorough wanding (during which the technician left the room to find the consultant and H ended up holding the ultrasound wand in place inside me until she came back (um, yeah, that was so very very not erotic) I told H he’d need to give the RM clinic blood and semen samples. He flailed his arms wildly and staggered across the pavement clutching his brow, wailing ‘It’s so intrusive! It’s so invasive! I don’t how I could possibly cope! It’s just too much to endure!’ and I leant against the wall and nearly peed myself laughing.
‘We didn’t have time to think of a cute nick-name for this one,’ I said. ‘Flash-in-the-pan,’ said H.
After it was all over, and H and I were having a sorrowful embrace, I tenderly said: ‘The thing about Pikaia was, we were given the time to fall in love with her, or, at least, with the idea of her. [Pause] Of course, this one was a pain in the arse from the moment of conception.’
As I lay on the hospital bed, H took my hand and said ‘Life really is a sexually transmitted, fatal disease, isn’t it?’
Shortly after that, the sweet doctor came in to tell us that my Beta levels had dropped below 5, and I wasn’t in the least bit pregnant any more. I distinctly heard H mutter, ‘Well, that was a bloody waste of time.’ I cracked up.