The wait

So back to the story.

If you happen to stumble across this blog because you google ‘accidental pregnancy, people in worse situations than me’, then you might have been disappointed by how I left the last segment. On finding out I was pregnant, within minutes, my partner T had texted me to tell me that he was fully supporting me (and thus sticking around) as well as to gush with joy. “I can’t stop smiling” one message read. I know that there are many women out there who, on finding out they are up the duff, have not received this support. Indeed, I know of women who haven’t been able to inform the expectant father on the basis that they don’t know which of their bedroom buddies the winning sperm belonged to. Some of these women might be cursing me for promising to tell a story that would comfort and reassure, and then instead seemingly recounting a smug tale of how welcoming my partner was to the unexpected baby news. Fear not, readers, for this is only the beginning.

T was supportive at first. In fact, he was incredibly supportive. To the point where my brain stopped spewing curse words out of my mouth and actually began to consider whether this baby could be good news after all. In the hours after telling him, the feeling of panic that had been sitting in my mouth like regurgitated bile was slowly swallowed down and replaced with an uneasy hopefulness. Yes, we had been a couple for all of five minutes. And yes, neither of us were in a situation where we were ready for children. And okay, I didn’t feel positively towards the baby at all. But maybe, just maybe, we could do this.

He did ask me whether I was sure about keeping the baby. I brushed him off. For me, there was no decision to be made regarding the pregnancy. Or at least, the decision had been made at conception by our partaking in naked acrobatics (not consciously, of course. Once again, fuck you morning after pill). He and I had had extensive conversations throughout our friendship about abortion. He knew that I was pro-choice blah blah blah but I had known since I started naked frolicking with members of the opposite sex that I would never want to have one blah blah blah and would only do so in the most adverse of situations like the pregnancy threatened my own life blah blah. And so, respectful as he is, he didn’t push the topic when I shut him down. In retrospect, and I say this only after the hours of therapy that we’ve sat through since, I wish I hadn’t stopped dead the conversation. And I wish he hadn’t accepted me doing so. We should have had the conversation not least because we should have both had the ability to put forth our thoughts and come to a decision together about baby, and our future, and whether baby was a part of our future. Indeed, had we, we probably could have saved hundreds of pounds on the subsequent therapy sessions.

Instead I moved us immediately to a conversation about having the baby. There was just one problem. Neither of us wanted a baby. He wanted me. Enough to see the baby as a route to that outcome. I wanted not to have an abortion. Enough to crush the thoughts in my mind that were telling me the exact opposite. For a week we muddled through conversations, muddled by distance and forced cheeriness, about moving in together, choosing names, getting our finances in order. We had been dating at this point for thirteen weeks. The honeymoon period, which had made us both drunk on hope and pheromones, was very much over. The hangover had begun.

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