My name is called just at that moment, and I am consumed with nerves as we walk through into the little consultation room. I am on autopilot as I lie down on the bed, barely hearing the technician as she explains the procedure and warns me about cold gel. I barely even feel it, my brain short-circuiting to a different time, a different place – years ago, in a health centre in Thailand, David at my side. Both of us fizzing with excitement as we saw two tiny heartbeats flickering on the screen. The babies I loved instantly, and never even got to meet.
I close my eyes, squeezing away tears, overwhelmed with it all. I need to separate the past from the present. I need to concentrate on the here and now, not lose myself in the grief I know I never really processed, the grief that has become tangledup with the loss of my mum, of Sandy, of Simon. Too much loss, and it feels so heavy. Too heavy for anything new to survive. Like a thick layer of earth, too dense to let the light through, too suffocating to allow new roots to grow towards the sunlight.
‘Suzie,’ Guy says gently, his hand squeezing mine. ‘Look.’
I open my eyes, and the first thing I see is his face. He leans over me, wipes away my tears, and smiles. ‘Say hi to your baby.’
I bite my lip, realise that everything the technician has said has gone over my head. I disappeared into a black hole, too scared to even engage. I nod, feeling shaky and disconnected as I turn my head to the screen.
It’s there, that magical little blob. It’s jiggling around and pulsating with life, with energy, with potential. The lady points out its head, its spine, its little waving limbs. Its bright, joyous heartbeat. Love and relief surge through me in equal measures, and I turn to look at Guy. He is staring at the screen in awe, the flickering light reflected in his eyes.
‘Guy,’ I whisper, ‘it’s got a head…’
‘Yeah. It’s a really nice head too. It’s perfect.’
He sounds swept away, gazing from the image to me with complete amazement. I know this is something that millions of women do every single day – and have done since the dawn of humanity – but it’s still a miracle. Still a thing of utter wonder.
‘Is everything okay?’ I ask. ‘And is there only one?’
The ultrasound lady assures me that everything looks great, that there is only one, that she can try and determine the gender for me if that’s what we want. I look at Guy, wondering what he would choose, then reminding myself that this is not his miracle. He is simply sharing the moment, and he is doing enough. I don’t expect him to help me make decisions as well.
‘No, thank you,’ I tell her. ‘As long as it’s healthy, I don’t care. Can we get a photo?’
We can, it turns out, and we emerge from our appointment clutching a little strip of printout images. They look like weird abstract art, but they represent so much more. They represent life, and I am so happy, so relieved, I can barely function. I’m staring at the paper, letting Guy steer me along the corridor, enraptured by the collection of blurry circles.
‘Toilet,’ he says, drawing us to a stop outside a door marked Ladies. I look up and immediately feel the need to go. I dash in, bursting, laughing as I do my business, not caring how loud I am. It is the best wee I have ever had in my entire life.
‘Congratulations,’ Guy says, when I finally emerge.
‘Thank you. For everything. I was planning on coming here by myself, and I realise now that would have been a mistake. I was so scared, Guy. I hadn’t let myself acknowledge it, but I was so scared she was going to tell me something was wrong. I couldn’t enjoy any of this until I knew it was okay. And now… Gosh. Well. Now, I’m scared for all kinds of other reasons. Now I have to tell people, and decide what to do next, and figure out how to be a mother when I’m not exactly renowned for being the most sensible and steady of people.’
It seems my brain has enjoyed its allotted amount of happiness, and has now decided that it’s time to go into overdrive again. What if I can’t do this? What if I’m a terrible mother? What if, what if, what if…
Guy sweeps me up into his arms and gives me the world’s best hug. Right there, outside the loo, in a hospital corridor – world’s best hug. They should put up a plaque to commemorate it.
‘Stop worrying,’ he says, dropping a kiss on my head before he lets me go. ‘Stop overthinking. Let’s go somewhere for a bit, let you settle. Get used to the idea before you go back to the village. Your dad is going to be so excited…’
‘Oh, God, I know. I think we should go to the pub. The one on the coast that feels like it’s about to float out to sea.’
We head off, and I give him directions to the place I had in mind. It’s perched on top of a cliffside, with views so vast you feel like you’re at the edge of the world. We find a spot on the terrace, and he goes off to get the drinks.
‘A dizzy water for you,’ he says, placing it down on the table. I smile, remembering the first day we met. How can it only be weeks ago?
I have my scan pictures stretched out on the table and only tear my eyes away from them to look out at the water. The sun is shimmering on the waves, and my skin is warm beneath its touch. The air is rich with the tang of salt and the cries of the gulls wheeling overhead. It is as perfect a moment as I can ever recall. I log it in my mind, vowing to remember this scene, this sense of contentment. I can use it to calm myself when the inevitable jitters kick in.
‘It’s a big commitment,’ I say, after sipping my water. ‘Huge.’
‘It is. How do you feel about that?’
‘Right now, I feel fine. Better than fine. But I don’t have a good track record at staying still, at facing up to problems instead of running away from them. I just hope… Well, I hope I can figure it out. I hope I can find a way to just stay, and be a mum, to enjoy my life and be happy. Be normal.’
He raises an eyebrow at me, and says: ‘Normal? You? They are not two words that go together for me.’
‘I know. Me neither. But I keep remembering something my mum used to say to me. She used to say I didn’t have to be normal – I just had to be me.’
‘She sounds like a wise woman.’
I glance at the pictures on the table. I have no firm beliefs about what happens after we die. I have lived all over the world and experienced many different cultures. Everything fromatheism through to Buddhist reincarnation holds some appeal. Whatever the truth of it all, whatever the answers to the big questions, I hope that somehow my mum can see me now. That she is looking down on this scene, seeing those scan photos, and that she is proud and pleased.
