Page 11 of Coming Home to Inishbeg Cove

Chapter 8

Sarah

The day after the wedding, Greg and I went to see Dr Kerridge, who had recently taken over from old Dr Fitzmaurice, to have the pregnancy confirmed. Much to my surprise, he estimated that I was about ten weeks along and congratulated us both with an enthusiastic handshake. When I mentioned my concerns about my age, he reassured me that every pregnancy came with its own risks, no matter what age the mother was, and I shouldn’t get too hung up on it.

‘You’re fit and in good health,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen plenty of women your age and even older who had uncomplicated pregnancies and perfectly healthy babies, and I’ve seen women half of your age with difficult pregnancies. If you take it easy, eat well and receive the right maternal care, there is every reason to be optimistic.’

Greg and I left his surgery feeling overjoyed, as if we were dancing on the colour-streaks of a rainbow the whole way home.

The next day Greg went into Ballymcconnell and arrived home with a book on pregnancy and a tiny white baby-gro with a yellow duck pattern running along the trim.

‘Sorry, I couldn’t help it,’ he added apologetically, as if he were afraid I would be cross with him.

I wrapped him in a hug. ‘How could I be cross with you? I love you and I love that you’re excited for our baby.’

He placed a kiss on my forehead. ‘I never thought I would get this lucky – thank you, Sarah.’

Greg was thrilled about the prospect of fatherhood. Ever since he had found out, his face had shone as he went about daily life but, even though Dr Kerridge had done his best to calm my fears, I still couldn’t shift my niggling worries about my age. I was deliberately staying away from the internet, I was too afraid of what I would find if I began googling.

‘I’m scared, Greg,’ I had said as we sat up in bed together one night.

‘But why? You heard what Dr Kerridge said – don’t get hung up on your age.’

‘I know, but it all just feels … well, too good to be true.’ I sighed. ‘What if we’ve used up our share of good luck? I thought meeting you was as good as it got for me, and I was happy with that. I’m terrified that something horrible is going to happen to snatch it all away from me again. If we were in a movie, this is where a plague of flesh-eating locusts would descend on the village.’

Greg laughed. ‘There are no weighing scales for luck, Sarah. It’s not like a pizza, where you share it out so that everyone gets a slice. Sometimes good things just happen.’ He shrugged. ‘Some folks get lucky in life and some folks get screwed over. We’ve been lucky.’

‘But even if we’re lucky and our baby is born healthy,’ I went on, ‘as older parents, will we have the energy to deal with a baby? You should see some of the bleary-eyed mammies that come into the post office after they’ve been up half the night with a teething baby or a sick toddler. Or what about having the stamina to run around and play football with them when they’re a bit older? I’ll be almost forty-two when the little one is born, which means I’ll be forty-seven by the time they start primary school! The other parents at the school gate will probably think I’m the child’s grandmother! Imagine, I’ll be fifty-five by the time they’re a teenager. They’ll run rings around me!’

‘Being in your forties today is different than it was in our parents’ time,’ Greg reassured. ‘People are healthier and live for longer. You need to stop focusing on our age and think of all the positive things we can give a baby, like love, stability, a comfortable home. Our baby will never want for anything, and there are a lot of parents half our age who can’t offer that.’

Whenever I was feeling overwhelmed, Greg was able to calm me down and quiet the niggling voices in my head. He would patiently listen to my worries and was always there with an endless stream of reassurances.

And so, over the last few days I slowly allowed myself to accept the fact that this was really happening – that a baby was in our future. During quieter times in the post office I had let myself imagine what it would be like to be a mother and hold my baby in my arms. How it would feel to gently pull delicate arms through the sleeves of little knitted cardigans. To slide impossibly small scratch mittens over a tiny curled fist. And I couldn’t think of a better place to raise a child than in our village. The fresh sea air, having the beach as your playground, the safety of knowing everyone – there was no better place to grow up.

My morning sickness seemed to have turned into ‘all-day sickness’ and from the moment I woke until I went to bed at night, I couldn’t keep anything down. But Dr Kerridge had told me it was a sign that the pregnancy was progressing well, which was reassuring.

We were counting down the days to our first hospital appointment, when we would see our baby on a scan. We still hadn’t told a soul; we had agreed to wait until after the twelve-week mark, when Dr Kerridge had told us the chances of miscarriage were markedly reduced. I was sure Mrs Manning had already guessed, though. She had remarked that I looked ‘peaky’ one day when she had come into the post office for a chat. I had tried to fob it off as tiredness after the wedding, but she had a knowing smile on her face. You couldn’t keep a secret from Mrs Manning. I hoped that the scan would help me to relax a little. If you make it that far, the nagging voice in my head chimed in.