Short Version: Mr Bea brings his sister up to date, and I remember Jester's would-have-been birthday.

Mr Bea told his sister over the weekend. The conversation was definitely due. Because of a complex and tedious array of social interactions, every other member of our immediate families - including both my sisters - is fully up to date with our story except for her, so as you can imagine that's a fair old information gap. The conversation went like this:

Mr Bea: So anyway, here's a piece of news - Bea's pregnant. Eighteen weeks.

SIL: Oh my goodness congratulations! Has everything gone smoothly so far?

Mr Bea: Uh. Well...

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It was Jester's due date a few weeks ago. I was asked how I feel about it, and I feel ok. In many ways, I think it helps to have The Foetus to focus on - a baby who is here, now, who I can still do something for, and with all the lovely pregnancy hormones to boot - but it's not just that. For every due date that passes, there has been a slight release, as if I have to bring each embryo to term in my mind, if not my body, and once that's done, my responsibility is over. I mean, clearly he's not here demanding feedings or nappy changes - my work must be finished.

I suppose it's the final point at which the loss becomes a reality. Sitting here, even now at 18.5 weeks, I can't quite get hold of the fact that The Foetus is in there. My entire experience of pregnancy is very abstract, especially for those pregnancies which were "biochemical". But not having a take-home baby - that I can't fail to comprehend.

So as each due date passes, something in my mind pulls the last piece of understanding into place. Oh, I get it - it's over. It really is time to move on.

That's what the report said, more or less. I felt it coming on as I was waiting to pay the bill - a great torrent of... no wait, that sounds silly. A huge vaccuum opening up, sucking all the... not quite right. It was an oppressive, though invisible force, pressing in on me from all sides and... no.

Words fail me. Except the ones which keep repeating themselves inside my head: perfectly normal boy. Perfectly normal boy.

I made it down in the lift, paused briefly to decide between a taxi and the tube. Relaxing my force of will for even a moment left me gulping for air. A crowd of school children streamed past on both sides as I deliberated. Perfectly normal boys. All perfectly normal boys. I took the MRT. Anonymous strangers rarely ask for explanations.

On the platform I was reaching for my book bag when a man stopped to stare at me. I half-looked at him, without meeting his eyes. Indian gentleman, turban, white collared shirt, thoughtful frown. After a pause he said softly, "You are very lucky."

"Really," I replied, looking steadily into his face and giving him a sad little half-smile.

"Yes," he answered emphatically, and tapped his forefinger between his eyes in a gesture I don't understand. "There is good luck coming to you soon - before the end of the year." I paused, baffled, and gave a stunned nod. Then I had to bite my lip and avert my eyes.

The train came. Two stations later the Indian man turned to catch my eyes again, and gave a barely perceptible nod. Then he alighted and was gone.

Gone, just like my perfectly normal boy.

Our perfectly normal boy.

--

(And in remembrance of our perfectly normal boys gone by...)

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

Lest we forget

The Last Post
The Rouse
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When I was young - about primary school age, I think - I was prone to the same unsociable habits as any other child my age, and I came in for the same amount of scolding from the adults around me. "Bea!" they would say. "Stop whining/annoying your playmate/picking your nose!" But my mother always took a different tack. She would take me aside and, looking stern but patient, pose the following question: "Is there any reason you're doing that?" And I would usually pause uncertainly, caught off-guard by being made to analyse the basis of my actions, sometimes causing my mother to prompt ("Is your nose itchy? Runny? Sore?"), but inevitably I would come up with some excuse, whereupon my mother would explain why the solution I'd come up with wasn't an acceptable one, suggest a list of suitable alternatives, and close with a warning about what type of punishment I could expect were I to repeat my behaviour now I knew better.

On Tuesday I phoned my mother about the fact I hadn't heard from her since I wrote to her about our loss. "I sent you an email on Saturday," I began.

"Yes," she admitted reluctantly.

Then I heard my mother's voice from my own lips, stern but patient, saying, "Is there any reason you haven't contacted us since?"

The plain truth is my family is bad at these things. But I learnt that lesson a long time ago so there's no need to rehash it all again. Really, my mother's only following in the footsteps of the woman who raised her. It's funny how life reminds us we're our mother's daughter, after all.

Little Sister emailed Mr Bea to check on me. She said my mother is distressed to the point of threatening to buy a plane ticket and come over, apologised for having read the password-protected blog uninvitedly, but assured us it's for the best as it's allowing her to give wise counsel on the appropriate things to say and do. To think, I didn't tell her because I'm the Big Sister. The Little Mother. How hard it is to reshape the mould.

**Addition**
Shortly after I published this post, a bunch of flowers arrived at the door from my family.

I couldn't stop shaking. It started as soon as I entered the day surgery area, and continued for nearly an hour and a half, beyond the point the anaesthetist took my hand to look for a vein, and remarked, "Boy, you really are frightened."

"I think I'm just cold," I answered honestly. I certainly didn't feel frightened. I felt, kind of... numb. They brought me an extra blanket but the shivering continued. Then he gave me fentanyl, and it stopped.

As he made his preparations, he babbled on about the ring structures of various opioids, the logistics involved in anaesthetising patients for open-heart surgery, and the importance of not insisting you were allergy-free to the first four people who asked you and then, after getting a dose of intravenous kefzol, suddenly remarking that actually you are allergic to something, come to think of it, and it might have been an antibiotic, anyway all you can remember is you nearly died - which a patient had done to him on the previous day. Lastly, he told me it would be ok because this had happened to him and his wife and now they had an eighteen-year-old son and a seventeen-year-old daughter. I was about to make some sardonic remark about how few embryo transfers it must have taken for number two, but the next thing I remember is waking up, and it was all over, and I wasn't shaking any more.

I bled a little in recovery. It was like a heavy period at first, but lightened within a few hours. They gave me pain killers, which I considered taking, but the pain was never worse than menstrual pain and today I feel almost fine. Towards the end of my recovery I sent Mr Bea out for chocolates and a card. Since that first beta - gosh was it only in March? - the staff have been very kind. And it's good, once in a while, to encourage goodness in others.

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Speaking of which, don't forget to encourage Mel as she Walks America in support of the March of Dimes.

You can stop now.

Beta is falling. I'm glad we held out for a definitive answer.

SOB thinks that, due to the size of the pregnancy and the falling hCG, there should be no problem with a natural miscarriage. He thinks tissue testing, in the light of previous test results (eg parental karyotyping), is unlikely to yield useful information, and we would be better off waiting and doing an endometrial biopsy "when everything settles down". And I had to admit the logic to his suggested approach. But I told him I was keen to pursue any and all avenues of investigation, despite the lack of compelling reasons to do so, and screw the cost/benefit analysis, and did he see any problem with that and he said no, so we are booked for a D&C tomorrow morning, with results in 2-3 weeks.

I still haven't heard from my family. I'm really grateful for all your comments.

That is all.

**Update**
Parent situation resolved. Explain later.

**Wed Update**
Went smoothly.

A few weeks ago, when my family started enquiring as to the status of our cycle, I set up a private blog to provide them with updates and pictures. I thought I would wait until we had answered the "ectopic" question - no need to cause unecessary panic, although I remain fully in favour of the necessary variety - and then let them in on the news as it happened. But even after that scan I hesitated. It's hard to carry this burden without the help of our families, but it's harder to feel they've let us down. In the past, I've often regretted giving people the chance.

Last week I rung both my parents and grandparents, hoping they'd raise the topic, looking for an opportunity to explain what's been going on, baldly seeking a few words of comfort. I find it difficult to broach the subject in conversation, and after being fobbed off the first time, they've decided to stop asking. Several phone calls later, my mission had failed. So on Saturday, I sent my parents an invitation to the private blog.

They've visited several times over the last few days.

I've heard nothing.

I don't know what to do about it except post this entry, in the hope that someone, somewhere, will read it and think, gosh, well, mental note, there is a fine line between pestering a couple for information and ignoring the situation completely, and I'm one step closer to figuring out how to walk it. So here it is:

I know it's hard. I know it's awkward. I know the rules seem to change on a daily basis and you're always afraid of causing offense and getting your head snapped off. But please - don't give up. As long as your heart's in the right place, you'll be forgiven. Don't stop calling. Don't stop asking if we want to talk about it. Don't stop making the point that you're here, and you want to help.

Just please, whatever you do, don't leave us alone.