immediately. I knew how fortunate we were. I was thirty-five and Josh forty-one. Not old, but not exactly spring chickens. To say I was elated was an understatement. I was off the planet, over the moon. With the boys, I hadn’t told anyone until the traditional twelve weeks, but with this pregnancy, I couldn’t contain my joy. I started telling people as soon as we saw a heartbeat at nine weeks. By this stage my catering company, which had been reborn from my newly renovated kitchen, was going gangbusters. The catering orders were endless. I was worked off my feet, and had an average of three to five staff in the kitchen most days, to help with prep and events. With work and two energetic little boys, life was pretty hectic. (I’m exhausted just writing that!)
I’d ridden out the bad years and everything was finally coming together. I had a beautiful little family and another baby would be the icing on the cake. When I was pregnant with the boys, I’d never had any desire to find out if I was having a boy or a girl. But with this baby, I decided I’d love to know – just for something different. I had a new obstetrician, as the doctor who delivered the boys had retired. I felt optimistic, but also aware that late in my pregnancy with Ted, my placenta had started to fail in the final weeks and he had stopped growing. So I didn’t have rose-coloured glasses, nor the naivety I had blissfully enjoyed during my first pregnancy. I knew things could go wrong.
But perhaps it was our turn for a lucky break, I thought. Josh had been through a painful divorce and had tragically lost his father in a house fire a few months before we met. It was almost as though I imagined that each individual on earth is given a quota for pain and suffering – and, fingers crossed, we had already used up a good chunk of ours. Logically, I knew that life doesn’t work like that and we didn’t deserve any more or less than anyone else, of course. There is no way to safeguard yourself against random misfortune and tragedy. Some people cruise through life encountering few obstacles and very little heartache, others seem to face many harrowing events. It’s indiscriminate.
Towards the end of my pregnancy with Ted, I felt his movements slowing and told my obstetrician I was worried. After mentioning it again at my thirty-seven-week appointment, I was sent for a scan.
Ted had indeed stopped growing at least a week before the scan. His size and the condition of the placenta were indicative of intrauterine growth restriction (IUGR), and I was booked into hospital to be induced the next day. I am forever grateful that I listened to my gut and insisted that things weren’t right. Had Ted been allowed to go to term, it is highly likely he would have been stillborn. I’m pleased to report that Ted has suffered no ongoing effects: he is one of the most energetic, crazy, funny kids around.
When I fell pregnant again, I was well aware there were risks involved. With my history of IUGR, I was considered a high-risk pregnancy. But none of this could dampen my elation. At about the ten-week mark, I completed an enormous catering job, a sit-down lunch for 150 guests. By the end of the event, I felt like I had completely overdone it. I was heading to Sydney the next day for a rare child-free holiday; Josh was to join me a few days after that. On the flight, I felt lethargic and out of sorts. I just couldn’t get comfortable, so I slouched in my seat, fell asleep and woke just before landing, feeling groggy and disoriented. I had booked lunch with girlfriends that day and dinner at my cousin’s house the following night and was doubting how I’d make it through either.
Sydney is a glorious destination: as the plane comes in to land you are treated to a magnificent bird’s-eye view of the harbour. Sydney’s spring weather compared to Adelaide’s is practically tropical, so even though I was feeling rotten, it was hard not to get excited about soaking it all in with Josh once he arrived. We planned to eat ourselves silly in Sydney restaurants, sleep in and totally unwind. Ignoring my fatigue, I was optimistic that after a quiet lunch with friends and an early night, I would feel like a million dollars. I told myself I was pregnant, exhausted and nothing more.
I woke up the next day still feeling terrible and again put my fatigue down to early pregnancy and working too much. I thought perhaps because I was finally on holiday, my body was taking a rare opportunity to rest and recover.
A day later, I was feeling even worse. I called the midwife at my obstetrician’s rooms. By now I was really worried that the pain I was in was not normal. A searing, persistent burning was increasing on my left side, both front and back. I’d never felt anything like it before. She said it was likely a sore back from working too much, reasoning that the pregnancy hormone relaxin can wreak havoc on our usual capabilities. She suggested rest.
Resting had zero effect, so I visited a local GP, who insisted I go to the local emergency department immediately. In the waiting room of the nearest hospital, I started feeling faint and was close to blacking out. My whole body shook violently and I was delirious with pain. I rang Josh to tell him to come straight to the hospital when his flight landed. I was admitted straight away, a drip inserted for fluids and pain relief. I had to keep reminding everyone taking care of me that I was pregnant, as it was suggested I have morphine injected directly into my stomach. Nothing else was fast or strong enough and I was deteriorating rapidly. I kept refusing, as I was sure it would be harmful to the baby, despite the fact that I was starting to go into shock from a severe kidney infection.
An e-coli bacteria in my bladder, rather than presenting as an UTI, had entered my kidneys and was spreading through my bloodstream. I underwent scans for gallbladder and kidney stones, as they tried to find some reason for my condition. Lying on the bed while the sonographer looked for possible causes, my heart was in my throat. I wanted to ask her to check if the baby was okay, but knew that this was not what the doctors in emergency had requested on the referral from. It was assumed that the baby wouldn’t survive. Josh came in, wheeling his suitcases, straight from the airport, as I was being transferred to the gynecological ward. I was still refusing injections of morphine and instead, without really realising what was happening, I was hooked up to some pretty hardcore antibiotics and pain relief medications intravenously. And then I passed out.
I woke up the next morning in tears, assuming I had lost the baby. By some miracle, despite what my body had just endured (a raging temperature, severe blood poisoning – which would have led to organ shutdown if untreated), my little baby was still bobbing about with a very strong heartbeat. I couldn’t believe it. The next three days were a blur of heavy pain and heavy medication. When I got back home to Adelaide, my obstetrician said she was very surprised to see me. Most pregnancies that encounter pyelonephritis don’t survive. Yet again, I felt like I had dodged a bullet. I was even more nervous than before and felt incredibly lucky to still be pregnant. I was well aware that this was no small miracle.
I cut back on work, cancelled a few upcoming catering events and tried very hard to take it easy. I was mindful of just how ill I’d been and didn’t want to risk anything. Soon after Sydney, we had our twelve-week nuchal translucency scan. When results are bad, you often sense it immediately. A subdued presence seems to fill the air and eye contact is broken. Josh and I were ushered into a private room connected to the clinic and told the supervising radiologist would be in to talk to us shortly. The delivery of bad news is often accompanied by a slight tilt of the head, a sympathetic smile and then the news itself, delivered clearly (often without great emotion), with polite pauses along the way that allow you to digest the information being shared.
Our scan and the blood tests showed a 1/60 chance of Down syndrome. Odds at my age were usually high, but not this high. We decided to have the Harmony test, a non-invasive prenatal blood test for common genetic conditions, including Down syndrome, the option below an amniocentesis. We would assess the situation from there. Josh and I had very different views on what we would do if the result came back positive, so shelved the conversation until we knew what we were dealing with. The results came back negative, there was nothing obvious to worry about except a low result on the Papp-A test (which measures levels of pregnancy-associated plasma protein A, one of several proteins produced by the placenta). Low levels are an early indicator of potential growth problems or issues with the placenta later in the pregnancy. I felt by now that any problems with this pregnancy were likely the result of my actions. I had clearly pushed myself far too hard, worked too much. I was convinced it was my fault. At this early stage, there was nothing they could do to monitor growth, so until about twenty-four weeks, when the baby would be viable, it would be a wait-and-see scenario.