Have I told you the one about the time I turned down a trip to South America because of my womb? No? Well, strap in.
I am not, by nature, a patient woman. I’m not sure I’ve ever actually let my toaster finish a cycle without popping it up, at least once, to see if it’s ready yet. I stand up on the train before the next stop is announced. I once swam across a river, fully clothed, because I didn’t want to waste time walking to a bridge.
Which has made waiting for my period to return after a miscarriage, well, hard. Hard and slow and boring and scary and long. On one hand, I have been nervous about bleeding again. After losing a pregnancy at eight weeks, at home and unexpectedly, I didn’t want to have to confront a stain on my sheets, the low grinding discomfort in my back, the bright red flash of loss. I was worried that this echo would trip me up, knock me down, pull me back under. And yet, at the same time, I knew that until I’d had a period, any chance of conceiving was unlikely. A wonderful midwife had explained to me that my body needed a reset, a clear out, and a chance to revive the lining of my womb before any blastocyst tried to set up home in there again. If I wanted to get pregnant again, I needed to have a period.
But did I want to get pregnant again? Was I ready? Was it sensible? Could we handle it? My son is still—in his own complicated, six-year-old way—processing what I’d told him about the miscarriage. My partner had been unsettled and deeply unsure when I’d got pregnant in the first place. Our house is still small, I’m still getting older, money is still a limited resource.
And then the email came: would I like to join a press trip to South America? I would travel to the jungle. I would see incredible things. It might lead to a life-changing experience. Images of parrots and bivouacs, acid-green leaves and misty forests filled my head. Was this a sign? Should I leave the weight of my grief at home for a week, and go live the sort of adventure that occasionally lit up my 20s? Would this be how I filled these bleak weeks, waiting for the bleeding to come? I accepted immediately. I could be bold. I could be glamorous and impulsive and eager. I can handle insects and sleep on the ground; hell, I do it by choice here in England all the time.
At the vaccination center, the nurse prepared her needles and talked me through the details of food hygiene, drinking water, sexual health… Sorry, what was that last one? Sexual health, did she say? Yes, she explained. Because of the risk of Zika in that area, female visitors were advised to use barrier contraception during and for a few months after any trip. A hot, dry panic clutched at my throat. How many months? At least two. And the trip was happening in almost a month’s time. That meant losing, what, three months of potential fertility? Maybe more? I’d probably want to leave it longer. Be totally sure. Eradicate the risk. Even just three more months of waiting would make me 40 when I delivered. If I even managed to get pregnant. Sitting in that small, glass-walled office, I felt tears start to gather in my eyes.
I have never known a worse pressure than that of time, on my body. Waiting for things to release, to embed, to mature, to flush through, to ripen or heal; it is almost always hard. The finite nature of time is written through my DNA and across my skin in so many different ways. I track the lines; on my face, on ovulation tests, pregnancy tests and charts. I feel like I am always waiting but also always running out of time.
Since turning down the trip, and pitching this column, my period has come. It was strong and inconvenient and welcome and upsetting. It was scattered with dark red berries. It spilled over in the night onto my pajamas. It signaled the beginning of something.
I am back to square one.