We had some great news
We have had some great news It was a drab, grey day in November and I was stood outside an equally drab, grey building waiting to hear from Lou. The building in question was the Royal United Hospital in Bath, and Lou was inside awaiting a scan to see if we had lost our baby. Because of the bloody virus, up and down the country Lou, and other women like her, were having to go through the ordeal of tests like this all alone. All their partners could do was sit outside and wait for news. ‘Had the scan. It’s not the news we wanted I’m afraid.’ I was sat on one of those yellow grit boxes outside the hospital entrance when her text came through. Was the cold, yellow plastic slippery all of a sudden? Or was I just sinking to the floor? Down into the bowels of the Earth, through the tarmac path, through the worms and soil. Dragged deeper and deeper into the damp, dark, underworld of sadness and despair. The rain began to fall. I felt cold and lost. The building looked uglier than ever to me now. Inside that concrete castle somewhere, Lou was sat, alone, having to grieve the loss of our child. She may have been only a few hundred metres away, but it may as well have been eternity. I couldn’t see her, couldn’t reach her, hold her close, and tell her that it was going to be alright. Because that is what this virus has done to people. It has driven a stake through those vital moments in life – of grief and of joy – when people need to be together. That very day Lou and I could have walked into a supermarket together and carried out our weekly grocery shop, but we weren’t able to be together at a time when we really needed to be. If you’re wondering, I don’t blame anyone for this. Certainly not the wonderful doctors, nurses, reception staff, porters, and cleaners within those four walls. Not even the government for their sometimes-nonsensical rules. This has been a time of great uncertainty, of things that have never gone before, of learning as we go, and of doing what we can. I just wish that it hadn’t needed to be that way, that’s all. I hauled myself up from the floor. I had to be strong. Lou would be out soon, and she would need my support. Through the windows above, I could see nurses scurrying by, working hard to help others like they always do, but with added pressure on their own lives. A steady stream of large-bellied ladies headed in and out of the large glass doors, a cruel reminder of appointments we would now not get to experience. Scans that we wouldn’t get to see. Stubby, pink, new-born fingers and toes we would never get to feel. Eventually, Lou emerged through the glass sliding doors, now glistening brightly in the bright sunshine that often follows the rain. But it still felt like a grey day. We held each other and cried, then we climbed into the van and drove away. We had only discovered Lou was pregnant a few days before the end of our long-distance charity bike ride. In fact, it turned out she had cycled half of our trip, around 1,000 miles, whilst pregnant. Her tiredness and breathing challenges made more sense now. We thought it had simply been the difficulties of the challenge, coupled with the ongoing breathing problems she had been experiencing over the past year, and for which she’d been undergoing various tests of her heart. By the time we discovered Lou was pregnant, we’d already made the decision to pause our adventure for the year in a few days’ time anyway. Virus cases were rising across Britain, more local lockdowns were being enforced, and the weather was turning. We knew it was the right decision, but we both hated the fact that we were stopping. We’d set out to complete the challenge, and we didn’t want to give in. Once Lou told me the news though, I was glad we weren’t continuing. I’d been worried enough when I felt responsible for keeping Lou safe. Now I had to make sure I protected her and our unborn child. I considered suggesting we stop straight away, but I knew what she was like and that she would say no. Our plan was to make it through all of the National Parks and National Scenic Areas in Scotland, tipping over the 2,000-mile mark. Exactly halfway towards the total, and meaning that when we did start again in future, we’d be straight back over the border into England for a whole new leg to the adventure. When we rolled into Melrose on that final Friday, I was delighted to have experienced all the things we had over those few months, but more than anything I was relieved that all members of our new family had made it through safely. Of course, we knew from the outset that miscarriages, especially in the first 12 weeks, are common. We’d heard the statistics that one in four pregnancies end in miscarriage. It doesn’t mean you expect it to happen though, and it certainly doesn’t make it any easier to bear when it does occur. You want it so badly that you just hope everything will be ok. You hope that being fit and healthy will increase the chances that everything will be fine. But it doesn’t work like that. And because miscarriage is so common, it’s often considered perceived wisdom not to tell anyone about the pregnancy in the early stages. But as Lou rightly pointed out in the days after we’d lost Squidge (this was as far as we’d got in the naming process), when you do lose a baby, you then have two pieces of news to tell people – you did have some great news, but very sadly now you
