It gets serious
We decide to tell nobody. Not even my parents. I know my mum will be disappointed with me later, when she finds out I’ve kept this from her for a month and a half.
Or she won’t know.
The foremost health risk for an old egg is for the foetus to have chromosomal abnormalities such as Down’s Syndrome. Various statistics tell me my chance of this happening is one in 25 to about one in 100. If my amniocentesis comes back with a positive result for Down’s, or if we have any other test results to be concerned about, my partner and I will have to face a ghastly decision. One I prefer to make without anyone else knowing. I hope that family and friends come to understand this.
Miscarriage, of course, is a much greater risk over 40, even if it’s never happened to me before. It’s up to a 50% risk. Some may argue that having support from close friends or family if I miscarry early might be desirable. Not for me. I choose to suffer in silence.
This means I have another six weeks to keep this secret. I’m not good at secrets. I pour my dad a gin and tonic, and fake one for me: mineral water with a slice of lemon. My sister is visiting from the other side of the country. I will have to find a way to avoid drinking. We are invited to a friend’s beach house for the long weekend. I contemplate faking illness the morning we are scheduled to leave. That’s not very honourable. In the end, I throw my back out pushing my broken down car off the road and am bedridden, unable to go. Karma. Bedridden backache is much less fun without Prince Valium for company.
Think I’ll just tell my friends I’ve stopped drinking because I’m mentally unstable. That’ll stop the questions.
My breasts hurt.