This Won't Hurt a Bit

Once upon a time, there was a woman who didn’t have a care in the world.

Of course, she didn’t realise it at the time, but that’s no surprise at all.

We never do, do we? Realise it at the time. We never notice that the most relaxed, easiest, most carefree moments of our lives are passing us by until, years later, we look back and wish we could be that person once more.

A lot of it is tied to youth, of course. The wisdom of youth is a misnomer, really, isn’t it? Because how much wisdom do we really have in our early twenties? Some more than others, of course. But wisdom comes jogging along in the wake of life experience, something many of us are yet to have during those precious early years of adulthood.

So what do we do in the meantime? We enjoy life. We sweat the small stuff, not understanding how small it is in the moment because it can seem monumental. We deal with illness, both physical and mental. Friends come and go; relationships wax and wane. We accept jobs, we resign from jobs, we travel, we eat a lot, and we exercise. We plan, we dream, and we wallow in expectations and desires. We never imagined anything could ever get in the way of that.

Just like the woman at the beginning of the story. She had her own set of worries, dealt with anxiety, spent too much, stared in consternation at her reflection in the mirror. All things that seemed, at the time, to be the pinnacle of life’s great hurdles.

Then new hurdles presented themselves, wondrous hurdles wrapped in possibilities of pink or blue, of hand-painted nursery murals and carved wooden cots and changing tables. Of which muslin pattern to pick out, and which perfect outfit would be The One to pack lovingly in a hospital bag for the day when the abstract patterns of hopes and dreams became little fingers and little toes. Those were the hurdles that mattered then. And in themselves, they felt monumental.

Then, one Wednesday afternoon at around four o’clock, revelling in the early stages of pregnancy glow (that had only a little to do with morning sickness), she found herself in a bathroom at work, knickers around her ankles, staring at a smear of blood that shouldn’t be there. Time stood still.

Hours passed, feeling like either seconds or decades, she wasn’t sure which. A doctor, in scrubs that could have been blue, turquoise, pink, or any other shade on the colour wheel, switched on a screen, picked up an ultrasound scanner, and said five words that will remain burned into the woman’s memory for the rest of her days.

“This won’t hurt a bit.”

And, a few moments later, that was the end of The Before.