For the first time, my parents came to visit us in Biarritz. They are wonderful, kind, generous people and we were looking forward to spending time with them. Unfortunately we couldn’t house them (unless they wanted to sleep on a crap sofa bed in the kitchen. Which they did not) but instead they stayed in comparative luxury at a local hotel complete with pool and dropped by most mornings bearing more croissants than we could eat (“it was 6 for the price of 5” said my Northern Dad). We took them to San Sebastian for their first pinxtos experience, up the local peak of La Rhune on the little yellow train (the first and I suspect, last time that AM will agree to ascend a mountain without being entirely responsible for the movement of his feet getting him there), basked in the French sunshine and generally had a marvellous time.
No sooner as a feeling of normalcy descended however, two major things happened.
First I had a phone call from our estate agent. Two weeks previously the iron in the fire that we had so desperately wanted had been purchased in a private sale by a friend of the owner. Dejected, we started looking at other properties only to find that nothing quite matched up to what we’d originally seen. But there was good news! It turned out the private buyers weren’t that good at ironing at all and kept leaving burn marks on all their clothes and had no idea about creases. Add to that their inability to get a mortgage and we were back in the running! Hurriedly we organised a verbal offer and arranged to see the property again with an architect and builder to check out the viability of our proposals. The responsibility of attending this meeting fell to me due to AM’s absence and after a successful visit we are as we speak awaiting a completion date! It will be the first time we have ever lived in an actual house rather than apartment together. Stairs!
The second major thing that happened was that the lines on a pregnancy test formed a positive cross for the first time in my life. Christ. Alive. We had been adopting a ‘let’s see what happens’ approach since I came off the pill at the end of last year. It’s something we both want – but preferably when we actually have somewhere to live that isn’t a campervan. Luckily our local friends had bought my ‘detox’ story and my not drinking wasn’t an issue. After two solid weeks on the sauce the time off has rendered me an entirely new person. My liver ADORES me.
Off flew AM in the general direction of deepest darkest Wales carrying more dry bags and kit than he had ever possessed in his life.
And then one day before he was due to come back, for the first time in my life I wasn’t pregnant anymore.
I have debated whether or not to write about this. After getting blood tests back it appeared as if I had been four weeks gone. Whether or not the drinking had an impact, we won’t know. Perhaps I’m over-sharing. It is not done out of a desire for sympathy but more to get out in the open what I consider an important subject and event. One that I had no idea as to the frequency of. 1 in 5 pregnancies will end in miscarriage during the first trimester. That’s a huge amount! And yet it’s only after talking to other people about it that I discovered just how many women I knew who had gone through the same thing. To think that some feel they have no-one to talk to about something so common fills me with sadness. Luckily for me, my family and AM have been wonderfully supportive and I am taking positives from the fact that we were able to fall pregnant in the first place, when so many couples around the world don’t even get that far. It has been a learning experience to say the least. I feel much more prepared than before to potentially bring a mini AM into the world (heaven help us all…). You see before you a stronger, healthier me. And one that can now at least enjoy a glass of champagne when we buy our first house….