8 week scan

17th December 2019 – London

In every scan we’ve had since the transfer I’ve felt a deep sense of dread immediately preceding the scan, that then dissipates instantaneously when the image appears on the screen followed by a massive outpouring of relief and elation. This has translated into uncontrollable tears. The kind of crying when you’re breath stutters like you’re about to sneeze and you’re sucking the tears through your teeth, nodding your head and smiling just trying to hold it together.

Smile crying.

Like a nutter.

We saw the heartbeat. I felt exhausted. And I wasn’t even the pregnant one.

It was the culmination of everything up until this point. Every fucking thing. And now here we were. Lee put his hand on my back and Faye and I held hands and we all stared at the scan.

The nurse was nice enough but didn’t look at me much, not sure if she really understand who was having the baby, who was the father/ the mother (?!). So we developed an unspoken rule that Faye and Lee would look to me when the health care professional looked to them.

When I think about it now, it makes me laugh. Lee looking to me when the nurse looks to him, like a case of mistaken identity, a look that said ‘not me mate, he’s the one you need’.

“I’m the father." I said. And I said that a lot to nurses in those days. I’m the father.

Then I heard it. The heartbeat. It sounded like sonic love. It was brief, like the beat of wings flying past and too soon it was gone. I wanted more.

I wanted everything my child could give me. The Daddy Addict.