I found out in the bathroom of a café off George’s Street, with rain tapping the window like it was trying to get my attention. I had gone in because I was late for work, late for my period, and late to admit to myself that I already knew. The little blue cross appeared so quickly it felt rude. I stood there with my coat still on, my bag slipping off my shoulder, staring at this tiny plastic thing that had just divided my life into before and after.
I was twenty-eight, renting a room in Phibsborough, working in a bookshop near Dublin city centre, and seeing a man called Conor who made me laugh so hard my cheeks hurt. We were not careless people, or at least we didn’t think we were. We were the kind of people who checked bus times, split bills fairly, and said “no pressure” when we meant “please choose me.” We had been together five months. Long enough to have a favourite table in Grogan’s. Not long enough to know what to do with a future.
I told him that evening on a bench near the Grand Canal, because I couldn’t bear the thought of telling him indoors. He went very quiet. Not cruel quiet. Just stunned, like someone had opened a door and pushed him into a room he wasn’t dressed for. Then he took my hand and said, “We’ll figure it out.” I remember those words more clearly than any kiss he ever gave me.
For the next ten days, I carried a secret the size of a poppy seed through Dublin. I walked past the fruit stalls on Moore Street and wondered what cravings felt like. I sat on the Luas and pressed my palm lightly to my stomach, embarrassed by my own tenderness. I had never been one of those women who was certain about motherhood. I loved quiet mornings, last-minute weekends away, sleeping without being needed. But the idea of this person, this almost-person, arrived in me before any decision did.
Conor tried. He really did. He came with me to buy folic acid in Boots and looked so serious comparing labels that I nearly cried beside the shampoos. We made an appointment. We said practical things. Money. Space. Timing. My family in Kildare. His mother in Clontarf. We said all the grown-up words, but underneath them I had begun speaking to the tiny possibility inside me when I was alone. Not out loud. Just in the private language of hoping.
Then, one Tuesday morning, I woke with a pain low in my belly and a stain on the sheets. At first I tried to make it small. I told myself it happened to people and meant nothing. I rang the clinic. They told me to come in if the bleeding got heavier. By lunchtime, I was in a taxi crossing Dublin, watching cyclists blur past the window, while Conor held my hand so tightly our fingers hurt.
The waiting room was warm and full of women pretending not to be afraid. Some had partners. Some had mothers. One woman was laughing too loudly at something on her phone. I wanted to be her. I wanted to be anybody else. When they scanned me, the nurse was gentle before she had a reason to be, and that was when I knew. There was no heartbeat to hear yet, she explained. It was very early. Sometimes the body begins and then stops. She used careful words. Natural. Common. Nothing you did. But grief does not care how common it is.
I remember walking out onto the street afterwards and feeling offended by the ordinary world. A man was eating a chicken fillet roll.
Note: Please be aware that these are written in confidentiality and there is not reference or mention of any real people and their sentiments here. Every incident and Story tends to be emotional so please read at your own emotional risk. Website is not responsible for anything related. HumansofDublin.io is not related to the photography project HumansofDublin by Peter Varga
