Chapter Fifty-Three Netta
Chapter Fifty-Three
NETTA
Netta sat in the doctor’s office, still numb with loss a week later. She’d had an emergency scan in the meantime, which had confirmed what she’d already known; the baby was gone.
‘The sonographer was right,’ said the GP, her eyes glued to the report and scans on her screen. ‘It’s complete. There won’t be any need for a curette.’
‘Lucky me,’ mumbled Netta under her breath.
The doctor turned the screen away and focused her attention on Netta. ‘How are you coping?’
‘Not great.’
The doctor had probably been hoping for more, but talking was exhausting.
Everything was exhausting. And there were no words for how she felt, anyway.
Trying to describe it accurately would be pointless.
Words had a way of framing things, putting borders and limits on them, folding them up and packing them into little understandable parcels.
And this feeling, this emptiness, was far too vast for that.
‘It’s awful, I know,’ the doctor said, measured, but kind.
‘And it can feel very isolating. But it’s more common than you think.
Studies tell us that as many as one in four known pregnancies end in miscarriage, and those numbers could be higher, given it’s possible to miscarry before you even know you’re pregnant.
If you choose to, you could try again. Many women go on to have successful pregnancies after a miscarriage. ’
Netta’s heart twisted. She didn’t want to go on to have a successful pregnancy. She wanted to still be pregnant. For the miscarriage never to have happened. ‘Even at my age?’
‘More women are having babies in their late thirties and early forties, but it’s important to understand that fertility dips as you get older,’ the doctor said. ‘If you want to try again, I wouldn’t leave it too long.’
‘I think I’ll want to,’ Netta said. ‘But I’m on my own now. Before I found out I was pregnant, I’d been reading up on assisted conception treatments. What do you think my best option would be?’
‘There are definitely things we can talk about. You may not need to go down the IVF route—intrauterine insemination, or IUI, is much cheaper and has a good success rate if there are no other issues at play. If you choose to use a sperm donor, there can be a waiting period before a suitable sample becomes available, and then it can take a few rounds of IUI to achieve a pregnancy—it’s not a quick process.
It’s important to wait until you feel mentally prepared to try again though, Netta.
There’s always the chance of a repeat miscarriage.
I think you should take the time you need to process this loss, and then come and see me as soon as you feel ready.
In the meantime, looking after yourself is the best way to prepare for another pregnancy. ’
Netta nodded, her hands clasped in her lap, her right thumbnail flicking methodically against her left. ‘I drank when I was in the UK. I flew long haul. I had sex. I didn’t know I was pregnant …’ Netta’s cheeks burned. ‘Is it my fault?’
‘Netta.’ The doctor’s eyes filled with concern.
‘This isn’t your fault. There are any number of possibilities as to why this pregnancy didn’t progress, but there’s definitely no research to suggest that flying or having sex pose any risk.
We do understand, however, that about half of miscarriages occur due to chromosomal issues.
Nothing you did or didn’t do from the point of conception could’ve changed the outcome if that was the case. ’
‘And what would’ve caused that?’ Netta pressed. ‘My age?’
‘A woman can have a miscarriage at any age, but chromosomal issues do occur more in older mothers, yes. And sadly, “older” in fertility terms is anyone thirty-five or over. Do you have any other questions before you go?’
‘How long will it take to feel normal again?’ Netta asked. ‘The bleeding’s stopped, but my whole body still feels like it’s on backwards and my head is an absolute mess. I need to go back to work soon and I can’t be bursting into tears in the middle of a maths lesson.’
‘Your body’s just been through a huge hormonal shift,’ said the doctor.
‘It’ll take a little while for things to rearrange themselves.
You could try complementary therapies. Lots of women report that acupuncture, for example, can be helpful.
But ultimately, the best thing you can do is just look after yourself.
Prioritise sleep, get some exercise every day—especially when you’re feeling really low—and eat well.
Wouldn’t hurt to stay away from alcohol, too.
All of those measures will also help prepare your body for a future pregnancy. ’
Netta pictured the pizza boxes and wine bottles stacking up around the kitchen. There was definitely room for improvement.
‘You live near the beach,’ continued the GP.
‘Take some walks in the salty air. It’ll really help with your mindset.
And, if you feel comfortable, tell the people around you what you’re going through.
Many women keep their miscarriage to themselves and suffer through it in silence and it can be very lonely.
So many of us have been through this, Netta—I think you’ll find a lot of understanding and support among the women in your life. ’
Netta nodded, but talking about it with anyone other than Freya seemed unlikely.
Not because she didn’t think she should, but because, quite often, she physically couldn’t.
The lump in her throat choked the words into unintelligible sobs or just stopped them in their tracks, turned them around and marched them back down into the pit of her stomach, where they’d sit, weighty and unbearable.
‘And I’m here for you too,’ the doctor continued. ‘There are also some wonderful online resources you might find really helpful if you’re finding it hard to talk to friends and family about it, which lots of women do.’
‘Thank you,’ Netta said, standing. ‘I’ll think it all through and come and see you when I’m ready to take the next step.’
Netta walked the long way home along St Kilda Beach, taking in the warm, briny air and the sound of laughter carrying on the wind.
She passed the gym and the pier and disappeared into the gardens, threading her way through the towering palm trees standing on either side of the path.
A pissed off–looking pony was trotting begrudgingly alongside a sturdy man in a plaid shirt, a chubby toddler on its back.
Joggers muscled by and a group of people were setting up banners and temporary fencing for an event of some kind.
A huddle of dreadlocked bongo drummers kept a hypnotic rhythm under a tree and a possum darted across the path, clearly confused about what time of day it was.
Just before the park gave way to the paved beachside path once more, Netta passed a circle of women on the grass, each with a baby—either at their breast or on a blanket before them—and the hollowness of her uterus stretched and ached, prodding her grief.
She swallowed hard against the brick in her throat and hastened her stride.
She crossed the busy esplanade and cut up Cowderoy Street, stopping for a coffee, which was good, but not as good as the one Mo had made her that day in the hotel.
The thought crossed her mind that maybe no coffee would ever be as good as that one, ever again, and a new wave of sadness crashed down on her.
An impossible love. A lost baby. A body that felt like it must belong to someone else and forty so close she could feel it breathing down her neck.
The apartment was quiet and cool when she let herself in, but the usual sense of calm she felt when she opened the front door was stolen by the hovering stench of stale pizza and general filth. She hadn’t cleaned since the miscarriage started and her apartment was starting to smell like it.
Netta threw herself into cleaning—even the plants got a wipe down—and sank into the couch an hour later, exhausted, the spurt of energy tailing off into a grey melancholy only slightly tempered by the orderliness of the apartment.
Messy house, messy head. Tidy house, tidy head. That’s what her mother had always said.
‘It didn’t work this time, Mum,’ Netta whispered as she dissolved into the cushions.
She picked up her phone and settled back for the kind of brainless distraction that only a good socials scroll could provide.
Audrey and Fletcher’s Instagram account—which had more than a hundred thousand followers—had become a favourite destination for Netta.
Photos of the two of them being glamourous in fabulous locations filled her feed with joy.
The rest of Instagram, on the other hand, seemed full of Bali holidays and birth announcements, so she checked her email instead.
Her inbox was stuffed with a long stream of spammy crap, newsletters she couldn’t remember signing up to and a library overdue notice.
And then, wedged between a phone bill and an invitation to the opening of a new bar, was an email from Mo.
Netta’s heart scuttered to a halt, hanging limply in her chest like a beaten-todeath pinata swinging pathetically in the breeze.
She clicked on the message, her finger bouncing off the phone like it was a hot coal.
SOMETHING FOR YOU
Morrison Maplestone
To: Netta Phillips
Just press play.
M
Just press play. That’s all it said. No, Hi Netta. No, I’m sorry. No, I love you endlessly and please can we start over. None of that.
An audio file was attached to the email, and as Netta’s finger hovered over the link, she had the feeling of being jerked from the shallow depths of early sleep, stumbling off a kerb in a dream. Freefalling.
She clicked.