Few others knew of the test that had been performed that
day, and I had to tell someone. So after phoning Anne, I shouted
some friends a drink, and recalled the day's excitement.
We decided to try to have children in the early months of
1984. In the back of my mind, I harboured the fear that I would
be passing on genes rendered defective by the chemotherapy – or genes that caused the disease.
I kept this to myself..
When Anne's pregnancy was confirmed, there were many
celebrations. We couldn't wait through the initial three months
before telling people. Deep down, I adopted a wait-and-see
attitude, but I was still extraordinarily happy. After thirteen
weeks the unthinkable happened.
A miscarriage.
I received the phone call at school, and left immediately for
home. Anne was very distressed, but she was to show great
strength over the next few traumatic days, at home, and in
hospital.
There was the night to get through.
The child had died, and was to be removed the next morning
at the Mercy Maternity Hospital. We convinced ourselves that
it must have happened for a reason. Perhaps the foetus was
rejected because of some major deformity.
As we approached the East Melbourne hospital, Anne realised
that her body was not going to wait much longer. We hurried
from our car, but not fast enough.
About one hundred metres short of the entrance, Anne stopped
suddenly. It had begun, right there in the street, only minutes
before we would have been within the safety of the hospital walls.
It was an unbelievable experience.
