They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story

15 Early July 2007 — Looking back

It was 8.20 a.m. and I was worried the chemist might not be open yet, as I headed to work. After several gloomy days of rain, summer was back and as I walked through glorious early morning sunshine, I was feeling more positive than I had in a long while. I’d barely slept all night, having made my decision that I would do a pregnancy test today. When I’d looked it up online, it said it was best to do it in the morning.

I’d also made another, firm, decision about what I would do if it was positive.

There were normally two of us on reception in the mornings, but my colleague, Julie, was away on holiday, and once I got behind the desk it would be non-stop all morning, with no chance to slip out to the shops until I finished my shift at 1 p.m.

To my relief the chemist was open. After a quick chat with a helpful assistant, who explained how to use the testing kit and even excitedly wished me ‘good luck!’, I was on my way with a small box in my handbag. The box had a cover pic showing an elegantly shaped blue-and-white plastic tube, with a tiny window in it. On the top of the box in bold yellow it proclaimed: OVER 99 % ACCURATE.

I went into the surgery via the rear of the building, but as I approached reception I could see there was already a queue of people, the young, the old, the very nearly dead and one old boy slumped in a chair, white hair sticking up as if he had just been electrocuted and who looked like he could actually be dead.

I took their names in turn, ticking them off the list, then told them to take a seat and the doctors (there were six) would call them.

I just wanted to go to the loo. To open my pregnancy testing kit. To find out!

I couldn’t wait.

Anyhow, most of the people waiting in line didn’t need me. Their doctors would come out and summon them in. I took the opportunity to stick a BACK IN 2 MINS! sign on the counter, grabbed a urine sample pot, which the girl at the chemist told me was easier to use, scarpered through the door behind me and into a cubicle in the ladies’, closing and locking the door behind me.

I took the box, branded Clearblue, out of my handbag and ripped it open with clumsy, nervous fingers, breaking a bit off a nail in the process. They were all chipped anyway, long overdue for a visit to the nail studio. I always avoided going for as long as possible, because the sweet young girl there was a chatterbox who drove me mad, talking non-stop. Anyhow, now I needed to spruce up for my new life. I made a mental note to book an appointment. Then I unfolded the instructions and read them carefully.

Two minutes after dipping the test stick into the sample pot, not even thinking what carnage might be going on in the waiting room, there was just a single red line. Not pregnant.

Seriously?

I wasn’t sure how I felt about this. On the one hand, I was elated considering the mess my life was in, but at the same time, deeply disappointed. I wanted to be pregnant and I didn’t want to be.

‘Shit,’ I said. ‘Shit, shit, shit, sh—’

I stopped. Stared wide-eyed at the tiny window. Was it my imagination?

A second line was starting to appear, very faintly at first.

It got steadily brighter and darker. Until it was as strong and thick as the first line.

Twin red lines now. Parallel.

I stared at them, numbly, then sat down on the loo seat and stared at them even harder. For reassurance I took the package out of the bin where I had shoved it and read the wording in yellow at the top. OVER 99 % ACCURATE.

My skin seemed to have taken on a life of its own, as if it was crawling around my body independent of the rest of me. It was a weird sensation. It stopped then started again. Like I was covered head to foot in a colony of millions of ants or something. I shook, hard, and yelled, ‘Stoppit! Stoppit! Stoppit!’

Then I heard my name being called. It was Rosie, who ran the accounts. ‘Sandy? You OK?’

Yeah, I’m fine, apart from my skin taking a walk around the block. ‘Yes, thanks, great! Just — a friend — teasing me!’

‘You sounded really distressed.’

I owe a man who is threatening to have me skinned alive £150,000 that I don’t have, I’m about to leave my husband and I’ve just found out I’m pregnant. Should I be sounding distressed?

‘I’m fine, Rosie, thanks! Never better!’