TWO SHELLS

The test

It’s Australia Day. I’ve just returned to Australia for another year after visiting friends and family back home. It’s a beautiful summer day, with temperatures expected to reach 35 degrees. Before picking up a friend to go to the beach, I make a quick stop at the shopping mall. My period is late, and I’m starting to worry a little. With a pregnancy test tucked in my bag, I duck into a public restroom, ready to reassure myself.

Two clear lines appear within seconds: pregnant. My heart skips a beat. The world stops spinning for a second. What the actual fuck? That can’t be right. And yet, instinctively, I know it’s true. It explains the strange tension in my thighs and hips, the soreness in my breasts, the overwhelming fatigue after work.

With trembling hands, I call my housemate.

“So, I did the pregnancy test. Guess what?” I struggle holding it together.

“Not pregnant?”

“Pregnant.”

“Holy shit.”

“No reason to panic, right?” I ask, though I’m not sure I believe it myself.

The Fantasy

The following week is a rollercoaster. A visit to the GP confirms I’m four weeks along. She congratulates me when I leave the room. I don’t know how to respond so I just smile.

Secretly, I’m excited. Pregnant. It’s something I dreamed of for years during my previous relationship. If we had stayed together, maybe I’d already be a mother. I always imagined becoming one in my late twenties. But he wasn’t ready.

Now, I’m nearly 31. Pregnant. On the other side of the world. From a one-night stand. Someone I don’t even know. Oh, the consequences of my own actions. I’m furious with myself. That was fun, wasn’t it? I scold. Did you enjoy having unprotected sex? Did you think you were untouchable? Can you believe yourself how naive you’ve been? You’re thirty, not nineteen. Jesus Christ.

Although the circumstances are far from ideal, I’m amazed by how quickly the body begins to change. Subtle cramps, vivid dreams, tender breasts, a level of tiredness I’ve never experienced. I catch myself looking in the mirror from week five onward. Of course, there is nothing exciting to see. ChatGPT quickly becomes my best friend and I bombard it with questions.

● How big is the embryo at 5 weeks?

● What are early pregnancy symptoms?

● How does Medicare work for Dutch citizens in Australia?

● What are the challenges of being a single mom?

Because that’s what I have to think about. This is not a fairytale but reality. I would be a single mom and there is no way I could stay in Australia either. Keeping the baby would mean returning to the Netherlands, finding a house, a job, raising a child alone.

My friends say, “You’ve got this. You’re so independent already. And we will help you wherever we can.”

They’re right, I know I could. But do I want to? Alone? I’m not sure. The child is wanted though. So wanted. But not like this. Not under these circumstances. And so, with a heavy heart, I gather all my courage and call the abortion clinic.

The Bleeding

The healthcare staff in Australia are kind, kinder than in The Netherlands. They treat you like a human being, with more empathy and warmth. I schedule the appointment for the following week. A part of me keeps thinking: you still have time to change your mind.

I fantasize about what life would be like with a child. I hope to experience more pregnancy symptoms so it feels like I’m also allowed to say: I have been pregnant and I was lucky enough to experience some of it.

The fatigue persists. Work becomes grueling. After every shift in the cafe I have to lie down for a bit to let my legs rest. On my day off in week six, I go for a long walk. Bad idea. My legs feel like jelly. I’m forced to turn around and try to get some sleep back home.

That evening, I get cramps and start bleeding. A miscarriage, is the first thought that comes to mind. My housemate gives me pads as I don’t have any. The next day. I bleed while serving lattes. I smile while my insides contract. I mop the floor while something ends inside me. I am in pain, but there’s a strange relief: maybe the choice has been made for me. I do not have to have anything ‘removed’.

ER

Two days later I tell the doctor, slightly relieved, that I think I’m miscarrying. She’s less excited. I have a rare blood type and need to go to the emergency room immediately. Without antibodies, future pregnancies might be threatened.
At the ER desk, they ask for my health insurance card.

“I don’t have one yet. I’m not Australian.”

The clerk frowns. “Hmm. That makes it complicated. I’ll see what I can do for you financially.”

I spend the day giving blood, waiting, doing an internal and external ultrasound, more blood drawn, more waiting.

“Are you here alone?” a nurse asks. “Isn’t there someone you can call?”

“Not really.”

A friend offers to come by train, but I decline.
Why inconvenience her and put her on the train for so long, I think to myself. There is nothing she can do.

“People offer help for a reason,” a friend from home tells me later. “You’re already alone there. Just accept it.”

But I hate asking for help. If you don’t ask, they can’t say no.

The procedure

The hardest things in life are done alone is what people always say. And without a partner here, there’s no one to give me a hug, no one to gao with me to the doctor, no one to squeeze my hand when they do another uncomfortable internal ultrasound and no one to make me something to eat after a long afternoon in the hospital.

A few times I’m tempted to tell my mum. But I never manage to say it out loud during our phone calls. Scared for her judgement. Fearing it will make her worry about me.

My mind is playing games with me and I see pregnant women everywhere. In the cafe, in the streets, at home. And everyone seems happy and healthy supported by loving partners. I have to swallow when someone in the cafe says with a broad smile: “The eggs well done, please. I'm pregnant.” To be followed by a proud stroke over her belly.

We wait for my body to naturally reject the embryo but that doesn't seem to happen. I call the nurses a few times when I lose tissue, but they keep assuring me: if you're not sure, it probably wasn't it.

I bleed profusely and have contractions for over eight days but then it suddenly stops. Meanwhile, the morning sickness hits. I can't eat anything without feeling extremely nauseous while being hungry at the same time. The smell of the aioli in the cafe is almost unbearable. I throw up multiple times. It's part of it but it feels strange and pointless. There's no baby coming, it's dying. And yet the body has to get through this. I'm convinced my body knows that it has to reduce the hormones but unfortunately the body doesn’t seem to quite understand yet that the pregnancy is over.

Two weeks later, an ultrasound confirms the miscarriage. I’m eight weeks along. The embryo hasn’t passed. I’m offered three options. I choose pills. They’ll trigger strong contractions. I prepare myself: hot water bottle, painkillers, tea, chocolate. And then I wait.

Nothing happens.

I am disappointed. It’s not over yet. I know surgery is inevitable.

D&C section

The surgery is eventually scheduled for the following week to scrape away the tissue from the uterus.

“You will need to ask someone to pick you up after the surgery. Is there someone who can do that?” The nurse asks me.

“I think so.”

I reluctantly ask my housemate.

“I don’t think I’ve got anything on so I think I can do that.”

The day comes. I go to the hospital alone. I miss my ex. For almost a decade, he was there. I want to call him but I don’t. I get my own room, put on an uncomfortable hospital gown, blood is painfully drawn from my hand. A big bruise appears. They lose the sample and have to do it again. The nurse apologizes profusely. I feel like a child that wants to cry but I grit my teeth instead.

Then I get a message from my housemate: she forgot about her book club and can’t pick me up. I feel an intense disappointment come over me.

That’s what happens when you rely on other people, is what I think to myself. You shouldn’t have asked her. The nurse sees that something is wrong.

"It's my housemate, she just cancelled on me."

"Wow, that's rude. Well you have to stay overnight then.”

The last thing I want is to spend the night in a strange bed. I fight to hold my tears back. I tell my housemate that in that case, I have to stay overnight.

“Enjoy your stay.” she replies.

I stare at the message, stunned. Even for her, that feels like ice.

My mind races to think of who else to ask. Maybe one of my colleagues. But I don't think I can handle another rejection, so I let it go. After calming down a bit I ask with newfound courage if my housemate could please come and pick me up after her book club. I hate having to ask for this. I would have rather booked myself a flight to a place where no one knows me.

She replies: can do.

The ending

“Try to think of happy things. You’ll come out of the anesthesia better when you do that.” a friend reassures me.

Two nurses come to say hello just before they start the procedure. They look at me with warm smiles on their faces.

“We recognized your name on the list. We can’t believe you’ve had such bad luck. You’ve tried literally everything, you might as well come and work here.” They smile.

Their kindness moves me. The doctor explains the procedure while injecting the needle. I feel a calmness come over me. That’s the last thing I remember from before the anesthesia.

I’m rudely woken up because they want to close the ward. When I get up I notice a large pool of blood on the bed.

“Oh yeah, here’s a washcloth. For the bleeding.”

I dress myself, try to eat, and wait on a cold folding chair for my housemate. It feels like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders but at the same time I feel weirdly sad and empty. It's finally over.

The shells

A week later, I see a shell on the beach. Round, blue, smoothed by the elements of nature. A smaller shell clings to it. I pick it up, letting it roll through my fingers. The sea is wild and the waves crash roughly against the rocks and over the beach.

I wade into the sea and feel the power of the waves crashing around my body, pulling at my dress.

The roughness and grandeur of nature reassure me. It is comforting to know that you are only a tiny part of the world. I am small. My pain is small. In the end you don't matter. It doesn't matter what you do, what you achieve, what you fail, what choices you make. The wind howls through my hair. Sand and sea foam streak my face. I hold the shell tightly in my hand. I feel the sharp edges of the shell pressing into my palm.

They say a baby’s DNA can stay in a mother’s body for decades. It’s comforting. I don’t have to let go entirely.

I release the shell into the water and watch it disappear into the sea.

It's okay, it wasn't my time yet.

For now you'll remain my favorite what if.

Maaike Lommerse is a Dutch writer currently based in Australia. She writes personal essays and literary nonfiction that explore themes of movement, belonging, grief, and becoming. Her work reflects on transition, place, and identity, and is written to offer moments of recognition.