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“You didn’t mark it down on a calendar or on your phone?”
“No.”
“And you haven’t seen a doctor?”
“No.”
“May I ask why not?”
She doesn’t reply, just stares mutely into her mug.
“Catie?”
She glares at me. “Because when you’re living on noodles and baked beans, you don’t have fifty bucks lying around to pay for a doctor.”
I’d wondered if that was the case, and of course I’m not foolish enough to believe there aren’t people living on the poverty line in New Zealand, but I’m so shocked at her admission that I don’t reply for a moment.
“That’s not why I’m here,” she states defensively. “Or at least, I was sent here by the temp agency to earn money. They only called me this morning. I’m not here for handouts, and I don’t expect anything from you.”
“Very admirable,” I say. “We’ll talk about that later. Back to the baby. So you haven’t seen any health professional since you discovered you were pregnant?”
“No.”
“How far along were you when you found out?”
“What do you mean?”
“At what point did you take a test?”
“I haven’t. In September I realized I’d probably missed two periods. And after three months I had a small bump, so I kinda put two and two together.”
I’ve been working with women going through IVF for a long time, and normally they’re hyper-aware of where they are in their cycles, so it’s strange to talk to a girl who appears to have no idea of her dates.
“Why didn’t you take a test?” I ask.
She doesn’t reply.
“You could have gotten a free test from a Family Planning Clinic,” I point out, wondering if she thought she had to buy one. “All maternity care in New Zealand is free, unless you go private.”
She drops her gaze, and only then do I realize the truth: she hasn’t done anything about the pregnancy because she’s absolutely terrified. She obviously doesn’t have two pennies to rub together, and she would know that babies need a lot of stuff. She probably panicked, and tried to just forget about it and hope it would go away. She might have read about the miscarriage statistics and thought she could well lose it anyway.
Clearly, that plan didn’t work out.
“You need to choose a lead maternity carer,” I tell her gently, “a midwife or an obstetrician who’ll support you until the baby is six weeks old. You’ll be able to have screening tests and scans, and they can check the baby’s growth, position, and heartbeat, and keep an eye on your blood pressure. The baby tends to take what it needs from you, but you have to be careful your own health doesn’t suffer.” I frown. “You’re very thin, honey. Have you had bad morning sickness?”
“No.”
So why hasn’t she been eating? Dear God, don’t tell me it’s because money’s so tight she can’t afford decent food?
“Do you have family in Wellington?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“Have you made friends here?”
She closes her eyes, inhales, then exhales slowly. It’s not an answer, but it’s filled with sad resignation.
“Well, you’re not alone anymore,” I tell her.
