calliemm

Content Warning: This chapter includes sensitive material about miscarriage. Please take care while reading and pause or skip this chapter if you need to.

March 2002 

I had barely stayed awake past 8 p.m. for the past month or more, which was unusual for me since I was a night owl. When I missed a period, I wondered if I might be pregnant. My cycle had always been like clockwork. I didn’t mention it to Bren, deciding to wait a little longer before taking a test in case I was just late.

Quietly, I felt excited. We hadn’t been focused on trying, but I had stopped taking the pill some months before. In September 1999, Bren and I opened a dress shop, Lucid Clothing, with Deb and Andy. With the lease up for renewal, we were winding it down. Both couples hoped to start families soon, and committing to another three-year lease felt risky if either Deb or I became pregnant. The timing wasn’t perfect, but we would be over the moon if I were expecting. 

When my period came a heaviness settled in my abdomen, accompanied by an intense pain I hadn’t experienced before. It felt different from the typical rhythm of my regular period. In the days that followed, there was no respite. My menstrual cycle, usually two light and two heavy days, now stretched to 10 days, each marked by discomfort and heavy bleeding. As the days passed, I realised what I was experiencing wasn’t normal for me, and thought I might have been having a miscarriage. I needed to see the doctor. Dr. Chris confirmed my suspicions. He called it a spontaneous miscarriage and presented me with two choices for treatment. I wasn’t sure which to take. The first was a minor surgical procedure, suction dilation and curettage, while the second, expectant management, would allow the miscarriage to continue naturally.  

I let nature take its course, even though I knew that would be emotionally daunting. The process unfolded over a couple of weeks. It was a horrible physical and emotional time. Despite not feeling fully prepared for parenthood, the loss of what might have been tugged at our hearts and left us with feelings of deep sadness that we shared with no one. I could barely stop myself from crying over the tiniest things for weeks after; nappy commercials on the TV, a mum pushing a pram, and something as simple as my husband disagreeing with me. My sadness belied the fact I didn’t know I was pregnant until the doctor confirmed my miscarriage.  

Toward the end of the year, I was back in the doctor’s office for a checkup, and I mentioned that despite trying consistently, we were having trouble falling pregnant again. Given my previous miscarriage and the fact that I was almost 37, Dr. Chris recommended I see my OB/GYN to explore possible fertility support. Later that day, when Bren returned from work, we settled onto our comfy cobalt blue sofa in our Mexican-inspired burnt-orange living room, to discuss what steps to take next. Cuppas in hand, we talked through our options regarding having a family, and after a second cup of coffee and an entire packet of Tim Tams, we decided to allow nature to take its course.  

“Let’s just see what happens,” Bren said, smiling at me. “If kids aren’t on the cards for us, we’ll travel,” He continued as he pulled me into him, hugging me tightly, almost spilling the last of my coffee. “We can start with Mexico and then Hawaii; Kona’s on my bucket list. Travelling the world Ironman circuit will do me.”   

April 2003  

Bren was pulling on his running shorts and joggers in the bedroom when I yelled out to him from the bathroom.  

“What’s up?” He yelled.  

“I need you.”  

“What for?”  

“Can you just come here?”  

“What for?”  

“I need your help.”  

“Can it wait?” I could hear in his voice that he was trying not to laugh. He loved winding me up.  

“Oh my God, can you just come here?”  

He popped his head through the doorway.  

“I thought you’d at least be naked,” he laughed.  

“You’re so annoying,” I said, trying not to laugh with him as I held up two pregnancy tests.  

“Look! I think they’re both positive,” I said, smiling at him, not sure if I could believe my eyes.  

“Yep, that’s positive,” he said, his gaze shifting between the two sticks in my hands. His mouth opened, his eyes like saucers as he glanced back at me.  

“I told you the two double rainbows we saw on our way home from Cooli were a sign. How often do you see two double rainbows in a six-hour drive?”  

“Shit! You’re pregnant.” He said, as he grabbed me and kissed me.  

“Looks like Kona will have to wait.” I laughed. 

October 2003 

It was hot for October, and my poor feet had blown up like little pink balloons. Bren was driving me to my OB/GYN appointment, when I started to feel unwell. At thirty weeks, I had little space left for these two babies to grow to term. I am only 152cm tall, and my tummy measured just over 100 cm.  

As we drove around Purfleet roundabout on our way to the doctor’s office in Taree, I could faintly hear Bren saying, ‘Babe, babe, are you alright.” I woke as the car skidded off the road to an abrupt halt. One of the babies had pressed on something, and I had passed out mid-roundabout. My husband had nearly crapped his pants. We were sent to the hospital upon arrival at the doctor’s office. I was admitted immediately due to oedema and the heightened risk of premature delivery associated with a geriatric twin pregnancy. Dr. Tyman, my OB\GYN, prescribed bed rest during my stay, which would extend for the duration of my pregnancy. I had nine weeks to go. Five nights later, an uncomfortable restlessness woke me. I slowly inched myself to the edge of the bed, my legs so heavy with fluid that I had to lift them with my hands to move. I shuffled toward the bathroom, feeling like I’d wet my pants. My waters had broken on one of the babies. It was too early. 

An ambulance rushed me to a larger hospital two hours away. I was panicking. Our babies weren’t cooked yet. Brendan’s words, not mine, and he was right. He followed us in his car. I desperately tried to hold onto my babies for the following week, worried about the one whose waters had broken. I couldn’t help imagining him with no fluid around him and his amniotic sac almost suffocating him. The nurse assured me that although the amniotic fluid would continue to leak slowly, my body would make more. That was a relief. They were more concerned about infection.  

That weekend, Mum, Dad, Deb, and Andy visited me at the hospital, and I was allowed a day pass to go out for lunch with them. After way too many days of hospital food, Mexican had never tasted so good. When we returned to my room, my discomfort worsened, and the oedema became more severe. After everyone left, Bren helped me change into a nightie the size of a small tent, so I could settle into bed. In the early hours of the morning, he rushed back to the hospital beads of sweat collecting on his brow as he burst into my room. I was in labour. He immediately called our families to let them know the babies were coming. It was too soon. They were too small. Their tiny lungs weren’t ready. 

By early morning, my entire family had made the two-hour drive back, including Sue, Mike, and their four girls. Bren’s parents had also arrived. I can only imagine their excited chatter as they settled in for a long and anxious wait. 

Labour crept along, each contraction a reminder that the breech baby wouldn’t make this delivery easy. We were still holding out hope for a natural birth, though the fear of that sat heavy in my chest. After lunch, the doctor arrived with a quiet nod, followed by another nurse holding a tray of instruments. I barely heard the conversation between him and the midwives, just caught sight of the needle and heard the word “epidural.” If my temperature rose, it meant infection had set in. If that happened, I’d be rushed to surgery. 

As I curled forward, spine exposed, Bren’s face drained of colour. One glance at the needle, and he dropped to the floor with a soft thud. My two midwives leapt into action, fanning him, patting his hand and offering reassuring words. Meanwhile, I gritted my teeth as the doctor guided an 8 cm needle into my back. No hand to hold. No soothing voice. Just the sterile hum of the room and the distant sound of Bren stirring back to consciousness. I would be sure to remind him of his little disappearing act many times over the years ahead, it would definitely make a funny story to tell at the kids’ 18th.’ 

My temperature spiked, as infection began to set in. Bren was gowned up, and our babies came out as fast as the doctors could organise an operating theatre. They arrived eight weeks early, and although tiny, they were healthy. Bren burst into the waiting room and proudly announced to our family that I had delivered a perfect baby boy and a little Dolly. Our baby girl looked just like my mum, Dolly. Everyone cried. We’re an emotionally intelligent bunch. We cry a lot. 

It would take a little over a month, with stays in two hospitals to bring our precious preemies home. Tyra and Baden had come into the world in a hurry and thrived when we finally bought them back to Old Bar and their little yellow nursery, a few weeks before Christmas. We could not wait to watch them grow. 

October 2005 

Dressed in tiny denim jeans and a Kombi shirt each, we loaded Tyz and Bades into their oversized double pram with a picnic rug and enough sandwiches, snacks, and sunscreen to last the day. They were not quite two. My husband was over the moon; after years of travelling to Volkswagen shows statewide, one finally came to Old Bar. Bren could barely contain himself. Kombis are a huge part of the Old Bar Festival. The only problem was we didn’t have a Kombi. Bren had three Beetles in different stages of repair, and only one was in perfect running order. He would have a Kombi by the time the next festival came around. It was a great weekend, and by the end, we had ridden many carnival rides, lots of fairy floss had been eaten, and plenty of Kombis counted. It became our favourite weekend of the year, not even second to Christmas. And we loved Christmas. Lights all over the house, and rooms full of festive cheer with three Christmas trees kind of love. Suffice it to say that the Kombi festival was and will always be an extra special Maloney weekend.  

February 2010 

The kids squealed as they kicked off their shoes and raced toward the waves, their little feet leaving footprints in the sand. My sister Deb, her kids Luca and Tyler, and their little Jack Russell, Ollie, often joined us for a beach walk. Together, we’d follow the winding rainforest path beside the school that led to the ocean for some after-school fun. I never minded that we would have to backtrack home afterwards; there was no better way to end any day than splashing in the shallows, laughing, and soaking in the salt air with our favourite people. 

Over the summer, our little family was hardly ever at home on the weekends. Most Saturdays and Sundays we set off on foot, wandering down to our local beach. Other times, we’d pile into the VW and take a slow drive along the 110-kilometre stretch between Port Macquarie and Forster, stopping at beaches and playgrounds along the way to swim and play. Sometimes we only made it as far as Nan and Pop’s at Crowdy, where Bren taught Tyz and Bades to snorkel, surf, and bodyboard. When we weren’t in the ocean, Pop would take us fishing at secret spots only he knew.

In the cooler months the kids camped in the backyard with their dad while I enjoyed cozy nights inside with a glass of wine and a good movie. We made the most of every weekend; and often enjoyed getaways to quaint towns like Morpeth in the Hunter Region or Sawtell up north. And now and then, we’d venture to the city for a Volkswagen show, something Bren and the kids loved. These quick little trips helped hold them over until the Kombi Festival rolled around again.  

We crammed so much into our kid’s first nine years. Simple, fun-filled days, making happy memories. I often look back and think, although we couldn’t have possibly, that somewhere deep down, Bren and I knew our time together as this perfect little, carefree family was limited. We were making memories that would have to sustain us for the rest of our lives. Never anticipating change on the horizon or how fast Tyz and Bades would have to grow up.   

December 2011 

I had the coffee machine ready to go when I heard Bren’s Beetle pull into the driveway. Our afternoons usually went like clockwork. The kids got off the school bus, snacked, and then played with friends out the front till dinner. Bren got home from work just after them, and he and I would have a cuppa to check in before we cross-trained together.  

“Hey,” he said. Kicking off his boots as he leaned against the front door jamb. The kids never shut the front door.  

I walked over and kissed him. “Cuppa?” I asked  

“Pope Catholic,” he replied, smiling.  

As I made a cappuccino each, he jotted down our afternoon training session in his journal on the kitchen bench. Having my husband as my trainer was both a blessing and a curse. On the bright side, I lived with my trainer. He was a brilliant trainer, he was free, and I had daily access to him. I looked and felt great. On the downside, I lived with my trainer. Cheat days were rare, and he had an answer for all my excuses. I had to be sick or injured to get out of training. He knew me better than I knew myself and never let me off lightly.   

“We were all offered redundancy packages today,” he said. 

We knew this was coming. Lots of the casual workers were let go over the last few months.  

“What are you going to do?” I asked.  

“Talk to you first,” he laughed.  

“I’ll back whatever you want to do.”  

“I’ve been talking to Nigel at Edsteins, and there’s some work there. The redundancy will keep the mortgage paid, and I can do that personal training course.”   

He paused for a minute; I could almost see the cogs turning in his head.   

“The work at Edsteins is pretty flexible, so I can build the CrossFit business up and still have some money coming in. Money could get tight, even with the extra you bring in with The Shed & Skimpy.”  

The Shed was a small Facebook clothing store I had developed. Skimpy was an online lingerie and female products shop we started in 2007.  

“We can do tight. Old Bar is a holiday destination. We can cut out our Gold Coast holidays, weekends away, takeaway, and rump steak,” I said, laughing.  

“I’m serious,” he said.  

“So am I, Babe; rump steak has to go!” I said, still joking. “Seriously, you have supported everything I’ve ever wanted to do—without question. Now it’s your turn. Maybe this offer is the perfect time to do what you’ve always wanted. You can focus on building your Personal Training business, and opening a CrossFit gym one day sounds good to me.”  

“Maybe. We might have to downsize. Would you consider putting the house on the market if we need to?”  

“Yep, I’d live in a tent with you if I had to. I don’t know how the kids will feel about a tent, or where we’d put their toys, but I’m in 100%.”  

“So, we’re doing it?”  

“Yep, go for it. And we’ll have more time together, while we’re both working from home.”  

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said, laughing.  

“You’re such a shit,” I laughed as he ducked from the tea towel I hurled at him.   

Although we were about to take an enormous leap of faith, it was a good decision. Bren had been passionate about fitness from the day I met him. Clients were lined up and waiting. He was ready for his next challenge and excited about it. After receiving his redundancy package, he planned to start his Personal Training course. He would do part online and travel to the city, 3 hours away, for practical training blocks. Bren was already training my two sisters and me; he called us his Angels and emailed each of us daily with our training regime, even me. He signed off as Charlie. We were his guinea pigs, and he worked us hard, reminding us we were also the marketing campaign for his new business to keep us motivated. Things were changing fast, and we were excited about it.