Sarah Rhodes
Being the only female in a male-dominated work environment is never easy but never more so than when you are having fertility issues.
Having taken a couple of weeks off from work in the aftermath of my miscarriage, I head back to work with trepidation and a sick note in hand. My GP has kindly written ‘gynaecological problems’ as the reason for my absence so that I can keep my affairs private but since I’ve been back, umpteen colleagues have asked me why I was off so long and I am running out of excuses. Apparently, they don’t like it when someone is off sick; they act like that person has just had an extra holiday. I know this to be true because many a time, I’d heard them bitching about other absent colleagues so I know they’ll be thinking the same about me. Yeah, lucky me, losing my baby just to get time off. The thoughtlessness of it makes me livid.
And now I’m stuck here at this ghastly works function with one of my more two-faced colleague -Dave, approaching fast.
‘Hello, Sarah love, how are you doing? You scrub up well.’ I silently cringe as he kisses my cheek. His glassy eyes betray the fact that he is already three sheets to the wind, even though he’s only just arrived and I know I won’t have to wait long.
‘We’ve missed you at work these last few weeks. Everything alright?’ I gulp down my drink whilst he gabbles on and I pretend to listen and then the question comes.
‘We thought you were never coming back,’ he slurs. ‘Why were you off for so long? Dave badgers me and badgers me until eventually I blurt it out just to get him off my back.
‘Actually Dave, I lost a baby.’ With some satisfaction, I watch a horrified look fall across his face and I know he instantly regrets asking. I make my excuses and move away, glad that I made him feel uncomfortable. How dare he act as if I owe him an explanation. But I also know that now he knows, soon, everyone at work will know too, but bizarrely, no one even mentions it – at first.
But in the staff canteen a week later, I find myself alone with Ian who cuts straight to the chase.
‘I hear Dave put his foot in it the other evening?’ I nod and he smiles.
‘So will you try for another baby?’ he asks and I nod again and for a split second, I feel grateful that someone has finally taken the time to acknowledge my loss - but it is only for a second.
‘Well, next time around you’ll have to try giving up the alcohol.’ And with that, he picks up his coffee cup and walks away. I am rooted to the spot and feeling as though someone just punched me in the guts. Did he really just say that? Did he mean what I think he meant? Did he just imply I miscarried because I’d been boozing throughout my pregnant? What the actual fuck?
I try to process his words and grapple for a plausible explanation. Had it been meant as a joke; a poor attempt at humour to lighten the mood? If it was, it certainly wasn’t funny. Or appropriate. In fact, it was one of the cruellest things to say to a woman who has just miscarried. It was your fault.
I know my work colleagues know I sometimes like to let my hair down because they’ve all seen me drinking at our annual Christmas party - but there again, everyone drinks at the Christmas party. After all, it’s always a free bar. But I forget that there are different standards for men and women and what I assumed was friendly banter and my initiation as the lone female into the all-male gang, it was actually something far more sinister. And all it had taken was a few harmless drinks with the lads for those bastards to label me in their minds as some reckless, irresponsible woman.
The hypocrisy and double standards take my breath away. Then another thought occurs to me. If Ian seriously believes I drank throughout my pregnancy and caused my miscarriage, then how many of my other colleagues think the same? The room starts to sway just then.
And it won’t be the last time my work colleagues will rub salt into the raw wound that is childlessness. Two years on, when well-timed, unprotected intercourse every month has failed to result in another pregnancy, I will notice that some of the most awful and blatantly thoughtless behaviour I will be subjected to will come from them.
Work colleagues are the people who knew the basic facts about my life. They knew my name, my age, my economic status and that I was happily married. But for reasons known only to them, they will feel it is their duty to continually harangue me about not having had any children, over and over and over again. When are you going to start a family Sarah? Are you pregnant yet Sarah? You’re biological clock is ticking Sarah. It will become a part of the daily dialogues I will have to endure for the best part of five years.
My work colleagues; those poor things. Perhaps they were only trying to help. Perhaps they will think my husband and I have somehow forgotten about this next stage in our lives. Perhaps they will be worried that it hasn’t even occurred to us that having children is an option. Maybe they will see it as their civic duty to remind us. Okay, granted, there probably are colleagues graced with higher intelligence who will realise that I really don’t want to discuss this publicly, but sadly, they will be few and far between. And I will feel so, so alone.