The
Unexpected of Expecting
by Erin Schartner
Nine weeks and six days, that’s how
long it’s been since Desiree felt well. Desiree is sick of being, well, sick. Even
more depressing is that people can tell just by looking at her.
“Oh
Des, you do not look good. You look green.” And their comments are always
included with a look that she suspects is supposed to be sympathetic. Instead
it seems to look more like a fear of contagion. The simple fact that they can
tell how bad she really feels is rather disheartening.
Before all this,
Des was the type of woman that when she caught a cold she would make a point of
taking extra care on her hair, makeup and even her nails. Even when her sinuses
were all congested with thick goopy mucus, and it felt like her head had expanded
to twice its normal size, she’d still make a point of picking out a
particularly flattering outfit. All this effort just to go to the grocery store
to pick up the few essentials: Campbell’s chicken noodle soup, Neo Citron, Advil
Cold and Sinus, menthol rub, mint tea, and a few favourite flavours of
Fisherman’s Friends. Most of the time she’d end up getting a few second glances
– even with her ring on.
“I
know I should be happy, “Desiree tells those who ask, “but really, how can I be
happy when I’m completely uncomfortable in my own body? How can I seriously be
happy when at least three to four times a day I’m hovering over the sink, or
heaving over the toilet?”
To make matters
worse, Desiree has a very annoying Jack Russell that is far from empathetic.
While she clings to sanity by grasping onto the cool relief of porcelain, her
dog tosses her his liver red rubber ball and bounces around in anticipation.
His tongue hangs out and he gets a dopey Odie look on his face as he whines
with impatience. Also, even though she knows he’s a clean dog, he still smells
like a dog. This animal she loved just weeks ago is now a source of particular
irritation, one she has no tolerance for. However, against her protests and
attempts to give her friends a free dog her husband, Rob, simply won’t hear of
getting rid him. According to him this dog is their trial child; apparently she
is failing the test.
Desiree is
pregnant: nine weeks and six days, sixty-nine days in all. This means she still
has at least three weeks and four days until the first trimester is over and God have mercy is starting to feel
better. Of course, that’s the glimmer of
hope that people have been feeding her.
“Don’t worry,”
they all tell her, “you’re body is in shock. It won’t be long now until you’re
starting to feel like your normal self.”
Although the
symptoms are very physical, the real problem is that Desiree herself is in
shock. Yes, she doesn’t recognize her own body. But, more importantly, she no
longer recognizes herself. She is at a loss. All the research, all the
preparation, all the knowledge and all the experience she has acquired: from
reading, to watching academic films, to volunteering at a maternity clinic, to
attending four different births, and to being an aunt five times over, not to
mention the countless number of friends and co-workers she’s helped; it all
meant nothing. She is now living the experience and it is unnerving. She is
unprepared for reality.
Desiree
hears Rob roll over in bed. She’s envious of the ease with which he’ll proceed
through his day. She has been awake
since her bladder woke her up at 6am. This has become normal. She tries to go
back to bed. She curls up with Rob under their king size down duvet. She feels
both the luxurious weightlessness of it as it settles around her and the warmth
as it encapsulates her. Of course the promise of sleep is just a tease because,
like every morning, she gets nauseous. Like a wave it rises up in her throat. The
lining of her stomach itself threatens to come violently crashing out. So, just
as she’s being seduced back to sleep, she’s torn back into reality, has to
spring from bed and dash for the toilet.
Desiree looks at
her face in the mirror. Whatever sort of glow that she had seen on other women,
and assumed she would get, has bypassed her. Instead of blissful radiance, her
cheeks are smeared with blotches of crimson that glare in contrast to the
grisly grey that make up the rest of her complexion. Her brow is beaded in sweat,
and her eyes are red and swollen from tears that gushed forth during her
torment.
Desiree is
convinced that her body has been taken over by someone else. She believes the Des
she knows, out of sheer preservation of sanity, has fled and left a fraud in
her place – leaving her totally bewildered by her own thoughts. The original Des
enjoys having an organized house, spotless floors, a tidy bedroom, and a meticulously
clean kitchen. However, the new persona doesn’t clean, doesn’t do laundry,
doesn’t make the bed, and doesn’t do dishes until absolutely necessary.
Original Des loves everything about cooking: the aromas, the preparation, and
mostly the flavours – especially ones involving tomatoes and spices. The fraud
on the other hand has an uncanny super heightened sense of smell and can barely
open the fridge without gagging. Cooking rarely happens and frozen prepared
meals, or canned soup, have become the bland norm. And, forget about anything
with tomatoes (too acidic), or anything spicy (including basic pepper) because
it burns her stomach to such an extent that it feels like literal holes are
being burnt through. In addition, no matter how plain or tame the food,
inevitably she is afflicted with intense heartburn that strikes within minutes
of consumption. Desiree does not like this alter ego she’s never had to face
before.
Wearily Desiree tumbles through the shadows
and shakily crawls back into bed. Rob’s arms stretch out and encircle her in
tenderness and strength she no longer possesses. Through the dark Diane feels
his eyes on her.
“Thank
you,” Rob whispers. Traces of guilt and pity cling to his voice.
“Thank
you?” Desiree mumbles.
“Well yeah, I
mean I don’t have to go through any of this. And, I feel partially
responsible.” Desiree snickers, but it’s a moment like this that she cleaves to
in order to keep going.
***
“Of course he’s
responsible,” Laura says, “He’s got thousands of active swimmers with a
destination in mind. We only have one stationary egg.” Whereas Desiree is
ending her ninth week, Laura only has three left. Laura is the only person Desiree
trusts. She’s the only one that didn’t try to make pregnancy seem like a dream
and told her exactly how it was: a parasite had occupied her body.
Laura is waddling
around her living room sorting through the dog’s toys and the kids’ toys.
“You’re still puking then?” she asks as she reaches around her ever-growing
belly and picks up a discarded tiara, a plush pink bunny, a handful of
colourful Hot Wheels and a stringy bright blue octopus that looks like it has
been mauled first by the kids and then done away by the dog.
Desiree wishes she
could help. After all, Laura is at the very end of her pregnancy and she’s
still carrying on. It shouldn’t be her cleaning up and making Desiree feel
comfortable – it should be her helping Laura. It should be her who insists that
her sister sit down and relax; she’ll make the tea and make sure the house is
tidy. Instead she watches in amazement as Laura attempts to bend over.
“I feel like I’ve been deceived,” Desiree
confesses. “Obviously I knew that I would be nauseous once in awhile, but
nobody, except you, told me it would be like this. I mean everything I’ve read
states, “some women may experience nausea; medication may be necessary for
extreme cases.” It just baffles me that I’m the extreme case. If it’s this bad,
why would my friends ask me when it was going to be my turn? Is it some cruel
joke?”
“I didn’t lie to
you.” Laura’s no nonsense expression reveals the severity of the situation. “You
really only get one trimester, the second one, where you feel somewhat at ease.
The first trimester you’re sick – like your body is under attack. It thinks
that whatever is going on is not normal. Your body violently resists. But that
little sucker holds on tight. That’s when you know you’ve got a healthy fetus –
and it’s the only condolence that gets you through.”
“I really thought
you were just exaggerating,” Desiree admits. “I really didn’t fully grasp that
when women said they were nauseous, they didn’t mean they were having a moment that
would pass shortly. They literally meant that they had been puking before I got
there. Even you, I think I’ve only seen you run to the bathroom once in all
four pregnancies!”
“People think
they understand. They read books, they watch movies, they listen to their
friends throughout their pregnancies, and they think they’ve got it down. Then
they get pregnant.”
“I’m so bitter.”
Desiree’s face looks like it has just confessed a deadly sin. “It’s like I have
this evil phantom sucking away the life I once knew. “ Laura laughs. “I’m
serious. Like yesterday, all I did was make myself lunch, run some errands,
came home and crashed for three hours! I’m exhausted all the time. It’s a good
thing I quit work to go back to school full-time. I can only imagine the
absolute torture it would’ve been to drive half hour to work, only to have to duck
down to the garbage can whenever a particularly smelly client came in. Puking
in public is mortifying even if it has become my norm. And poor Rob, he
desperately wants to tell everyone the news.”
“How is Rob
taking all this anyways?”
“Oh, he’s
stoked, his words exactly. He can’t wait to start on Team Hanson. He’s already
researching prices of little 50 cc dirt bikes; the thing isn’t even born yet
and won’t be able to ride for at least four years. Anyways, I think he wants me
to break out the news so he can go viral with it. The thing is I just don’t
want to tell people until I can receive their congratulations with the same
enthusiasm. And right now, I just feel useless.”
“Hey, your body’s working overtime. You’re
growing a human being!”
“Yeah, I guess,
when you put it like that. Still I don’t know how long I can keep this up.”
“It isn’t fun.
It gets to the point where you think, Is
this even worth it? But trust me, it is.”
“I actually have
to search for things to give me hope. Here’s what I’ve come up with so far: the
constant vomiting has given me incredible abs, my nails have never looked
better (look how long they are) and my boobs have grown two whole cup sizes,” Desiree
announces with a slight smile of pride and sits up a little straighter.
Leaving her sister’s place, Des
thinks about her options. Her options?
She doesn’t have any options. Women’s liberation and the right to choose:
bullshit is more accurate. Sure preggo Desiree hollers and complains and
threatens to march her into the clinic. Realistically, original Des would never
forgive her. She was the one who had insisted she wanted a hockey team, well at
least four. She was the one whose eyes would narrow into jealous slits whenever
a friend announced that they were pregnant – again. She was the one who had
dressed up as mother Mary with baby Jesus when she was five and declared to her
cousin in the backseat of their Grandma’s car, “You can’t be an ice-cream truck
driver. You have to be a mom first!” Original Des had been rehearsing,
planning, and anticipating her maternal role her entire life. She would never
forgive preggo Desiree for killing that desire. And if you can’t forgive
yourself, you can’t live with yourself. Not that she’s actually serious. It’s
just that imposter Desiree comes up with some very defeatist thoughts – ones she
feels simply horrible for even having.
***
It is 12:25pm the following
afternoon. Desiree and Rob are supposed to be at the dating ultrasound at
12:45. Desiree has been given strict instructions to have four tall glasses of
water before noon. She wasn’t sure how she could possibly manage that, but
somehow she manages to gulp back the last few drops minutes past noon. While Rob snoozes on their brown leather
couch in the living room, Desiree is sitting at the kitchen table reading the
morning paper. All of a sudden it hits her. She shoots up and freezes, hoping
to choke back the feeling. No such luck. Liquid spew bursts into her mouth as
she clenches it shut, hoping to make it to the bathroom. She doesn’t. Instead a
violent stream bursts out four feet in front of her, explodes onto the smooth
surface of the glass stove top, covers the cherry red tea kettle, smashes into
the side of the oven, and finally collides with the oak laminate flooring down
at her feet. She stands there unable to move, silently watching the liquid
trickle away from her down towards the sink.
“Wow. That came
from nowhere,” Rob remarks from his viewpoint on the couch. His eyes are wide
with both fascination and horror. “You looked like a cartoon. You know the ones
that open their mouth and this impossible jet stream of vomit comes out?” Desiree
was not amused, but at least a section of her floors will now get cleaned.
Floors have ceased to be done by the fraud that occupies Desiree; the nausea
does not permit it. Desiree goes into the bathroom and tosses Rob a towel so he
can start cleaning up.
“It’s time for
our date,” comes Rob’s reminder through the bathroom door ten minutes later. Desiree
looks at herself in the mirror. Flushed cheeks and swollen eyes again. Well,
she’s pregnant. Like she said before this is a whole new game; one she doesn’t
know how to play. She no longer cares. She’s not only physically tired, but she’s
mentally exhausted as well. So what if she doesn’t look like life is grand. Emotionally
she’s simply too fatigued to care about the rules anymore.
It only takes Desiree
opening the bathroom door and taking one look at Rob’s anxious expression, full
of concern for just her, before she breaks down and cries into Rob’s chest.
“I’m so tired,”
she manages to express between sobs. “I’m carrying the burden of humanity, and
it’s just too much.”
“Well Frodo, I
can’t carry your burden, so I’m not going to suggest it. But I can help lessen
your load. Tell you what, I’ll cook dinner tonight. I’ll even do some laundry,”
Rob replies empathetically with a hint of cheekiness. “But, let’s not worry about it now. Are you
ready to go take a look at our baby?” By now Desiree’s tears have subsided. As
she takes an involuntary gasp of air she nods in resignation and allows Rob to
gently guide her out the door.
Sitting on the hospital bed in the
ultrasound room Desiree undoes her pants with relief. The cold jelly on her
stomach melts into warmth as the technician moves the wand around her abdomen.
Then there it is up on the screen: her baby. It’s an iridescent blue against a
black screen, but it was there. It’s only 3.5cm’s long. Although the image is
fuzzy Desiree knows through her previous and extensive research that already it
has eyes, ears, arms with finger buds, and legs with toe buds. Rob and Desiree
watch in amazement as a little flicker in its chest blinks rapidly – a normal heartbeat
of one hundred forty four beats per minute.
The technician takes a few pictures and labels one frame: head, bum,
arms, and legs. She prints off a filmstrip for the couple to hang on their
fridge.
Outside Desiree is holding the
first pictures of their baby.
“It’s just the
size of a bite-size chocolate bar.” She looks up at Rob in amazement. “Think
about it. It’s just this tiny little being swimming around inside me,” she
remarks as she twiddles her fingers around her abdomen, subconsciously
adjusting to the tangibility of the whole ordeal. Reality sinks in. This is
their baby. This is what it’s all about.
“It looks like a
hamster,” Rob decides looking down over her shoulder at the pictures. “A fat
little body and little limbs.”
“Let’s nickname
it Hammy,” Des smiles – even as the urge to vomit sweeps over her.
