Part 2: A Relatable Experience

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.