Babies like cricket too

This is a short story I wrote for my summer school course.

Babies like Cricket too.

To say I was apprehensive would be an understatement. As I looked at the stick I held in my hand, I was gripped by an intense fear. This innocuous, white plastic stick, with the huge plus sign in the center, was the reason for my trepidation. I was afraid of what it represented, known and unknown. I had been down this path before three years ago and I had suffered daily until it finally ended, painfully. As I dialled my Obstetrician’s office number, I took a deep breath to relieve the anxiety that was threatening, once again, to overwhelm me. Two weeks later, I left his office, still concerned, but also with a sense that, maybe this time, my baby and I could survive another difficult pregnancy. During the next eight months there would be many instances where my physical and mental stamina would be sorely tested.

Two weeks later the nightmare I was dreading finally began. As I hugged the cold porcelain for the third time that morning I asked myself, how could I survive another eight months of all day nausea and vomiting? More important, how would I stave off the urge to throw up while stuck in traffic as I drove to work? Hydration was necessary in keeping the nausea at bay; therefore a bottle of water or juice became my passenger on the drive to work every day. If that was unsuccessful, a box of tissues and a plastic bag would suffice. These passengers and I would take this difficult journey together every day.

Even worse than having nausea as a constant companion throughout my pregnancy was being told that I needed to have surgery. Even though I knew the surgery was necessary, I wondered why I could not have the easy pregnancy so many women brag about. After spending most of the day without food or water while waiting for my surgery; I awoke and immediately started spewing a vile, green liquid, all over the hospital room. There seemed to be no end in sight, as I filled bowl after bowl held by the concerned nurse. My doctor’s voice saying I would not be allowed to leave, unless the vomiting stopped, was like a shut off valve in my stomach. That night at home, my bed was an oasis from the post surgery pain as the anaesthetic wore off.

Unfortunately, pain would become another passenger on my nine month journey. My child was determined to make an appearance long before her scheduled date. Her efforts to escape the confines of my body caused me several instances of extreme agony. An incident three years prior, taught me this ache was not to be ignored. Sunday afternoons are usually spent eating lunch with family and friends, relaxing at the beach or napping. My afternoon was spent being examined and injected by doctors at the hospital. Dread can only begin to describe what I felt as the doctor confirmed I was once again having preterm contractions. At home, my bed once again became a refuge, as the drugs worked to calm my restless child.

I became very aware of what of every ache meant and because of my prior experience I called my doctor whenever I was afraid, which was often. As a result I spent a Saturday night in the hospital, again for preterm contractions. Maybe my child wanted to come out and party for World cup, but she was banned from partying until her due date. Once again another injection to prevent her leaving home was administered and I spent a comfortable night asleep in my hospital bed. Coming home the next day, I knew my body could not tolerate much more. All over the Caribbean, countries were preparing to welcome World Cup cricket teams and visitors. It was time to start preparations for my child’s imminent arrival.

Everyone says children come when they are ready and my daughter truly followed that old adage. Three weeks before her due date and one day before my doctor told me to come to the hospital my daughter started her final assault on my body. At two o’ clock in the morning, once again contractions began. I knew because she was so close to her due date, this would be my final night alone. I woke up the household, called my doctor and we made our way to the hospital. On arrival, the nurse confirmed I was in labour and called my doctor, who advised her to once again dispense drugs to stop my contractions. There was one last step of minor surgery, to be performed the next day, before my child would be allowed to exit.

Physical pain which had been a constant companion throughout this pregnancy was once again with me as my doctor declared it necessary to perform the procedure without any anaesthetic. I have always wondered if the students next door at The St. Michael School heard me as I screamed even louder than when I gave birth a few hours later. Afterwards I was again given drugs, this time to ease the pain, not stop, my contractions. I do not remember much about my labour because the medicine made me sleep. However, with her birth, everything became clear and with that came exhilaration because we had survived.

I have no tolerance for pain. The slightest headache sends me running for the painkillers. However, being pregnant and giving birth made me realize that even though I am afraid of pain, I am emotionally strong. Except for a select few, not many people were aware of the difficulties I experienced throughout my pregnancy. Although it was gruelling at times, most days I carried myself as if nothing was wrong. Indeed now, when I tell this story, most people are taken aback by my experience. As I sat watching Cricket World Cup on what was her official due date, I thought maybe Kamille wanted to be on the outside, watching the debacle that was the final, snuggled in her mother’s arms.