The Myth of ‘Morning Sickness'

Article by Lindsey, West Yorkshire, 05/05/2013

It was a Friday, the day the pregnancy test was positive. Day 29 of my cycle, fifteen days after insemination. A drab August day. Therain drizzling down the window panes seemed incongruent with my mood, but I was struggling to identify my mood at all. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t wished for a positive test. It was exactly what we’d been hoping for, of course. And it had happened much sooner than expected. A huge success.

But it was a strange feeling and I skulked around the house,not sure what to do with myself. I didn’t feel any different from the previousday, week, month. Yet somewhere deep inside me, a complex manufacturing processwas taking place: cells were dividing and multiplying, and somethingmicroscopic yet undeniably human was starting to take shape. I was on holidayfrom work and normally I’d be getting on with something or other: odd jobsaround the house, some lesson preparation ready for the new school term…but nowI was four weeks pregnant and it didn’t seem right just to carry on as usual.But what do you do when you’re four weeks pregnant?

What you don’t do when you’re four weeks pregnant is tellanyone. I knew that rule well enough, so after an excited text to my partner,Sally, I put my phone aside and (perhaps it was the effect of the miserableweather) found myself a ‘helpful’ chart on the Internet showing the percentagerisk of miscarriage at each week of pregnancy. After a brief period ofamazement that even to make it thus far, our little embryo had defied the oddsof 3:1, in that same rain-inspired spirit, I focused on the 10% chance that Iwould still miscarry – a 10% chance that wouldn’t go down to 5% until we wereto hear a heartbeat. And when would that opportunity arise? When placed on mylower abdomen, Sally’s stethoscope was sadly lacking in the ability to detectanything other than a rather embarrassing set of noises emanating from myintestines.

The next couple of weeks were exciting, secretive and notablyuneventful. Sally encouraged me to stock up on tasty snacks: eating regularlywould prevent me from lacking in energy and feeling sick and I dutifullysnacked away, attributing a vague trembling in the legs or a slight rumble ofthe stomach to dangerously low levels of blood sugar.

The August Bank Holiday Weekend arrived, and Sally and Iwere at Manchester Pride. It was the Sunday, about 5pm and wandering the busystalls I suddenly felt as though I might be sick. I’m not generally a verysickly person and I’d forgotten what nausea felt like. Confident that food wasthe answer, Sally led me to the row of burger vans while I shuffled alongbehind her, clocking alleyways and dingy corners where I might vomit unnoticed.A couple of hours later, after slowly picking at a baked potato and beans, theblandest food I could find, the nausea faded. We found some friends, gave theusual imaginative excuses for my glass of lemonade, and settled down to reliveour early childhood, watching Toyah Willcox in Sackville Gardens.

Over the next few days the nausea would turn up in time forafternoon tea and make itself at home for the evening. By the following weekendit had come to stay and save for, ironically, half an hour when I first wokeup, ‘morning’ sickness became my main daily activity, the day punctuated byattempts to force down various food items and galloped trips to the toilet forretching – no actual vomiting at this stage. I eventually settled on a fairlyconsistent diet of breadsticks, boiled eggs, small pieces of very mild cheeseand watermelon.

September arrived and it was time to return to work for thenew school term. The mere notion of teaching five classes of teenagers eachday, followed by time spent planning lessons and marking their books seemed laughablein my current condition. Nevertheless, left with little choice, I armed myselfwith a roll of pedal bin liners and motion sickness wrist bands and, afterguiltily confessing all to the school management, got on with it – albeitslipping out into the corridor now and again with a bin bag for a tacticalretch, and surreptitiously shoving small cubes of cheese into my mouth as Year11 exited, and Year 10 came in.

The worst time was always the evenings, and while this meantI generally managed fairly well where work was concerned, poor Sally got me atmy worst each day. Arriving home from work at 7.30pm, she would usually find melying as still as I could on the bed, perhaps emitting a faint moaning sound.Little would change until I’d wake up in the middle of the night, feelingalmost normal and wondering whether beginning a nocturnal life was the answer.

Sally put aside her fears that she’d be stuck with this newmiserable, retching girlfriend for life and focused her time on readingvoraciously about pregnancy and obsessively sending off coupons for free stuff.It seems there are no trial-sachet lengths that companies will not go to inorder to get the custom of mothers-to-be, and we were soon stockpiling samplepacks of stretchmark lotions, nappy creams, fabric conditioner and even packsof nappies and the occasional towel.

Meanwhile both my nausea and my fury that no one had givenme any kind of realistic warning about what the nausea would be like werecoming to a peak. I was ready to do serious damage to the next person whosuggested my problems might be solved by the consumption of ginger. I’d movedon to hot school dinners at lunchtime which were going down quite well, and atleast providing me with some vegetable intake, but I was now vomiting everyevening, and by nine weeks I stopped bothering to eat at all after 3pm; it wasjust a waste of good food.

At school rumours of my pregnancy were already rife: much tomy bafflement, it seems wearing motion sickness bands during the working day isan obvious sign of pregnancy to today’s Year 11 girls. I would hear whispers asI arrived at my classroom door, “you can see it, look!” and I’d hold my tummyin as well as I could, and make sure my top was covering the extender clip onmy trousers. Despite having lost five kilogrammes and having had to remove myrings from my fingers before they slipped off, there was now a slight bumpbecoming noticeable, although only really obvious when I was naked.

At twelve weeks the midwife came to visit. After a ratheramusing moment where she asked for Sally’s genetic history, and we had toremind her of the use of donor sperm, she asked me to lie flat on my back whileshe prodded my tummy with some midwifery device. And there it was, a heartbeat,inside me, that wasn’t my heartbeat. Suddenly I felt an amazing sense of relief– until now, no one else had offered any confirmation that I was actuallypregnant. I’d done the test myself and then felt sick. People just believe you,but what if it had all been in my head? Anyway, it wasn’t – there was somethinginside me that wasn’t me. Something alive, and in a week’s time at the scan,we’d get the further confirmation – that this creature was a baby.