Bonkers: A Real Mum's Hilariously Honest tales of Motherhood, Mayhem and Mental Health. Olivia Siegl

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СКАЧАТЬ holding out on us? Was there something wrong and we were going to find out the full extent of how wrong at the next scan? I wanted to scream at her for not giving us the reassurance that everything was OK! I knew that it wasn’t her fault and that she had to be as matter-of-fact as possible with us, but I could have swung at her for being so black and white and unemotional with us.

      So, relieved and worried sick all at the same time, we left the hospital and somehow got through the next week, worrying that any little twinge meant something sinister – and worrying even more if I didn’t feel as sick as I thought I should be or had been a few days prior. Thankfully one week and another scan later we got the news we had been longing for: so far, all was OK with our baby and the heartbeat was now normal for the time in its pregnancy. We left the hospital clutching the scan picture of our alien-like but perfectly normal tiny human and cried with relief and happiness all the way back up the mountain. Now, we thought, we could get on with the rest of the pregnancy, knowing the baby was healthy.

      However, the night before our twelve-week scan, I started to bleed heavily. This made our previous scare seem like nothing. It was dinnertime when it happened, and in despair and blind panic we called the hospital to see what we should do. ‘Nothing’ was their pragmatic, black and white response. I was advised to stay where I was, to take it easy, and monitor the bleeding – and, if I started to get severe pains, to go straight in. The harsh and heartbreaking reality was that if I was having a miscarriage, then medically there was nothing they could do to stop it. We would have no choice but to let nature run its course. So, we did. I sat there numb, with my feet up on a cushion (thinking this would help keep the baby where it should be), not daring to move, just waiting to see what happened. Since we had our twelve-week scan booked for the following day, I knew I just had to sit tight, keep calm and hope beyond hope that everything was going to be OK.

      We arrived the next morning, grim-faced, racked with anxiety and fearing the worst – and got to see why our gynaecologist was held in such God-like esteem. As soon as we told him what had happened the night before, he cut our conversations short and whisked me into the scan room. Before I knew what was happening or had any time to worry further, he had the probe on my tummy and a heartbeat booming out on high volume around the room.

      ‘C’est bon!’ – ‘It’s fine’

      I could have French kissed that French man right there and then in front of my hubby and my unborn child. Happy, relieved, over the moon – none of that comes even close to the delight that I felt. And this wasn’t only to do with the obvious and overwhelming relief that our baby was OK and had survived another scare, but also the way in which he dealt with the whole situation. No messing about, no long lingering wait to find the heartbeat, no doubt-filled seconds of dread. Just bang, boom, everything fine!

      Our tiny human was only twelve weeks in creation and was already causing heart-stopping drama and keeping us well and truly on our toes. We were soon to find out this would follow us into later pregnancy and out into the real world. (More of this little beauty later!)

      IT’S NOT ‘C’EST BON’ FOR EVERYONE

      I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to take a little pause here to pay respect to those mums and dads who don’t get the news they are longing to hear about their tiny humans. Who don’t get to feel the relief the words ‘everything’s normal’ brings. Whose scares are not just scares but are instead warning signs that something is terribly wrong or that their little person is having to leave them. I want to honour all the precious tiny humans who are no longer with us, and show my love and respect to all the mums, dads and families who have suffered.

      ** Anyone needing support after going through child bereavement please see the list of support services detailed in the back of the book on page 236

       TRYING AND FAILING TO KEEP UP THE ‘I’M NOT PREGNANT!’ CHARADE!

      I think one of the most exhausting things when you first become pregnant (alongside the raging hormones and zapping of energy due to your body performing its very own hidden miracle) is the whole bloody effort of keeping it hidden from your nearest and dearest. I have no idea what I was thinking when I concocted my own tall tales of ‘I’m not pregnant bullshit’, but wow, they were pretty special.

      I took my big pregnancy cover-up to epic proportions. You see, not quite satisfied with the bog standard and tried-and-tested cover-ups used by millions of pregnant ladies before me – ‘I’m on antibiotics’, ‘I’m on a detox’, ‘I’m the designated driver’ etc., etc. – I instead concocted such a ridiculous tale that not even I was convinced by it. Now, before we carry on with this, I’m going to apologise to you right now for how much you are going to cringe throughout the next section and also question (probably not for the first or the last time) how much level of crazy and downright idiotic one person can be. Read on, my friend, read on …

      So, there I was, pregnant and coming from the school of thought that the more detail and extravagant the story, the more likely people were to believe it. Right? Especially since, as far as my good friends were concerned, me turning down booze at a party, a dinner or, let’s face it, anything even slightly like a social gathering was like me refusing to breathe. Therefore, my thinking was that it had to be something quite dramatic for them to believe me. (I am aware now that I sound like a total boozehound.)

      So the storyteller in me set out to weave her tall and incredibly shit tales. Tales that involved me blurting out to anyone and everyone who even made the slightest suggestion that I may want a drink or to consume a slightly undercooked anything: ‘I have parasites.’

      Oh yes, that old chestnut.

      Seriously, what was I thinking?

      And why the hell did my poor hubby go along with it? (Oh yes, dear friends, I took him down with me too.)

      There we would be, throughout those first twelve weeks of pregnancy, attending BBQs, birthday parties and dinners out with friends. Me and my hubby side by side and nodding in unison as I proclaimed for the billionth time that ‘Yes, the reason I am not drinking is because I have parasites!’ All whilst my friends, acquaintances, and sometimes people I’d never even met before looked at me with a mix of bemusement and what can only be described as mild disgust as they imagined me being riddled with these parasites running amok around my body and stopping me from drinking. I mean, come on, why the hell would having parasites stop me from drinking? It’s fair to say that pregnancy had driven me slightly cuckoo.

      Luckily, most people who heard this tall and ever so slightly odd tale seemed convinced enough – or, at least slightly disgusted or embarrassed enough – not to probe deeper. Instead, they would back away from me slowly whilst taking a big gulp from the glass of wine they had been offering to me. That is, until one day, when I found myself at another BBQ (damn being pregnant during good weather months!), turning down rosé coming at me from every direction and spinning the same bullshit yarn about my bloody parasites to everyone.

      I’d gotten quite good at it, too. Like any good storyteller, I was dedicated to my craft and had embellished it as the weeks had past. These imaginary parasites had now become something I’d picked up whilst travelling around Vietnam and which had laid dormant until now to attack with a vengeance. Poor old me, eh.

      Usually this was the point where my tall tale would stop, the audience satisfied by the amount of detail and, quite frankly, put off by the grossness of it all. But this evening my audience included a nurse.

      Oh yes, there I was, telling my fully embellished tale to a medical professional, who after listening carefully to my sorrowful tale and nodding in all the right places, asked: ‘Do you really have parasites?’

      ‘Yes, yes I СКАЧАТЬ