Olivia Siegl - Bonkers

** 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 have, bloody awful they are,’ I replied, following it with my well practised sigh of acceptance.

‘But, what do you mean?’

Oh shit … ‘Well, I have parasites.’

‘Right, but how? Which type?’

Oh shit, shit, shit! ‘I can’t quite remember the long name for them.’ I was starting to unravel. ‘I’ve had blood tests and everything [don’t know what the hell I meant by everything ] and the doctor reckons I picked them up whilst travelling around Vietnam.’

‘Right, and where are they these parasites?’

She had me on the run. ‘In my bum.’ IN MY BUM?!? MY GOD WHAT THE HELL WAS WRONG WITH ME? I’d just told someone I’d never met before, in the middle of a summer BBQ, that I had Vietnamese parasites residing in my arsehole. Still, I was determined to keep this long-established cock and bull story on track, so I embellished further, explaining they were sore and itched like hell.

‘What and you can’t drink because of them?’

There was no let up with this woman! ‘No, because I am on antibiotics for them.’

‘Oh really? Which ones? I’m a nurse and I could check them for if you want, as you can drink on some of them, you know.’

Sod this! I was in above my head this time, trying to con a medical professional who quite obviously knew her shit and could see through mine. ‘I’m pregnant.’

‘What?’

‘Sorry, I’m pregnant and I just made up all of that rubbish. I don’t have parasites. I’m having a baby.’

‘Ha, ha, and that’s the best story you could come up with?’

‘Yes. Yes, I’m afraid it is.’ Hangs head in shame.

Game, set, match to the inquisitive medical professional.

Luckily, this switched-on and shrewd nurse soon went on to become one of my best mates and it turns out she was pregnant too (minus the shit cover-up story). She was already at the twelve-week stage, so all this making up of tall tales to convince people you were the carrier of parasites rather than a baby was now behind her.

Needless to say it was a bloody relief to finally get to tell everyone.

‘I’M NOT SICK, I’M JUST PREGNANT’

So, I have been pregnant for a grand total of two times. Both pregnancies were such polar opposites that it made me realise that pregnancy can be wonderful (as it was with my first), but it can also totally screw you over (as it did with my second, me lying on my hippo-sized arse unable to do anything for fear of the baby coming prematurely). Who knew that bringing life into this world can be a wonderful, sun shining, birds singing, blooming in the face of the world experience one time and the next time make you feel so awful that you never want to do it again?

I have to admit I was a smug pregnant biatch with my first tiny human. So much so that the thought of me bounding along with my neat bump, glossy pregnancy hair, glowing skin and full of energy, chanting the motto of ‘I’m not sick, I’m just pregnant’, made my second-time pregnant self want to go back in time and punch my smug self in my smug face.

After the passing of the morning sickness in my first pregnancy, I felt great. I was full of energy and optimism. I exercised three times a week, and had a personal pregnancy yoga instructor who had me and bump doing shoulder stands. My hair and skin looked the best it ever had, I was full of life in every sense of the word, and so, so excited about being pregnant and becoming a mum. I can honestly say it was one of the happiest times of my life, when I felt my most calm and purposeful, doing exactly what I was meant to be doing.