Yesterday, I drank well over a pint of water, lugged my unhappy bladder into the filthiest taxi I’ve ever sat in and went to the hospital. Two signs on the England-flag-emblazoned glass separating the driver from me warned me that a £75 fine would be due should I soil the vehicle. Honestly, I’m not sure what difference my spit-up, or any other soiling materials for that matter, would have added to the mix.
I’d decided to take a taxi because the thought of waddling across Bristol, ready to burst, oddly did not appeal. For our dating scan I’d drunk what felt like my day’s allowance, only to be informed that my bladder was only just full enough and that it would need to be “well and truly full” for the next scan to work. So I wasn’t taking any chances. The lads’ night out taxi I’d taken managed to hit every bump on the way but I was so excited about seeing the baby that I managed to see the humour in this even if my bladder didn’t.
The minutes that the sonographer was delayed in calling us dragged on and just as I was about to unbutton my jeans for a little relief (how easily I’ve been able to allow myself to do things like this without feeling the least bit undignified) she called my name. Laurence had met me at the hospital during his lunch hour. He now jumped out of his seat, striding off with my maternity notes as if he was the one carrying the uterus.
As I lay on my back (these days my most uncomfortable position – it feels like someone is lying on my spine), unzipped my jeans and let the woman rub warm goo all over my stomach, I got the familiar panic that she wouldn’t find anything. I’d already had a dating scan and listened to the baby’s heartbeat at a midwife appointment but still it was there. What if this somehow isn’t real? What if my imagination has managed to manufacture all the signs of pregnancy like Mary I?
But then, as the creature came into view I was hit with altogether different worry. What if something’s wrong? Previously I’d had to keep reminding myself that the scan was primarily to check on the baby’s health and not just some fun way for us to see the baby and know the sex. Now I could think of nothing but, “What if I’ve done something wrong?” Relief washed over me every time the sonographer said that everything was fine.
It became obvious that Laurence was enjoying the experience far more than I. He kept “ahing” and chuckling and whenever I looked over at him, his eyes were filled with wonder. To be honest, I generally didn’t know what I was looking at until told. It could have been because I’m just not as visual as he is or perhaps it was because, between being jabbed in a bladder threatening to empty itself and the sudden rush of worry, I was a tad distracted.
While sitting up and wiping myself off, it was hard to remember that the person we’d seen on screen, who definitely looks like a baby and not alien spawn, was actually inside me. She’s (most likely) a healthy girl and definitely an energetic wriggler. I put down the tissue, zipped up my jeans, thought about how cool it would be to raise a woman and dashed off to pee.