Читать книгу The Baby Diaries - Sam Binnie - Страница 17

My midwife ‘booking-in’ appointment this morning. I’ve been allocated ‘Linda’, who took an hour to slowly, slowly scroll through a hundred screens, painstakingly filling in every possible detail about my physical and medical history.

‘Linda’: Have you ever had any piercings?

Me: Just my ears.

‘Linda’: Nowhere else?

Me: No.

‘Linda’: Not your nose? Or your tummy button?

Me: No.

‘Linda’: How much do you drink?

Me: How much do you drink?

‘Linda’: I’ll put over four units a week. We recommend you keep it to under two, if you can.

Me: [meekly] OK.

‘Linda’: Do you smoke?

Me: [triumphant] No I do not.

‘Linda’: Have you ever taken recreational drugs?

Me: How long ago would it have to have stopped for us to just be able to say ‘no’?

‘Linda’: Before your pregnancy?

Me: God yes.

‘Linda’: Right, I’ll just put ‘no’ for that.

She was OK, really. It just took forever, with her insisting on reading out every option on every page to me, even though I could see the screen and read it faster than she could say it; I felt impatient, claustrophobic, wanted to just get my jabs (or whatever I had to do there) and get out.

But then she wanted to weigh me, take my height, my blood pressure and Thom’s and my family medical history, and to talk me through every possible permutation of giving birth: at hospital, at home, in a midwife-led ward, on a boat (maybe – I might have stopped listening after a while). I must have been sweating a bit when she kept talking about labour and choices and things, because eventually she said, ‘Are you alright, Katherine? How are you feeling about this pregnancy?’ but I just smiled at her, biting back my panic, and said I had a meeting to get to and was it OK if I went now? She waved me off with even more paperwork, plus a handful of blood forms for Dr Bedford. Blood forms. Ugh.

I know that she was trying to help, and I’m so grateful that care like this is free (Jesus, the thought of what this all could be costing us has brought me out in a sweat again) but does it have to be so – babyish? Do we have to keep talking about how it grows, and when I’ll feel it, and how it’s going to come out of my body? I’m sure in the next six months science will have invented a laser to just zap it right out of there. Like Innerspace, only backwards.

Even though I arrived mid-morning, I took Alice to lunch today. I was determined to try and see if she really was OK. As we settled over our bowls of bibimbap, I asked how everything was.

Alice: Honestly?

Me: Yes please.

Alice: Do you remember my ex, Simone? I saw her a couple of weeks ago.

Me: Did she look dreadful?

Alice: [sighing] No. She looked fantastic. She’d just been on a fantastic trip to her parents’ house in Italy with her fantastic new girlfriend and a whole bunch of brilliant power lesbian couples.

Me: Did you look good?

Alice: [scornful] Kiki. Need you ask. But I was thinking about how Simone never hassled me about telling my family about us, which was one of the things I liked about her. But … maybe it is getting ridiculous. Maybe I’m too old to still pretend. What am I doing?

Me: Only you know when you feel ready.

Alice: I’m almost thirty, for God’s sake. Look at you! Married, a child on the way.

Me: Hold on, don’t let me be a catalyst for anything. I tumbled into this kind of responsibility. This wasn’t a life choice, this was too much red wine in a Parisian café.

Alice: Whoah, hold something back for your child’s wedding speech.

Me: Alice, you’ll know when you want to talk to your family about it. But don’t look at me – or anyone – to see how to do things better. I can just about manage to be married, I’ll hopefully come to terms with having a baby, but I don’t think I can ever take the responsibility of being someone’s example.

Alice: You’re right. I should tell them.

Me: That … wasn’t exactly what I said.

Alice: Shhhh. Eat your bibimbap.

As we get closer to the scan date, the days crawl by. I snuck into a bookshop around the corner from the office today, and, sweating like I was buying the worst kind of porn, paid for and stuffed hastily into my bag a glossy, hardback Guide to Pregnancy. I’ve been going through it this evening, and my brain, freshly fed with dangerous information, has now started imagining all the things that can be wrong with the six-centimetre shape inside my womb. Thanks, Brain.

Thom says I should try to relax. He’s offered me baths, food, even a foot massage with a face that screamed his reluctance for me to take him up on it, and insists that we won’t know anything until the scan, and I should just take care of myself. He tried to say, Let him take care of me, but I think he could see a Force 10 Suffragettes Lecture building, and changed it to how I could look after myself. I know he wants to help, and heaven knows he’s seen enough of my panicking this year, but I can’t help it. There’s something in there, and all I can think of is Alien.