1993: In which she escapes ritual sacrifice, but not the speculum

I woke up with a stuffy head and a soaked pillow. For a few, blank seconds I thought I’d developed flu overnight. I felt hung over, my whole body stiff from lying in the same position all night. And what’s with the curious marks on my hands? Fragments of memory floated around my head. Like a dream that evaporates as soon as you open your eyes. Hmmm… something’s fishy around here. Fishy and slippery as a bugger. I just… couldn’t… catch it… It took a few more seconds for the fuzziness to clear, and then I remembered. Oh shite!

There was no question of going to school that day; I was too wiped out. Felt like a zombie. I think we all did. Plus I looked like a freak with my still swollen, bloodshot eyes and matching sets of luggage plastered to my face. Bags under the eyes doesn’t even begin to describe it. It was diabolical – I never knew a person could look that bad and not be oozing into a body bag somewhere.

But worse, the God of Teenage Mothers had decided that today was a great day to unleash the hellish monster that is morning sickness. I spent most of the morning hanging over the toilet, dry heaving until it felt as if my innards would explode out my ears (and the afternoon too – where the moniker, “morning sickness”, comes from I do not know.). Every moment not spent gazing forlornly into the toilet bowl was spent sitting over it, because that minor pregnancy niggle of needing to wee every ninety seconds had also reared its nasty little head. I’d like to chat to the sadistic bitches who call it minor, by the way. It felt pretty major to me when racing to the loo for the sixteenth time in half an hour with a seemingly bursting bladder – only to find that said bladder contained exactly one trickle and three drops. Again.

What, with all the crying and weeing that followed over the next few weeks, a severe toilet paper shortage developed in our house. I notice the pregnancy books never mention the feeling of bleakness that overcomes you as you tear the last square off the roll at three in the morning. Twinsaver Rage, I think it’s called.

I don’t know why all these textbook symptoms hadn’t started earlier. Maybe my body was waiting until all was out in the open, so that I could vomit freely without arousing suspicions of bulimia or cholera. Very considerate, you might think if you wanted to be philosophical about it. Although it’s hard to be philosophical with your head in the toilet. I bet Socrates never had that problem, but then again, he never had a toilet, nor a uterus.

No school, then, thank God. Instead, my mother and I went off to the doctor for a confirmation test (all together now: “Maybe they made a mistake…”), and then the plan was to sit down to a conversation about My Options. I don’t know how she got organised so quickly. My father was a military man, which meant we were all treated by military doctors. Handy, as it’s free, but best you never suffer from anything that a Cepacol throat lozenge won’t fix. Tonsillitis? Athlete’s foot? Leprosy? Have a Cepacol. Cutting edge it was not, and it is also notoriously difficult to get an appointment with those camo-wearing doctors Same day service, in particular, was unheard of. Unless you arrived with an arm or leg in a plastic bag, you had to wait at least two weeks to get an appointment. Even then, there had better be lots of ice in that plastic bag, because you’d be waiting a long time. And don’t bother trying to phone. If by some lucky accident the number actually worked, they probably wouldn’t answer, because it would be teatime. Or lunchtime. Or everybody would be on a management course, or the place would be closed for fumigation. If it’s free, the service is allowed to be crap. Well-known fact.

But somehow Mom managed to get me to the doctor that very day. Traditionally, in our family, she deals with those delicate Telkom complaints or rat-in-the-KFC type situations that require a firm hand, especially after others have tried in vain. This routine is known in our house as sending in the heavies. I’ve never got the hang of it myself.

I would have thought there’d still be much wailing and gnashing of teeth, but no. That’s my mom for you. She’s never been one for wailing. Thinking back, maybe she should have permitted herself at least some minor clothes renting and chest beating. She was due some freak-out time, but she never took it. She was too busy being Sensible. Maybe it would have been easier on her if she had let go a little then. Nobody would have blamed her. It’s obvious that I inherited Sensible Tracy from her (why, then, not her skinny figure or supersonic metabolism, as well?).

We waited for the doctor in silence. Silence would become a pattern those early days. There was too much to be said and we didn’t know how. It was a bad time for small talk. When my name was called, we made our sheepish way to the sister’s office. I felt like I had a flashing neon sign above my head: “Watch Out – Pregnant Girlie Coming Through!” Maybe they should have just given me one of those lepers’ bells. Picture me shuffling along in a brown Friar Tuck habit: “Unclean! Unclean!” Ding dong.