Birthing blues

I have sixteen days to go till my due date– both a long time and a short time simultaneously. I always expected my pregnancy to pass quickly and while I was in Dalyan it did. The whole process has thus far been painless and trouble free, no morning sickness, no pregnancy diabetes, no swollen ankles, in fact nothing of any interest to report on. I stayed active in Turkey, working and writing, walking and cycling and even labouring in the garden. The final journey from Turkey to the UK was the harbringer of the worries that seem to plague me now as I struggle to continue in the carefree manner that marked my first eight months.

Our flight was from Izmir airport so we drove for three hours to get to that city and then popped into Ikea for three hours as this is the shortest amount of time it is possible to spend in a lifestyle superstore. At Sezgin’s insistence we arrived at Adnan Menderes airport three hours before check in only to find our flight delayed by ninety minutes. About two hours in to the gargantuan wait I realised that the travelling and shopping was taking its toll and for the first time one of the dreaded pregnancy side effects had occurred.

My ankles had swollen, the area from my knees down was an unwavering line with no comely narrowing towards the foot area. Victorians, so famously aroused by seeing even the shapely taper of a table leg could have perused my limbs fruitlessly for days looking for some sign of erotic potential. Despite trying to elevate the offending and offenive areas in the departure lounge there was no visible de-puffing. The four hour flight added inflated insult to the injury and by the time we disembarked at Gatwick my ankles were entirely indistinct and bending my foot upwards resulted in a great roll of leg ballooning over the top of the cleft. They didn’t go down for over three days and I remain a shoe size larger than I was when I left Dalyan.

As if in sympathy for my lower digits my already obvious double chin doubled in size. Every glimpse in a mirror tells me that rather than looking ‘well’ as all my visitors assure me actually I look obese – or at least my quadrupled chin-face does. I try to reassure myself that the weight gain (over 4 stone) is temporary and that I will not be a moon face forever but the effect on my psyche is much the same despite the reassurances of friends and family. I am missing the comfort of my partner Sezgin. Things were so much better in Dalyan because however negative I felt about my looks I only had to look at him and see myself reflected back as lovely and beautiful. The mirrors in my parents house seem ubiquitous and grimly unflattering.

To compound my dysmorphia this morning after showering I discovered the appearance of two large lumps of flab under my arms and wrapping round onto my middle back. They hunker between the bottom of my bra and the top of the baby belly. No matter how straight I sat and whether I loosened my bra or not they refused to disappear and now I know that along with the double chin they appear to be squatting with a view to staying permanently. I had a nice back before, unlined and lump free and I regard their arrival with great distaste.

I am staying active though, even though sometimes I can barely make the effort to haul myself into a standing position and walking for at least an hour a day. The aim of the game is to stay strong in the hope that this will both make for a speedy labour and ensure a peaceful sleep at nights. The tiredness helps without a doubt for it is the evenings that are the worst time. At home in Turkey, after working all day, I would recline on the sofa and gently fall asleep by about 9.30, Sezgin would wake me and take me to bed and as I lay next to him and breathed in his smell and comfort and presence I never thought or worried about the birth.

Here it is a different story, I retire to my bed alone and as the baby kicks me thoughts whine through my brain like a loosed arrow straight to the thing I fear the most. The person kicking me is now a fully formed being with few life skills. Not only do I have the prospect of 16 hours of labour to get through (with the attending indignities, blood, pain and injuries) but then I have a lifetime of nurturing to manage. While I’m sure I’ll cope I’m not sure that I will enjoy it or be good at it. My mental composure becomes fragile and then my mind scatters like shrapnel until it recoalesces around the image of myself screaming in a narrow hospital bed. I seem to have bitten off more than I can chew and I miss Sezgin and his support terribly. Each night in bed when the baby is more than active than usual small panics are triggered as I think ‘is this it?’ ‘is it starting?’ and I fervently hope that it isn’t – at least not before Sezgin gets back here in two weeks time.So while I try to keep these columns upbeat and positive today I can only give you the unleashed tide of my emotional overflow. Everyday I have times when I feel scared and lonely and repulsive and I find those feelings difficult to share with my family – at least I can share them with you.