Crackers

Read Time: 5.5 mins

It’s funny when things go wrong how all consuming they can be. Christine’s first trimester had been rough. The morning sickness, which was more of an all-day sickness, started only a few weeks into the pregnancy. This, coupled with burn-out and the release of 15 years worth of stress, made for a very tired, very sick Christine. 

It took me a while to get used to our new daily routine. We would wake up and she would list off all the things she wanted to do that day. I would try to hide how terrible I felt holding her back whilst simultaneously telling her she needed to make her expectations more realistic. She would then get up, head downstairs, refuse to eat her anti-nausea crackers, ignore anything I said, and then promptly vomit bile into the downstairs toilet.

“Oh, maybe I need to eat something before I get up.” Day 22.

“Oops I should have eaten something.” Day 58.

“Ergh, I guess I probably should have eaten something.” Day 79.

I don’t know why I kept bothering. Any person in their right mind would accept that several months of someone ignoring anything you said because they had decided that you were wrong would be enough to stop you continuing. However, I kept trying to be supportive and I kept watching as every day she walked towards a cliff and then threw herself from it proclaiming “Watch me fly!”

The rest of the day I would have to sacrifice my work and hobbies just to force her to sit on the sofa and recover. The moment I would move in the direction of doing something, she would be up with a desire to help or to do her own thing. The usuals: deep clean the kitchen, go for a three hour hike, or slay a dragon.

In all honesty, I also lost those first months of pregnancy. I couldn’t get any work done. I spent zero time woodworking in my shed. And, I barely made any progress on the ongoing renovations of our house. That being said, it was as beautiful as it was infuriating. For everything that I didn’t do, I got to hang out with my favourite person from morning to night watching TV and cuddling. All in all, it was one of my favourite times.

My fears for mother and child were non-existent. She was home from work, supported by the incredible Dutch social system, whilst recovering from an unpleasant past. She was tired and wobbly, raw and emotional, but being self-employed I could be there for her and together we got through the first few months. 

Things changed in December. As the first trimester came to an end, Christine caught a bug. A bug that had made it its mission to make her life miserable. 

She fell very ill for six weeks. During that time Christine went through 75 ice lollies, several grams of codeine, 4 daily steroid tablets, 3 sets of antibiotics, and more paracetamol than I can count. Yet nothing seemed to budge that bug from it’s happy home inside of my wife-to-be.

I had been worried for a while and concern took up every thought of every day. I couldn’t show it but all I wanted was to be frustrated once more that I couldn’t work because I needed to babysit my fiancee. To be snuggled up on the sofa binge watching cosy crime and just enjoying each other’s presence. Christine was becoming a shadow of herself. I barely recognised her. One Sunday, she was in so much pain that she burst into tears begging for it to be over. 

It had been snowing for several days at this point. I drove the 7 mins route in triple that time, the tyres of the car desperately trying to grip onto anything remotely textured in the 30cm deep snow. Christine couldn’t hold herself up in the waiting room and all I could do was act as a human crutch for her torso as we waited, praying for a good doctor.

A tall doctor opened the door and called Christine’s name. My bubbly force of nature fiancée simply stared back.

“Can you come too?” Her voice was hoarse. “I don’t remember what’s wrong with me anymore.”

And with that I followed her into the doctor’s office.

The same doctor, a new mother herself, had been looking after her for the last few weeks but this was my first encounter with her. She looked at me, slightly perplexed.

“I’m just the butler,” I smiled, Christine put her hand on my chest in agreement.

“You’re sick.” The doctor stated. Christine nodded. I nodded, although I felt that I could have made the same diagnosis for cheaper.

The doctor hoisted Christine onto the examination table and checked all the important things. Blood pressure, blood oxygen, all the cavities and her temperature.

“Blood oxygen,” the doctor murmured “perfect.”

I smiled from my seat, knowing if Christine had been with it she would have shot me a look so I wouldn’t forget that she was “perfect”. She just lay there like a sad little zombie with a cough.

When all the medical examinations were done she sat back down next to me and the doctor started to explain what she would try next - a different set of antibiotics. Christine seemingly uninterested started squeezing my hand. I looked over to find her with eyes bulging and a look of panic on her face.

“Oh no,” she said. The doctor’s eyes shot up. “Oh no, no — no. Not now.” We both looked at Christine trying to decipher what was going on. She was squirming in her seat seemingly looking for something. She stopped, held onto both arms of the chair with white knuckles while breathing deeply through swollen tonsils. 

“She’s going to be sick.” I blurted out, “that’s it, she’s about to vomit.”

With that both the doctor and I were on our feet trying to find something she could vomit in to. The doctor had thrown open the top drawer of her desk desperately scrambling around for a sick bag. 

“Why are there no sick bags in the office?!” She pressed a button on the telephone and some signal was sent out to the assistants.

“The sink, Christine, quick the sink.” I said hurriedly pointing her in the direction of the sink. In a moment of speed that I hadn’t seen from her in months, she flung herself at the doctor’s hand basin and wretched up bile and phlegm. Her feet dance when she is sick. They danced again now as she vomited several more times. The doctor rubbed her back and told her not to worry. 

When she had washed the vomit down the sink and helped Christine back to her chair we started to discuss the prescription. One of the assistants burst in holding a sick bag. 

“Too late,” we said in unison.

As we drove home on the icy roads. Christine’s feverish forehead against the icy window, “oh my god, how embarrassing,” she moaned, “I puked in the doctor’s sink. I hope that never happens again…”

“It won’t,” I grinned, “if you’d just eat your morning crackers.”