ouncement

Having a baby wasn’t really on the cards for me. I used to get really painful periods when I was a teenager, which would cause me to momentarily pass out. Once, I passed out at school in front of my RE teacher. The poor man looked terrified, he was leaning over me as I came to. I was taken to the hospital. I remember lying in a hospital bed. I think I had just been taken via ambulance, dropped and left. There was no adult with me and I was about 14. The doctor came over and started pressing on my stomach, then I was whisked away for an ultrasound. After what seemed like hours, he returned. He told me that I had inflammation in one of my Fallopian tubes. He told me I would never have children because it was a bit of a mess down there.

Looking back, that was big. I never shared it with anyone else. I didn’t think it was relevant, if I tried to explain it to my mum, it would just get complicated. I told her that a friend was admitted to the hospital with bronchitis. She blamed it on her being a bad girl who smoked. Like it was true she did smoke — but there really wasn’t any need to jump to that conclusion! Even imagining having that conversation with her at that age makes me feel sick. My mum would take me down that rabbit hole, and only she would come back out.

When I started getting serious with my husband, well we actually had the chat 5 years in. I told him that I might never be capable of having a baby. I could check my fertility and maybe get a second opinion. But, if I couldn’t, I would never want to get married. I never really saw the point, I loved the Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell story. I thought marriage was pointless, unless you wanted babies or for tax reasons. I didn’t need to be married to feel comfortable in my relationship.

My partner told me he didn’t want to check. He said he would be happy with a life with me without children. Even at the time, I thought does that mean I am indebted? Is that bad? I knew of a lot of marriages that had not survived infertility issues. In the Indian community, as well as many others, people usually blamed women for fertility issues. So the advice was normally to leave the wife for another one. Taking the fertility issue with them. The next stop would be to remove kala jadu (black magic( off the boy and his family. In my family circle no man had to take real accountability for anything. Like having a get out of jail free card in Monopoly.

There was a girl at my school a year above me; she was so cool and mean. An Indian girl that used to openly smoke at the back of the bus on the way to school. In the 80s. She had a short bob haircut twith Sun-In blonde streaks running through it. I had jet-black, greased hair with a wispy plait sashaying down the small of my back. I was not allowed to cut my hair. My mum was a psychotic Sikh about it. She believed there was a direct correlation between our hair length and our sexual purity. I thought this girl was so cool – I wanted to be her.

I found out years later her husband had been found unfaithful. He blamed his infidelity on her fertility issues. How did I come by this information, you may ask? Whilst doing seva at the Gurdwara, I heard a woman next to me say, ‘Well, what did she expect? They have been married for 9 years now with no children. His poor parents didn’t even want a dowry. All they wanted were grandchildren.’ Maybe this new girl can give them what they need. They are such a good family, a good rich family. They even let the girl go to work’. They were talking about cool girl. She had been sucked into the system. This super cool Indian mean girl had just been eaten up and spat out. What hope was there for the rest of us?

Once I got married, I never really thought about actively trying for a child. I was still young and thought if it happens, it will happen. Then my sister got pregnant. The rules changed. Everyone was asking me, what felt like on the daily, “when are you going to have a baby?” So we actively started trying. When i say that i mean, had sex without a condom. There were no fertility windows or taking of the temperature. It was just good old-fashioned drunken intercourse. Five months later, I did a pregnancy test and it read positive. I calculated back the date. I found I had actually conceived after my friend’s party at a Brazilian bar. That night I had consumed double digits of Caipirinhas.

The pregnancy was alright; I mean all-day sickness and tiredness like you wouldn’t believe. But manageable, most evenings I would come home after work and pass out until dinner. We waited until the 12-week scan to announce it. My mum and nearest and dearest knew right away of course! My body my choice.

We made it to the 12-week scan. We decided to announce it using the ultrasound picture. On the way to his parents’ house we discussed the logistics on how we would do it. As luck would have it, my husband’s grandma was also in the country fresh off the boat. She had just arrived from India for a 6-month stint. I asked my husband if I could share it with his grandma first. Afterwards, we would share it with the rest of the family.

My husband’s grandma was lovely, a shrewd-looking woman who had eyebrows that made Cara Delevingne’s look over-plucked. I loved my husband’s grandma. She wasn’t like mine at all. In India, we would cuddle up together in a blanket, she would try and teach me her ways. The best conversation I had with her was about my night attire. She advised me to stop wearing pyjamas to bed once married. Instead, she suggested I should take some of her nighties. I told her that if I wore one of her nighties to bed, she should not expect any grandbabies. She turned away from me for a bit. Then, I felt a whack on the side of my head. I looked back, and there was a cheeky sparkle in her eyes and a gummy smile. She just got my number, and I was accepted.

We got to the front door, took a deep breath, and walked in. I sat next to her at the dining table. My husband’s mum was in the kitchen, his sister and dad watching TV. I slowly smuggled out the picture from my back jean pocket and showed it to her. She looked so confused; she asked me what it was. I said, “Well, this is the head and body of a baby, and this baby is inside my tummy.” She shrieked and grabbed the side of my face and left kissing my forehead. My MIL came over to the dining table from the kitchen. She wanted to see what all the commotion was about. Then I told her. She looked at me. The first thing she said was, “Why didn’t you tell me first? It’s not fair. He’s my son.” Honest to God, she blew me away. She sounded like a child. This would be her first grandchild. And this is her reaction?

No one reacted. Everyone treated it as normal behaviour. Is that okay?