Labour of Love

by Shannon Garner

  ‘Please put the phone away. Don’t be a jerk,’ I demanded, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, emerging from the shock. I faced Andrew; at the sight of his infectious smile, I started to grin weakly. ‘I can’t believe this. What the . . . ?’

  ‘Do you want me to drive?’ Andrew offered, stuffing his phone into his pocket.

  ‘What’s the matter, Mum?’ Jaxon asked from the back seat. ‘Why did you be sick?’

  ‘I don’t know, darling,’ I said, unsure which question to answer first. ‘I can’t get out in the middle of the street, it’ll go everywhere,’ I protested, glancing down at my lap in disgust.

  The car engine still running, I checked the rear-view mirror and placed my wet, soiled hands back on the steering wheel before driving off. I took each corner with precision, calculated, slow, hoping not to spill any of the mess I cradled in my lap.

  ‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,’ I said over and over again as I pulled into our driveway and turned off the engine. The kids unbuckled their belts and leaned over to look into the front of the car.

  ‘Yuck, that’s so gross,’ Keira whined, screwing up her nose before pinching it closed with her little fingers.

  I pulled the handle, pushing the car door open with my elbow, as my children and husband watched to see how I’d tackle the quandary. Holding my skirt out with the tips of my fingers, I created a sling for the vomit, careful to slide from the car, before shaking it off onto the grass. Then I unlocked and walked in the front door and stripped off my clothes, holding them at arm’s length before skittering across the lounge room to the laundry. I tossed them into the washing machine, slammed the lid shut and ran to the shower, cupping my oversized breasts to reduce the jiggle.

  The hot water soothed my muscles as I rested my head against the tiles, my stomach feeling empty and cavernous. Moments later I buckled over again, retching, but with nothing left to offer the sensation. In between I managed to brush my teeth and wash my hair.

  As I stepped out of the shower, Andrew entered the bathroom. He screwed his nose up, laughing. ‘I’m washing your clothes with hot water, on a dirty cycle.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I glanced at the ground, my head heavy.

  ‘What is it? Food poisoning, do you think?’

  I sighed, exhaustion setting in. ‘I don’t know. We ate the same things.’

  ‘Yeah and I’m fine.’ Andrew stood before me the epitome of good health. A desire to punch him was swiftly followed by a renewed bout of vomiting. I rushed to the sink behind Andrew, gagging; it felt brutal, I thought I’d torn the lining of my stomach.

  As I resurfaced, wiping my mouth, Andrew appeared with my pyjamas. I slipped them on, the flannelette fabric soft and clean on my skin, and crawled into bed. Closing my eyes, I noticed a gripping sensation in my lower belly – a tightening of my uterus. I recognised it immediately as a Braxton Hicks contraction. I’d only had one or two so far with this pregnancy, but these were different – relentless, constant. I pressed my hands into my stomach; it was taut and hard, like a soccer ball.

  Andrew sat down by my side, placing a bucket on the carpet next to the bed and a glass of water on the bedside table.

  ‘I’m having lots of Braxton Hicks,’ I whispered, glancing up at him, missing his response as I fell asleep, drained by the illness.

  Hours slipped away and I was trapped in a nightmare – vomiting bile as my eyes bulged from my head then sipping water to cleanse my throat, only to bring it straight back up. The Braxton Hicks continued, severe, my uterus constricting every few minutes.

  That night Andrew slept in Jaxon’s bed, leaving me to experience my own private hell, one I thought would never end. Sleep came to me in thirty-minute stints and then I’d be woken by the force in my throat or the cramping of my uterus. I wept on and off, the chronic throb in my head unbearable. I was scared for Baby JJ – was she okay? She barely moved, not a kick or a turn, just the tightening, again and again, my uterus compressed, mimicking labour.

  Around midnight, I rushed to the toilet with diarrhoea. As I sat there I scolded myself for leaving the bucket by my bed, having to switch positions between rear-first and head-first. The next few times it happened I managed to scoop up the bucket on my way to the bathroom; I sat on the toilet, head over the bucket on my lap, heaving, with nothing left to give.

  When morning finally came, giggles and whispers could be heard as the kids stood in the doorway to my bedroom, sneaking a peek at Mummy the morning after.

  ‘Please don’t come in, please,’ I cried. ‘I don’t want you to get sick.’ I lay there listening to the patter of the kids’ feet on the floorboards as they escaped to the lounge room.

  Andrew crept into the room a while later, circumspect, scanning the surrounds with his eyes as if expecting to find a diabolical mess. I was the mess, I thought, as I buried my face into the pillow.

  ‘Are you okay? How’d you sleep?’ he asked, sitting next to me, inspecting the contents of the bucket, eyebrows raised, mouth pulled stiff.

  ‘I don’t know . . . if I’ve slept. I’m . . . not sure,’ I stuttered, tears burning my tired eyes. ‘I had diarrhoea all night too . . . at the same time. It was horrible. Do you think she’s okay? She’s hardly moved . . . I had Braxton Hicks constantly.’ I gripped my belly, shaking the mass as if to conjure up a response from the life inside.

  ‘I’m not sure, what do you think?’

  ‘Should I text Dr Wright and ask him, see what he recommends?’ I twisted in bed, every muscle seizing in pain.

  ‘Okay, do that and see what response we get. I’m going to make the kids breakfast. Do you want anything? A smoothie?’

  The thought of food made me cringe. I was hungry, my stomach empty, but I wasn’t sure I’d keep anything down. ‘I’ll try a smoothie, please.’

  Half an hour later my suspicions were confirmed. The few mouthfuls of smoothie were on the way back up, leaving my body much more quickly than they went in.

  Andrew had a busy day ahead, doing urgent repairs to the fishing boat he’d just sold before it was picked up by the new owners. The boat was stored out the back of his work. He planned on working on it all day in preparation for the handover.

  ‘I’m so sorry, but I can’t have the kids today,’ I said. Andrew stood before me ready to go, his baseball cap on. ‘There’s no way I can look after them, babe. I’m just too ill.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll just have to take them with me,’ he said, defeated. ‘I guess they can ride their scooters around the back while I fix a few things.’

  ‘I’m sorry, babe. I know you’re under pressure to get everything ready for the new owner tomorrow, but I can’t do it.’ I curled into the foetal position, my uterus still cramping, body shivering with cold sweats.

  The kids blew me a kiss from my bedroom door, Andrew guiding them by their shoulders, feet shuffling. ‘Come on, we have to go. Bye, Mum. Get better soon.’

  I managed a smile, eyes half closed, crying as I heard Keira say, ‘Poor Mummy.’ The front door closed behind them. The air in my room was stale, the timber blinds shut, the lack of sunlight deepening my depression. I felt dirty, infected and contagious, confined to my bedroom – no visitors allowed. Nor did I want anyone to see me. On my own, I continued to worry about Baby JJ.

  It was Sunday morning, so I waited until 9 am to send Dr Wright a text message. I filled him in on my night, the symptoms, and informed him that I hadn’t felt Baby JJ move, only the constant tightening. Awaiting his reply, I vomited a couple more times and then stumbled back to bed, hunched over, holding my stomach. Lying down, I cradled my bump, hoping for a response. Nothing. I nestled my head into the softness of my pillow, my eyes closing, welcoming sleep.

  Beep! I awoke with a start, lifting my phone, checking the time. Two hours had passed. Blurry-eyed, blinking, I read the message from Dr Wright. He was in Brisbane but suggested that I go to the hospital to get myself and the baby checked out by a midwife, just as a precaution.

  I rang Andrew. �
��Can you please come home and take me to the hospital? Dr Wright said we need to be checked, Baby JJ and I.’

  Andrew’s voice was hesitant. ‘Ah, I’m right in the middle of something on the boat. Daniel’s here with his kids and he’s helping me. I’ll get Mel to come and get you.’

  I didn’t want to bother my sister-in-law with my problems, make her pack up whatever she was doing on a Sunday to take me to the hospital; she had enough on her plate, and if I was honest with myself, I wanted Andrew. ‘No, I want you to come and get me, please. Don’t bother Mel.’ Angry, I stiffened my grip on the phone, tears welling in my eyes.

  I need you . . . only you.

  ‘Why can’t Mel just take you?’ Andrew asked, annoyed. ‘It’ll be okay. Look, she’s about to get sorted and leave her house. Daniel just rang her.’

  I held the phone away from my ear, closed my eyes, my throat stiff with rage. ‘Please, I need you to come and get me. I’m not good. I’m sick and worried about Baby JJ. I don’t want anyone else to take me. I need you,’ I cried, frustrated.

  ‘Shan, come on. Mel can do it. You’ll be right.’

  The combined effects of sleep deprivation, worry and nausea overwhelmed me. I squared the phone in front of me, staring at the screen. ‘Fine . . . Screw you, you prick!’ I screamed into my mobile, and ended the call. Immediately I regretted the words, clutching the phone to my sweaty chest.

  I was alone. Alone in my sickness. Alone in my doubt. Alone in my responsibility for another life. Then alarm shot through me like a bullet – Andrew said that Mel was on her way. I sat up. I was a mess: hair in knots, breath unimaginable, teeth furry, pyjamas damp with sweat. I rushed from bed then staggered, the room spinning, pain stabbing at my temples. I panted with exertion, lurching towards my walk-in robe. Never in my life had I been so sick, so weak.

  My phone rang from my bedside table and I spun around, picking it up. ‘Hello,’ I said, breathless.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ Andrew snapped. ‘I’ll be there in five minutes, so get ready.’

  He hung up. I crumpled in relief. He was coming to help me.

  Shaky, I could barely dress myself, lifting my legs into pants, pulling a t-shirt over my head. In the bathroom I leaned on the vanity, propped up on elbows, brushing my teeth. I glanced in the mirror, noting the small, red eyes and washed-out complexion, and decided I was presentable enough for a person who felt like they were dying. I didn’t care what I looked like. All I cared about was Baby JJ.

  Leaving the house, I squinted, shielding my eyes from the bright sunshine. I managed to walk across the verandah, grabbing the railing as Andrew sped into the driveway.

  Opening the door, I blurted, ‘I’m sorry but how could you think it was okay to send someone else to take me to the hospital? Honestly, Andrew, I feel like I’m dying. God knows what’s going on in there for Baby JJ.’ I shut the car door, tears brewing.

  Andrew shrugged. ‘I didn’t think it would be a big deal. Mel wanted to help.’

  ‘But I don’t want Mel to worry about me. I don’t want her to get sick. Plus I need my husband. I need to know you’ll be there for me when I need you the most.’

  ‘I will. I am. I’ve had to leave the kids with Daniel out the back of my work so I could take you. It wasn’t easy for me to just up and leave.’

  I processed his words, felt the evil tickle of guilt. Baby JJ wasn’t Andrew’s child and he had no real responsibility towards her. She wasn’t tangible, in front of his eyes, but I was, he had a responsibility to me, his wife. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your day, I really am, but I’m sick and I can’t help that.’

  We walked into the maternity ward at the hospital, my arms hugging my body. At the reception desk, a midwife glanced up from paperwork, her face blank, eyes assessing.

  I struggled to speak. ‘I’m a patient of Dr Wright’s. I’m nearly twenty-eight weeks pregnant and I’ve been up all night with vomiting and diarrhoea.’ I caught my breath. ‘I’ve also been experiencing very strong Braxton Hicks for the last twelve hours or more. I’m . . . worried.’ I rubbed my belly to console myself as hot tears fell.

  Her face softened as she placed the paperwork on the desk. ‘Oh, you poor thing. You don’t look well at all. Come with me and we’ll check you out. My name’s Kathy.’ She put her arm around me, leading me to an examination room.

  Shivering, eyes closed, I lay on the bed. Tears rolled down my cheeks, exhaustion and worry taking over. Was Jon and Justin’s little girl okay?

  ‘I’ll just pop this strap around your stomach and we’ll monitor baby for a while. I’d like you to press this button every time you feel a kick,’ Kathy said, handing me a thin rod with a button on the end, connected to the monitor by a cord.

  ‘That’s the thing. I haven’t felt the baby move for a while, since yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Okay, don’t panic. I’m sure it’ll be fine. You’re not having Braxton Hicks now, are you?’

  ‘No.’ I paused, glancing at the ceiling in the hope I’d feel something, anything. ‘Not for a while now.’

  ‘Severe dehydration can cause Braxton Hicks, very strong ones, so I’d say that’s why you were up all night with them. Let’s just monitor baby and see how we go.’ Kathy patted my arm before leaving the room.

  I turned to face Andrew and he took my hand, stroking my fingers with his thumb. His gaze was attentive and concerned, as if he’d finally realised I was in need of his help – I wasn’t bluffing.

  I knew that the surrogacy was hard for him: it disrupted his life, both of our lives. His wife was devoted to two other men for more than twelve months, her mind on other things, important things that most of the time didn’t involve him at all. He was on the outside looking in, watching me fret over Baby JJ’s wellbeing. But all I needed was him by my side, like we’d always been, holding my hand, ready to catch me if I fell, just like he was doing now.

  I gripped his hand, holding the clicker out with my other, poised and waiting for any signs of movement from Baby JJ. ‘Uh, I think she just moved,’ I said, surprised, pressing the button.

  Over twenty minutes I recorded a few movements as my blood pressure was checked along with my temperature.

  The midwife glanced at the thermometer. ‘I advise you to get some Hydralyte and start taking it immediately to rehydrate your body. Other than that, baby seems fine – her movements are pretty good, heartbeat’s perfect. You don’t need to worry, you just have to get yourself well again. Plenty of rest.’

  Awash with relief, I smiled. All I wanted to know was that Baby JJ was healthy. ‘Thank you,’ I whispered. ‘Thank you.’

  After a quick stop at the chemist, Andrew dropped me off at home and I managed to keep down one orange-flavoured Hydralyte icy pole. I crawled back into bed and slept all afternoon, hands on my belly as I dozed. I stayed that way for another day – sipping on water, chipping away at the icy poles with my teeth. I was surprised by my own weakness. I tried to venture out into the kitchen after a couple of days, keen to start preparing a meal for the kids, but I got dizzy and breathless, and Andrew gripped my shoulders, forced me back to bed.

  I had informed the boys of my ‘bug’. They were concerned, offering to come up and help me and my family. I declined: I was on the mend, the worst over, Andrew helping where he could, until he fell ill himself.

  The virus swept through the house, consuming each of us in its path. Andrew was bedridden for two days and I managed to muster up some energy to feed the kids, get them ready for day care and preschool and disinfect the house with antibacterial wipes and bleach. Jaxon, struck down next, was transferred into our bed, Andrew migrating to Jaxon’s room to sleep. Every twenty minutes I’d find the bucket, bring it to Jaxon’s chin. I lay beside him, waiting for him to cry again, prodded awake by the gnawing in his gut, a forewarning of what was coming. I cried, my heart breaking as he sobbed, begging me to make it stop. I couldn’t, all I could do was be there, rubbing his back, pressing a wet cloth to his forehead.

 
A day later Keira fell ill and I spent another night in my bed, helping my daughter as her tiny body heaved. Like Jaxon, she wailed and begged me to make it go away, and I brushed her hair off her sweaty brow, trying to comfort her.

  The next day we were all at home, our sick family unit. Andrew took the day off work, still trying to recover. The clouds burned off by lunchtime, the sky light blue, inviting. Each of us lay on a blanket on the patch of grass in our backyard, too weak to do anything other than sleep, letting the sunlight warm our skin. Baby JJ kicked inside me, possibly acknowledging the light that shone on my bare belly. Hydralyte icy poles had become a staple, Jaxon and Keira waking to consume one each before falling back asleep in the solace of the sun.

  Over the next week, everyone regained their health, me a little more slowly. Due to the pregnancy and a suppressed immune system, which is a commonly heard assumption, my illness developed into a chest infection; I battled with fevers, headaches, a raspy, wet cough and clogged sinuses.

  Enough, I thought. I was determined to get on top of things, and I knew I had to start with what I chose to pay attention to. I believed the sickness was a reflection of my emotions, evidence of my fear and my wavering self-belief. I had allowed myself to be knocked around by others’ opinions. I had to take back control and embrace my own belief that being a surrogate was good, kind and virtuous.

  I had to focus on the real reason why I was doing the surrogacy.

  For the love within me.

  For Jon and Justin.

  For their daughter.

  23

  Twinkle, twinkle, little star, do you know how small you are?

  On 13 September I woke to a text message from my mum: You’re on the front page of the Sydney Morning Herald!

  I blinked, eyes straining to read the words. ‘Oh my God,’ I squealed.

  Dawn’s article had come out in the Good Weekend magazine, a magazine found inside the Saturday edition of the Sydney Morning Herald – out there for the whole state of New South Wales to see.