People still ask me this question regularly and I’m not sure the answer will ever change –
“Did you enjoy being pregnant”?
Ha, fuck no.
I gained 22kg’s in 9 months. I was moody as fuck. I was fat. I was so scared about giving birth, holy fucking shit. I was still working and had only just started out in the industry I had always wanted to be in – seemed to be the only one out of the two of us who actually gave a fuck about working. I constantly felt sick. All I wanted to do was sleep or eat. My breakfast consisted of milk and custard pies. It was crazy, I was crazy – and for me, ugh, I think I’ll pass on pregnancy again thank you!
J. only ever had a couple of jobs here and there while we were together. Funny story, I started to drive his car to work every day because he randomly stopped going into his. I had no idea why and when I asked he told me there was “no work” and “not to stress”. Visiting my parents one night (Mum & step-Dad) and Dad told me he had heard a story, one of J, being in an altercation with his boss at work. Subsequently (and unbeknownst to me), J. had been fired. The car I was driving had his fucking tool box in the boot and I didn’t even fucking know…
This man couldn’t even hold a job because of his violent behaviour.
So, we were fucking broke. His mother was taking us shopping every other weekend to buy baby things. If it wasn’t for her and her purse, our daughter would have been born, we would have had nothing and been exceptionally unprepared. We also shared a house mate and unfortunately, all I can say about that is, she was the bane of my existence and no shit, every pregnant women’s worst nightmare.
From about 32 weeks I really started to feel the pinch in my pregnancy. I would rarely come out of my bedroom and was mildly depressed. There were parties being had at my house every other weekend, the house was always a mess and I was the only sucker that ever cleaned it, our house mate leached off J. and I financially, as if we weren’t already fucking struggling. J. had provided me with next to no emotional support and I felt like I had been going through the whole experience on my own.
Fast forward to the day before I went into labour. I was 36 weeks pregnant, it was Tuesday, 1 November 2011. J. and I had an argument, oh wow, no fucking way? An argument? Yes way.
It started because I was moody and hormonal over the housemate continually doing sweet fuck all and us having to do everything for her. As per usual, my opinion wasn’t warranted, and the argument escalated. I remember not wanting to take his fucking shit that day. I remember thinking maybe he wouldn’t fire up as much when I went to defend myself because I was pregnant. So, I found a voice and we began to go tow to tow.
I had to be careful when we did this, sometimes I knew how it was going to end and asked myself why I would even bother with him, or the argument, but he would persist with or without a reaction from me. One wrong word would tick him off and towards the end I knew all the signs. His eyes would go black, like black, his chest would pump up and he would get ready to charge at me from wherever he was.
He threw me onto the bed onto my back, he sat on my legs, leaning over me looking into my eyes with his arms holding my arms behind my head. He wouldn’t let them go and had a really tight grip on them. I was yelling at him, telling him to get off me. He eventually stood up. He smashed the chest of drawers and by smash I mean – took every drawer apart, smashed them into pieces and threw every piece of clothing I owned across the room, telling me to get the fuck out of the house, which by the way, was my mothers.
He grabbed me from the bed and threw me across the room at the wall. I sat there curled in a ball, crying. Begging him to leave me alone, telling him he was going to bring on labour if he didn’t. Eventually, he left the bedroom. I cried so much when he did. I turned all of the lights off and locked the bedroom door so J. couldn’t come back in. I remember having to clean up the mess as best I could, but it was more than obvious something had happened there that day.
A fair few hours had passed. As per usual J. had started doing all the right things to “say sorry”. The house was clean, dinner was cooked, he was waiting on me hand and foot. Usual bullshit. We lay in bed that night, my back was facing his as it always would. He tried it on, like he always did- especially after arguments like we had that day, which, disgusts me and is a story for another day…
I went to the loo later that night and realised something strange was happening. I asked J. to take me to the hospital. They did that fucking thing with their fingers where they check how far dilated you are – fuck me, and they told me I was 2cm and to go home. They said to expect to go into active labour sometime over the next twenty-four hours.
Yeah ok, I’m not fucking ready for this…
We went home. I lay in bed and think about the next twenty-four hours and what I was about to endure. I still wonder to this day if the altercation between J. and I that day had any way contributed to my early labour. I was only thirty-six weeks. I didn’t get very much sleep that night. I remember feeling tiny pains in my stomach thinking, hmm, this is ok, I guess. Took a couple of Panadol at about 2:00am and attempted to pass out.
Things got a little more serious come 10:00am the next morning. These little pains were coming on a little bit more and they were also starting to hurt. Anyone who knows me, knows I am such a fucking woos, ha. I remember finally deciding to call mum. I’d been trying to not really think about what was happening to my body up until this point. I remember being on a ball, walking around, thinking, nah, ok, fuck I can actually do this, right?
Mum comes, I’m in the shower, she comes to see me through my bedroom and I’m crying. She tells me to get in the car and says she will take me to hospital. Lach was in the car. He was in the back and I remember him laughing at me because I was making all sorts of weird noises. We arrive at the hospital and fuck me; the nurses do that thing again – “4cm’s” she says.
I probably could have hit that nurse. Being told you are 4cm’s dilated when you are in all sorts of fucked up pain, is not cool. I just wanted this shit over and done with, but I had 6cm to go and I wasn’t entirely sure I was going to cope. I was sobbing and screaming from the pain. J. was loving the laughing gas and food from the Hospital café though. He kicked me out of the shower at one point because he had to use the toilet. He comes back out saying he needed to go home – the hospital food had given him a stomach ache. I could have killed him. He obviously didn’t leave he just self-medicated some more.
Safe to say, the whole of Kalgoorlie would have heard me screaming at the hospital that day, until I yelled at my midwife and demanded morphine.
Shit happened real quick (maybe a little too quick) after that needle in the bum.
7:22pm on Wednesday, 2 November 2011, I gave birth to a beautiful little girl. Her eyes were so big and her limbs were so long. She had no hair and was so quiet and content. Mischa was honestly the most beautiful baby I had ever seen.
Those pains in my stomach were finally non-existent to, thank fuck.
I was so fucking high though. Holy shit. I remember her laying in my arms and me looking at her thinking, wow, what the fuck just happened. I had some serious battle scars too that attracted the attention of a fair few nurses and one doctor, but that situation didn’t phase me one fucking bit.
Happy as a pig in shit, I walked out of the birthing suite pushing my baby girl into our hospital room. I couldn’t stop staring at her. She amazed me. Her cry amazed me. The fact I could distinctly tell who she was just by hearing her cry, amazed me more.
Was I ready to be a mum? Fuck no. Was I happy about the idea at first? Fuck no. Will I ever regret having her? Fuck no.
My daughter has been a pillar of strength for me and the day she was born I knew within my heart I needed to do everything within my power to guide her and protect her. She re-lit the fire inside my soul and made me feel like everything was going to be ok. She made me feel safe for the first time in a long time. I finally wasn’t alone, and I had so many more reasons now to leave the situation I was in.
Much to my surprise, my mum eventually questioned me about the night before the birth. She said she noticed bruises all up my arms and the room (obviously). She told me she wasn’t “stupid” and knew what was going on. I feel like having Mischa only made my family become more protective over me and us, to the point they started to voice their opinions a lot more.
I knew my life wasn’t meant to stay in Kalgoorlie. I needed a way out, desperately. If I was ever going to be on my own with a child, I needed to be able to work, and live in a nice, cheap house, and build networks and for some reason, Kalgoorlie never felt like home to me.
So, I set off on a mission to get our asses to Perth and used J. and his family to my advantage to do so.