2001
June 8th: I’m in Ealing car park. I don’t know why I end up here, I guess, I feel safe. My car isn’t conspicuous in a car park. I pull the lever and recline the driver’s seat so nobody can see me. I’m eight months pregnant, I feel vulnerable, and pregnancy hormones don’t help. I lay on my side, bury my head in the seatback and cry, calling out in my heart for someone to help me. I have no one to talk to. I don’t want to worry my mother, and I’m not close to any of my friends anymore. Maanav made sure of that early on. Maybe I’m calling out to God. I don’t know.
Everything was finally going well. Why this now? He didn’t hit me, but his tone and the shove in my shoulder were full of spite. What if this is just the beginning? I think about my mum and dad. Do all marriages end up like this? Why do spouses stay together if they don’t respect each other? Maybe if Mum had put her foot down at the very start and didn’t accept Dad’s behaviour, it never would have escalated to the extent that it did. Whether they’d still be together, I don’t know, but perhaps my brother and I wouldn’t be so broken.
My phone rings again and again. Finally, I answer. Maanav is apologetic and worried about me. I know I have to go home at some point, for the baby’s sake. I need to calm down, I need to eat, and I need to rest.
I’m heading home. Something has changed today, though. I dont feel safe with him anymore. I don’t trust him anymore.
June 9th: Feeling this way after a long time reminds me how severe my post-natal depression was. I book an appointment with the local mental health team. I tell Maanav that I’m going because I need support, and I want to ensure I don’t fall into the post-natal pit I did last time after giving birth.
He doesn’t offer to come with me. Nor does anyone at home.
Maanav works long hours at the factory; I hardly see him anyway. It’s the new business he’s set up with my dad. Before, he used to be home in time for dinner and Jai’s evening bath and bedtime, but now, Jai’s already in bed by the time Maanav comes home. I beg him to leave work just half an hour early to see his son and help me with the evening routine, but he says it’s impossible. He goes on more business trips to Europe, too.
We haven’t been intimate for months. Because of the polycystic ovaries, endometriosis and all the gynaecological surgery I had, it’s still too painful for me, and I can’t drink alcohol to numb the pain for him while I’m pregnant.
I love his sisters, but one is at school all day, and the other is away at University. I don’t have much of a relationship with his mother. We haven’t become close. It’s a big house, and we don’t see much of each other during the day. I miss my mother. I miss my school friends. Loneliness creeps in deeper and deeper. My only solace is my beautiful Jai and the thought of this baby to come…
July 4th: It’s a balmy July summer day. The baby is five days overdue, and I’m as exhausted as I am round. It’s as if the little one is so comfortable in there, he doesn’t want to come out. The midwife said that if he’s not out in five more days, I’ll have to go to the hospital to be medically induced. Gosh, I’d rather not wait that long. I heard somewhere that if I take a spoonful of castor oil, it can help the contractions along.
Nobody is at home. I go down to the kitchen, find the bottle of castor oil and whip out a tablespoon from the drawer. What’s a teaspoonful going to do? I pour the thick, pungent liquid into a tablespoon, and pinch my nose and down it like I’m pregaming before a party. Eugh! It’s disgusting. The taste of the oil lingers in my mouth, and I retch. What’s one spoonful going to do, though? I take one more for good measure and climb the three flights of stairs back to my bedroom to take a nap to while away the hot mid-afternoon hours.
I think I hear the front door downstairs. It must be my mother-in-law returning from running some errands. I stir a little and go back to sleep.
I’m awoken by some gurgling in my stomach and an ache that tells me I need the loo. I’m groggy from my nap. I go to the bathroom, come back and lie down.
It happens again.
And again.
Oh dear, I think I’ve had too much castor oil. It’s been going on for about half an hour. The pain keeps rolling through me, but I don’t need the toilet anymore. I time them. Less than one minute apart. Oh, Holy Moly! They’re contractions! It’s time! I telephone Maanav at the factory and tell him the baby is coming. Then I try to make my way down the stairs. It’s three flights, and I have to stop every few seconds, gripping the handrail and doubling over to bear the contractions that are coming hard and fast now. When I reach the bottom, I feel like I need the bathroom again. I go into the one downstairs, but I definitely don’t need the loo. The pressure I feel is because it’s time to push.
Thankfully, my mother-in-law is there. She grabs my favourite Lion King duvet from the TV room and places it on the entrance hall floor, so I have somewhere to lie down. She dials 999 for an ambulance.
I’m breathing as best as I can. The midwife says she is on her way. My mother-in-law calls my husband, too. He hasn’t even left work yet. She tells him there isn’t much time left. The top of the baby’s head is visible.
The paramedics just arrived. They take one look at me and tell me I’m not going anywhere; there’s no time to make it to the hospital and no time for pain relief. “This baby’s gonna be born at home!”
(Originally published on os.me on March 3, 2023)