'The Invasion Of The Womb Squatter'
Well, the years rolled by and the ruthless determination of the merciless menstrual tsunami continued to sweep me along upon a wave of unparalleled contempt for all things uterine and the like.
I was frustrated by the fact that my womb held me hostage and that no ransom could free me of its vile demands!
I was bitterly aggravated by the flash floods which would occur should I dare to laugh, run, cough or (heaven forbid) sneeze!!!
I was prickling with anger at the inconvenience of the red rage and cultivating a mood swing of such behemoth proportions as would shake the foundations of hell!
I was spitting venom at the injustice of the male being free of the diabolical discharge that we women are forced to endure and then I paused to consider how the male would handle the situation were they to be so encumbered.
Can you imagine it? They'd be turning up at the hospital A & E department every month demanding morphine!
And before any of you men out there inhale an indignant breath prior to challenging my claim...put your affronted attitude on hold until your own period starts and you're in a position to object!
Assuming, of course, you can stop bragging about the size of your tampon long enough to hold a conversation!
Anyway, moving on.
One day, it came to pass that the monthly mess did not come to pass. I was overjoyed.
My plan to start a family was blossoming into existence! AND *bonus* thanks to the delightful little womb squatter who had taken up residence in my inner sanctum, the demon possessing my uterus had been evicted...
.....to be replaced by the vile ministrations of Captain Vomit!
Now, I've had reason to project the contents of my stomach at some considerable rapidity and intensity of discomfort in the past, but nothing .......NOTHING prepared me for the horrors that would accompany the puke of the pregnant!
One of many embarrassing moments, regarding this matter, came about during the first trimester of my having what some would vulgarly refer to as' a bun in the oven'.
It was the late 70s and strike action had led to a bread shortage which in turn led to bakers being without buns in their own ovens.
The human condition, being what it is, meant that panic reigned and food stores were besieged by shoppers desperate to get their hands on the dough. Queues were ridiculously lengthy and one morning circumstance found me at the end of one such queue.
I'd shuffled along, reluctantly, with the rest of the sheep for nearly an hour, all the while feeling the escalating undulations of the ever present nausea.
Around me, as is usually the case when the public feel aggrieved over something, many in the queue were becoming feral, their anger manifesting itself through cutting jibes aimed at the bakery staff serving them.
"Who does she think she is telling me I can only 'ave one crusty cob! Lookin' at the state of her, I bet she's 'ad more than a bakers dozen in her time, one way or another!"
The noise of their nonsense exacerbated the insufferable nausea but I was only two people away from grabbing my thick sliced and buggering off home to hug the toilet, so I remained in line.
Finally, as security was called to separate two ladies arm wrestling over a lightly dusted Barm Cake, it was my turn to face the poor woman behind the counter who'd had to suffer the bitter tirade of the banshees who'd gone before me.
And that's when I opened my mouth to request a Mother's Pride loaf but, instead, managed to throw up over the counter and onto the stunned bakery woman's apron. She looked at me as if I'd queued for hours just to do that! As if I'd chosen the medium of vomit to express my disgruntlement!
This mother-to-be was far from proud of what had just occurred, albeit accidental. Indeed, the very act had rendered me unworthy of my Mother's Pride loaf!
So, after apologising profusely and offering to clean up the mess (which they kindly declined when I started to dry heave again) I ran the gauntlet of shame, back down the ever growing queue, not stopping until I reached home where I could be heartily sick in peace!
It was viciously apparent that I was evolving into an unsightly and most repugnant creature. I didn't recognise myself any more.
In fact, I could easily have passed for a Linda Blair tribute act, spontaneously showcasing the character Regan from the Exorcist via the medium of projectile vomiting! And as for all that shit about looking 'radiant'!
I refer you back to Regan. The only real difference between me and her was that she had to spend hours in make-up to look like that...I woke up every morning looking like that and maintained that state every day without effort!
My gynaecologist refused to examine me unless there was a priest present!
And this was only the beginning!
In the 40 plus weeks that would follow, during my first born's tenancy, I would be host to metamorphic changes of such dramatic proportions as to be worthy of a Stephen King novel...
...but those tales from my crypt are for next time.
To be continued:
Next time:Chapter Seven: 'Here Be Monsters'
© Copyright Lynn Gerrard