Hell's Harmonies...*chapter nine*

Chapter Nine:

'Hell's Harmonies'

So, three weeks over my due date and there I stood in front of the wardrobe looking like Jabba the Hutt, but not nearly as trim, desperately hoping to find a thing that I could loosely drape over my bulbous shape.

My search results returned a resounding "NOPE!".

By now I'd been wearing the same maternity frock for over a month because I never expected the whole pregnancy thing to drag on long enough for me to be incubating a teenager and prising myself into that dress was like trying to pull an elastic stocking over a Space Hopper!

You see, the thing is, I've always been averse to accentuating the baby carrying area via a tourniquet of tight clothes. Frankly, the entire practice of such knocks me sick!

Whatever neurosis is going on with me there has yet to be diagnosed but what I do know is that I want to see the delineation of the post-sex lump just about as much as I want to see the appendage responsible pressing against a restraining wall of lycra!

Anyway, frustration and anger raced through my system faster than a prune and castor oil cocktail and before I knew it I was dragging everything out of the wardrobe in a wild rage before dumping the redundant clump of rags, outside and into the bin.

The deed done I improvised with an outfit and wobbled off for my anti-natal appointment fully aware that if anyone so much as looked at me with even a hint of "Awww...not gone yet?" I'd be the next headline in the local newspaper reading:

'Raging Waddling Woman Exposes Whale-like Bits To Stunned Patients In Doctors Waiting Room'

"I'd only gone along to have my boils lanced" said a tearful Mrs Carbuncle "I never expected to be accosted by Moby Dick".

Anyway, as it happens not a word was uttered and it wasn't long before I was summoned into the consulting room.

"Awww...not gone yet?" 

Had the midwife not already have witnessed the monster which lurked beneath the duvet cover I'd slashed armholes into...I'd have gone through with my original response but, for obvious reasons, she was desensitised to such horror and so, I just smiled weakly whilst inwardly emitting a doleful symphony of self-piteous sobs.

"Right, I think this has gone on long enough so, we're going to use a sweep" she joyfully announced.

Surreal images of Dick Van Dyke loping across rooftops belching out "Chim chiminey, Chim chiminey, Chim chim cher-ee" scuttled across my delirious and desperate mind. 

And then Ms Midwife went on to explain that all that this would involve was myself, the examination table and a rubber glove.

Okaaaaaay!

I'll let you fuse the three components and their usage together but suffice to say I was then sent home with a cheery promise through a beaming smile...

"It's Friday today I'll make you an appointment to see me on Monday but after today's procedure I am absolutely certain you won't need it because you'll have delivered by then"

Well, I was so happy and so positive that I'd be seeing my baby before the weekend was out that I practically skipped all the way home.

Needless to say, there was no skipping when I dragged my lumbering shape all the way back to the clinic Monday morning to be greeted by a surprised Ms Midwife...and yet another rubber glove!

However, further excavations proved equally as unsuccessful and so, much to my relief, later that week I was admitted to the hospital to be induced following a few check ups the night prior to the event.

I'd never stayed overnight in a hospital before and wasn't really sure what to expect. 

Certainly what I hadn't anticipated was being woken up in the middle of the night by some heavily pregnant woman dressed in huge brown and yellow polka dot dungarees asking me, through glistening gums spraying spittle like an industrial fire sprinkler and with the aid of a pointy finger "Hey! *prod* Hey! 'ave you seen my teeth?"

I jest ye not! That is exactly what happened!

I returned a quick and disconcerted "No" after which, with knuckles dragging along the floor, she skulked off to her bed without further inquiry.

I spent the rest of the night wondering...

1)  If I was the only one she'd approached?

2)  If so, why? Was there something about me that screamed 'denture bandit'?

3)  If I dozed off, would I wake up to find her menacingly looming over me through the accusingly bitter grimace of clenched gums!

Suffice to say, I didn't sleep after that. Mind you, even if I could have I'm not sure I would have thanks to the sudden intrusion of an ever-intensifying stomach ache ruthlessly blighting any chance of rest.

And, as a result of the aforementioned 'stomach ache' a few hours on found me prostrate in the labour ward adjacent to the delivery suite from where I could quite clearly hear a series of agonising screams that could only be replicated if ones sole dietary intake consisted of Cacti, hedgehogs, barbed wire and laxatives!

Little did I know at the time that I too would be a participant in that prickly chorus of hell's harmonies later on that evening.

Oh.....my.....God!!!


To be continued:

Next Time: Chapter Ten:

'Stand And Deliver'

© Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Things Can Only Get Fatter...*chapter eight*

Chapter Eight:

'Things Can Only Get Fatter'

Every new day brought with it further manifestations of my transmogrifying self!

Ok, at first I didn't mind the weight gain 'cos, as a flat chested size 8 (uk fitting) at that time (late 70's)  the only evidence of any change was in the size of my boobs which morphed into two absolutely amazing orbs of plenty!

Look, if you've been following this blog you'll have been privy to the personal torment my mammary inadequacy has afforded me in the past...not to mention the physical pain of my having to scrub Germolene off my chest with wire wool! (for all those who haven't a clue what I'm going on about... click here and be enlightened ) so, I'm sure you can forgive me my euphoric outbursts of self-appreciation at the splendour of my own twins of rapture!

However, as the pregnancy progressed, my ever growing bump soon outdid the boobs-of-huge for the title of biggest and, as it happens, most repulsive!

Yes, I had rapidly fallen out of love with my new assets the day they turned against me by becoming so super-hyper-sensitive to touch that the very sensation of clothing brushing against them would send me spitting like a hell cat into a frenzy of vile expletives that would make Gordon Ramsey blush!

Oddly, my family claimed not to have noticed any particular change in my behaviour during these episodes...hm....

Other annoying developments were swiftly restricting my usually skinny little frame as the months DRAGGED on. Somewhere along the line I had lost the ability to bend down, so anything I was unlucky enough to drop...remained where it had fallen. I suspect that's why my next door neighbour refused to let me hold her baby for a second time.

Ohh, how I loathed the bloated, bulbous, bilious ( yep, I was still the queen of Pukesville!) banshee that I had become. My organic incubator hung over my bits, from the rib cage down, like an over-inflated Space Hopper! Apparently, however, if viewed from the rear you couldn't tell I was pregnant.

I became concious of this one day when, in passing a building site, a chorus of hearty whistles heralded my passage ceasing only when I spun around to deliver a death glare as my overly rounded shaped eclipsed their cement mixer!

Another delightful accompaniment to my enceinte condition came in the form of heartburn, which everyone assured me meant that the child would be blessed with plenty of hair. If this were true, I would be giving birth to the equivalent of Cousin Itt! 

Anyway, in between sitting and suffering in the midst of the Mothers Union at the hospital for anti natal check ups, I'd visit my midwife. She was a no-nonsense, middle aged woman with crazy, wild, grey hair and unusually large hands that were impossible to ignore, for reasons I'm sure you can imagine.

My due date had been and gone and I'd begun to consider that, at this rate, my child would probably be born wearing a school uniform! I was fed up, frustrated, fat and frequently using another F word, mostly when I looked in a mirror.

Having waddled over to the chair in the clinic, I flopped down. I reminded myself of an adult seal slapping its blubbery self on land after dragging its laboured shape from the water.

Sitting there, I waited to see what useless advice the midwife would suggest to induce labour this time . I'd just about managed to scrape myself from the loo after the "castor oil will do the job, trust me" episode! Oh yes, it did the job, alright, just not the job it was supposed to do!

As a means of induction she'd also suggested I went for a night out, got very drunk, ate a curry and then had a heavy sex session. No thanks, that's what got me into this fix in the first place!

Anyway, eventually I was summoned into the consulting room and was greeted by the sight of my midwife brazenly flaunting her unobstructed ability to bend as she folded herself into a yoga position to retrieve a pen from the floor.

And then she threw me off guard by saying...

"So then, have you thought about breast feeding?"

"No. I've thought about gormandising on pickled, red cabbage vinegar and stabbing the next person who asks 'OoOOo are you still here?' with a fork!"

She gave me a half smile before continuing...

"Breast is best for baby, you know?" She committed herself to a full smile now as she waited for my response.

"Look" I began "I need to explain. I have a phobia regarding all things 'nipple and breast' ever since my mother relayed, in GREAT detail, her account of when she breast fed me.


The very thought of the whole suckling process grosses me out! When I was a kid and our class went to the farm on a school trip they had to carry me, unconscious, back to the coach after the 'Milk Your Own Cow' demonstration! So, breast feeding isn't looking likely at the moment!"

"Ahh well, we'll see how you feel when baby comes along. I'm certain you'll change your mind" she coaxed.

"By the time baby DOES come along, it'll be old enough to feed itself!" I whinged! 

It was at that point the door opened and one of the other midwives popped her head in and, taking one look at me, she said...

"OoOOo are you still here?"

Luckily for her, I didn't have a fork with me that day!!


To be continued:

Next Time: Chapter Nine:

'Stand And Deliver'

© Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Here Be Monsters...*chapter seven*

Chapter Seven:

'Here Be Monsters'

Well, the prolific puking didn't dissipate, indeed, it gathered momentum!

Mad and unexpected things would set me off on a spontaneous spewing spree. I  also realised that not only had I adopted certain characteristics resemblant of my being demonically possessed but elements of werewolf were beginning to emerge!.

No, I wasn't howling at the moon and reaching for the Gillette Lady Shave, but I was quite bestial in temper and my sense of smell had become so sharp I could identify family members without having to look at them (that probably tells you more about their personal hygiene than it does about my sensory 
adeptness).


Yep, a few whiffs of my old Aunt Mary and for me, it was the white knuckled grasp around the toilet rim for the rest of the day!

Other changes were taking place too but none of them included my adopting this glowing feeling of well-being and mother-to-be-bliss that some expectant mothers droned on ...and on...AND ON....about, especially at the local clinic I attended for check ups.

I found the rosy cheeked, syrupy cooings and jabberings of these post copulative females, each enthusing about the wonders of pregnancy, highly irritating and acutely nauseating...and I certainly didn't need more stimuli to send my diaphragm into pre-barf contractions!

And that's another insufferable thing that came with pregnancy, my having to sit in the same room as these clucking harpies, each hocked up on folic acid and coal. It was torturous. 

You see, the thing is, I've never 'fit' with the mumsy gang, not then nor four children later. You know the kind of female I'm talking about, those 'mother earth' types who feel the need to document and share with anyone possessing ears, every tedious, coma inducing stage of their offspring's evolution.

I worried it was only a matter of time before one of them whipped out photos of the conception!

That did not mean I loved my children any less, it simply meant that I had no want to use my womb, nor its occasional inhabitants, as weapons to beat the joy out of another individuals life by submitting them to my own monotonous neonatal narrative!

The Alternative Pregnancy Guide!

I recall one particular occasion, as myself and others sat in the hospital's holding pen waiting to go in to see the doctor, when I looked around me and there was barely a bump that didn't have 'The Pregnancy Book: Your Guide To Becoming A Mother' splayed before it. 

Yes, there they were, the Magna Mater Collective, flicking perfectly manicured finger nails through the instruction manuals they were studying in preparation for their next bore-athon! 

(ha! I wonder how long those nails lasted once their 'centre of the universe' arrived!) whilst I....

...well, I had a Cadbury's Crunchie in one hand and Ira Levin's 'Rosemary's Baby' in the other! My tongue lapping around a few slivers of raw liver would have enhanced the contrast even further but I waited until I returned home for that.

For a myriad reasons this pregnancy lark was turning out to be nothing as I had expected. Mind you, as an only child, surrounded by a family mostly devoid of rug rats of their own, I'd never been in contact with anything remotely attached to the expectant state, let alone the produce of it!

My school pal, Jennifer Eccles, once let me hold her bucket of freshly scooped tadpoles but apart from these spermatozoic mimics...that's as close as I'd ever been to anything resembling embryonic.

And when I felt movement within my nesting area for the very first time, I was not suddenly flushed with a feeling of wonder and awe at the miraculous machinations of the universe, as the more nurturing amongst us had led me to believe I would be....oh no indeedy!...

...In actuality I was overwhelmed by a feeling of utter, unequivocal repulsion (if any of my beloved children are reading this, there is nothing personal to be construed here, as said, I love you dearly and I'm certain that any day now, that feeling of repulsion will wear off).

Yes, the sensation of having something alien slowly making its presence known through a medley of  soft, sinister tappings and preturnatural proddings is not dissimilar to certain aspects of Ridley Scott's 1979 film 'Alien'... 

...and some first scan photos seem to suggest, I'm not far from the truth.

To be continued:

Next time: Chapter Eight:

'Things Can Only Get Fatter'

© Copyright Lynn Gerrard

The Invasion Of The Womb Squatter...*chapter six*

Chapter Six:

'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!

Oh...my...God!

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!

Yes, my obsession with horror and the macabre, over the years, had finally come back to bite me on the arse by my being possessed!

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

The Farce Of The Flux...*chapter five*

Chapter Five:

'The Farce Of The Flux'

Quite frankly I despised the tampon as much as I did the sanitary towel! Ok, the advantage of the tampon was that, unlike the sanitary towel, you didn't have to secure it into place with a nail gun to avoid the horror of it side stepping out of position, wantonly waving it's unsightly cargo at one an' all (after all, we ARE talking pre-'Always-With-Wings' here) but the tampon wasn't without its drawbacks either!


If certain variables were in place, thereby inducing an unfortunate alignment, one heavy coughing spasm could have that thing turbo charging through the Chamber of Vaginal Mayhem (new Harry Potter title?) to ricochet around the room like a stray bullet in a china shop, only stopping once it had maimed some unfortunate sod who happened to be within range!


Oh, and then, of course, there was the embarrassment of buying the damn things, especially when based upon the heaviness of flow.

Even here society manages to soil us with its need to sully everything through the ignorance of ridicule! What am I referring to? Well, I'll tell you! I'm referring to my once handing a box of SUPER PLUS Tampax to the cashier, knowing that his judgemental eyes were reading 'Tampons for Whores'!



In essence, as by now I am sure you are well aware, dear reader, the whole farce of the flux infuriated me! I hated going to bed knackered after a hard day haemorrhaging only to wake up floating on top of the mattress in a sea of my own periodical putrescence! AND being constantly dragged from sleep throughout the night to tend to the demands of the tiresome tsunami, left me feeling even more knackered!

This state of fatigue also attracted other problems!

Problems like my flopping back into bed exhausted, only to sit bolt upright in panic as the brain suddenly asked "did you take the last one out before putting the fresh one in?"!!!!

I am certain that you have no want for me to elaborate further, however, it is suffice to say, I had to buy new BBQ tongs!

And I'll tell you something else that's exhausting...the mood swings!!

There's so much stuff going on at the same time! Crying, laughing, loving, HATING, hurting!! In fact, when the 16th century prophet Nostradamus reputedly referred to the apocalypse by saying, "When all four seasons are as one" I bet he was talking about his wife not the planet!

Yep, it ain't easy being a woman...being the psychopath on the menstrual cycle path! And God knows why all the women in the TV adverts for sanitary wear are depicted as being so bloody happy, merrily dancing around their handbags! If you REALLY want to portray the female during the period of her period, show her revving up a chainsaw as she balances a flame thrower over her shoulder!!

Who said women can't multi-task???...

To be continued:

Next time: Chapter Six: 'Invasion of The Womb Squatter'

© Copyright Lynn Gerrard