The first trimester: the Miracle of Childbirth

I don’t know if this post requires a trigger warning, but it’s a heavy read. Writing it was heavy. If you feel the need to stop reading, please do.

I’m choosing to call this my first trimester because my pregnancy journey wasn’t what most people would call “normal.” It was my own, and it was anything but common.

I had been wanting a baby for a while but had started to feel like I couldn’t get pregnant. So imagine my shock when the test came back positive. 

I’ll start from the beginning. Grab some tea or something because we’re going to be here for a minute. 

It was just a regular day in the Botswana heat. My partner and I were lounging in bed, but I remember feeling sluggish. I figured it was my period on its way—thanks to Flo—so the cramps weren’t a surprise. I felt so down in the dumps that I went to lie on the couch alone. By the time my partner left for Zimbabwe, I was about three days late. It didn’t alarm me, since I’m usually a few days early or late. 

I joked with him about being pregnant, and he said yes, he thought I was. He even doubled down on it, though I didn’t think so. Everyone says you “just know,” and I didn’t feel any different. Which is funny because the moment I got the confirmation, I somehow did know exactly when and where it had happened. He was so sure; in hindsight, it’s almost comical.

I was five days late when I finally took the test. My friend—my Tony Stark—was the one who actually administered it, since I couldn’t manage to pee on the stick like a normal person. So she held the jar of my urine. The test wasted no time. I went into actual shock. I was torn between, “Oh my god, it’s happening,” and “Oh my god. It’s happening.” I might have blacked out for a second. The truth is, even when you’re hoping for it, it’s still a shock. I’d been ready to call my partner and tell him he was wrong, but in the end, I was the one who was wrong—something that rarely happens. I immediately called my best girl, then my mom. Everyone’s jaws dropped. How real. 

For the longest time, I still couldn’t fully believe it. I later figured out by myself that I had an anterior placenta, which meant my bump was barely visible. I’ve always been a fan of baggy clothes (it’s a texture thing), so unless you already knew I was pregnant, there was nothing obvious about it. That’s actually what I hated about it—how people felt free to offer their opinions about my body. Comments like, “You’re not eating enough” or “Your bump is too small” came constantly. It was the fastest way to piss me off because people were quick to criticize my food intake but never wanted to hear me explain that I not only had an anterior placenta but was carrying low and had hyperemesis gravidarum.

Hyperemesis gravidarum (HG) is not the “morning sickness” everyone talks about; it’s in another league entirely. It’s an extreme form of pregnancy nausea and vomiting that can last the entire pregnancy, and in severe cases, you can’t keep down food or water. For some people, HG means rapid weight loss, malnutrition, and even hospitalization (like your girl over here). I was diagnosed with HG before my first scan and honestly didn’t know how much weight I’d lost by then, but things were already looking bleak.

If you take away anything from this post, let it be this: the first trimester is as horrible as people say. 

It was hell in there. 

The highlight was how sick I was, all while trying to get through school and prepare for exams. I kept thinking, failure wasn’t an option. I didn’t have a Plan B because I am not talented, I’m not even qualified to be a SoundCloud rapper; Plan A was to graduate and make a living for my level of comfortability. 

At my first scan to check for viability, I was terrified. I couldn’t eat or drink water, and I worried I was endangering the baby’s life. But my baby’s resilience was unbelievable. Looking back now, I’m in awe. For those who know her, her happy, curious, and fiery soul isn’t a surprise. But in those early moments, I thought she was suffering because of my inability to keep anything down.

Let me be clear: what I went through isn’t normal. If you go through anything similar, seek help immediately; this can kill you. They call it the miracle of childbirth not just because babies are a blessing, but because it’s a miracle we survive it. I’ve been through a lot, and pregnancy was by far the hardest thing I’ve ever faced.

Through it all, though, my baby was somehow healthy and resilient. My little wolf.

Cue the tears.

I didn’t have some loving attachment to her as a fetus; I just needed her to survive. At that first scan, I held my breath, sure that I’d see nothing. And then, there it was.

But in that moment, I didn’t care. I was miserable. It’s only now, looking back, that I can watch that moment and feel the joy and love I was supposed to feel then. And that guilt—I carry that guilt with me because I love her. She’s my whole world. But back then, I was at my lowest, wishing it would end for both of us. I underestimated her and my own survival instinct. My body was quite literally shutting down, and at my worst, even the IV drips made me throw up. I remember the doctors saying if my health didn’t improve, we’d have to terminate the pregnancy because it was killing me.

I can’t fully explain the numbness I felt. It was, and still is, almost too much to think about. I couldn’t bathe myself or even walk—I was practically a vegetable. Hearing someone else say that the pregnancy might end felt like a betrayal, even though they were being rational. And yet, no matter how much I wanted an escape, this was still my baby to protect, even if my feelings toward her were mixed and complex.

And those feelings were valid because they were mine. I don’t let anyone shame me for that. I won’t apologize for my truth; it was the worst time of my life 

The strange thing is, whenever I could, I’d buy baby clothes. I found a tiny hat and couldn’t believe any head could fit it. Ironically, she didn’t even fit into it—she was too tiny. I was also getting prenatal massages to rehabilitate my legs, thanks to a traditional midwife my great-aunt knew. She made sure I ate what little I could, mostly two things I hate: butternut and watermelon. Yes, I’m one of those Black people who can’t stand them. Sue me. She took care of me in the few weeks I was with her, and while I struggle to express my gratitude, I’m forever thankful.

I’m also grateful for Hiccup’s “deputy father”—a friend who became family in the truest sense. It became a running joke that she was the “father” of my baby because, no matter what was going on, she’d drop everything to take me to the hospital, beginning to end. We weren’t even that close before, so it was a bonding experience for both of us. Hiccup brought people together in unexpected ways, and I love that.

This is just the beginning. In part two, I’ll share what came next in my second trimester.