Column: Natasha Bell
Well, I’ve gone and got myself knocked up again. That’s right, another bun baking away in my 38 year old geriatric uterus. Faced with pregnancy piles, wobbly pelvis and breasts large enough to thrust me into the obscene, how am I feeling? Absolutely thrilled to be honest.
kay, so this pregnancy wasn’t exactly planned with military precision. No turkey basters, timed ovulation and lying with my legs in the air post coitus, here. More like very vigorous shagging and a broken condom. And no, the morning after pill didn’t cross my mind. For godsake I’m pushing 39. I’ve more chance of concurrently winning the lottery and catching Ebola, than getting pregnant from a single session.
Like some callow teenager from an episode of Hollyoaks, it took me a while to figure out I was pregnant. The nausea I put down to good old British binge drinking and the late period down to the early onset of menopause. When I did finally put stream of urine to Clearblue stick, the positive result was somewhat of a shock. My partner P was absolutely elated, finally convinced of his super human virility. I was happy and excited albeit with a tiny caveat of caution.
I suppose I feel slightly cautious because my last pregnancy didn’t go completely to plan, although my toddler has robust health, beauty and brains in abundance. I had been cocksure that I would have a supremely positive perfect pregnancy. So confident I even posed naked mid-pregnancy on a cover of a magazine (no, not that kind of magazine. Although I’m sure I could have made quite a bit of cash with potential specialist taste appeal.) I planned to stay on my then existing drug combination and have a normal delivery as I was convinced of the longevity of my undetectable viral load. Instead, six weeks before my baby was due my viral load began to rise and I discovered I had developed resistance to two of the drugs in my combination. My baby turned up four weeks early and I was sliced and diced with a sizzling bloodless c-section.
This time I’ve decided to switch from my slightly dodgy drug combination (I’m resistant to one of the drugs) onto something more robust. I’m not even going to entertain the idea of a vaginal delivery, bring on the C-section I say. I recognise that the risk of transmission of HIV to my baby is less than 1% if I maintain an undetectable viral load, but I plan to do everything possible to minimise the risk.
Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t morphed into sensible mother mode. I intend to wear four inch heels up to and including the point my feet are in stirrups. I’m planning on buying the blinging-est gas guzzling 4x4 to transport the soon to be four kids, instead of a nauseatingly sensible people carrier. I’m shunning maternity wear as long as humanly possible – in fact I’m currently squeezed into pre-pregnancy hipster jeans, admittedly now so low rise my labia are almost visible. But hey, they are West End salon Brazilianed labia, so nothing to be ashamed of... +
