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  Oh God, I think I need a drink.

  2

  Denial

  I reach for the bottle of red wine on the kitchen counter. I am well aware that drinking while pregnant is bad. But I am making an exception this time.

  Because I am one of the few women who doesn’t want to be pregnant.

  I can’t really be pregnant.

  Oh God, I’m pregnant.

  I slump down on the sofa, and pour myself a large glass. The alcohol slides down my throat with remarkable ease. It soon burns all talk of pregnancy from my brain. It anaesthetises me from the thoughts of what is about to come.

  I know there are women who would love to be me right now. There are so many who desperately want a baby, but for whom it never comes. Am I a bad person for being unhappily pregnant, when others would do anything to be in my shoes?

  Pete isn’t even here to talk this thing over with. Typical husband, off on a business trip just when I need him most. Instead I am home, alone.

  I don’t even feel like picking up the phone and calling a select friend or family member. I am just not ready to talk to outsiders. They might do something terrible like congratulate me, with me unable to share in their unfettered excitement.

  I am too numb to feel what I’m meant to feel about this awful news. All I want to do now is get drunk. I reach for the bottle to pour another glass.

  But then I stop myself.

  Even if I despise the idea of being pregnant, I have to be responsible. Getting drunk might do untold harm to the baby growing inside of me. I would never forgive myself if I did something now that would hurt this other person.

  I pick up my phone and start to do some research. ‘Drinking alcohol, especially in the first three months of pregnancy, increases the risk of miscarriage, premature birth and your baby having a low birth weight.’ Well, that’s pretty conclusive.

  I put the bottle and glass away.

  Instead, I dial the number for my local doctor and make an appointment to see her. Then I resolve to do the right thing, and be a responsible patient.

  Two days later, I am at the surgery waiting to see the doctor. I feel like a fraud. I am not sick, like all the other patients who are lining the waiting room walls. But apparently I should seek medical attention, given my current situation.

  ‘I think I’m pregnant,’ I tell the doctor as soon as I sit down. She is only the second person I’ve told thus far.

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumble, hoping I sound convincing.

  ‘You will need to book an appointment with the midwife when you are twelve weeks along.’ Our calculations put me at five weeks, so I have still a way to go.

  ‘So, how much exercise can I do now that I am pregnant?’ I ask, cutting straight to the chase. I have no idea what I can or cannot do. This whole pregnancy thing is totally new to me.

  ‘Well, if you haven’t run a marathon before, you probably shouldn’t start now.’ She swivels around to her computer and types some details on to the screen. I want to stop her.

  ‘But,’ I say, needing more info, ‘I was doing slightly more than marathons before I got pregnant.’

  ‘Walking and swimming are great for expectant mothers,’ she replies. ‘And stop if you are ever feeling tired.’

  I want to ask another question about fitness, but a huge lump has appeared in my throat. The doctor interprets my silence as acceptance, while I fight back the tears welling up.

  ‘What about my work?’ I say, miraculously finding my voice. It has an added tremor to it now. I don’t think I can cope. ‘I have a couple of weeks in Ethiopia already scheduled. I am meant to leave in a fortnight.’

  The doctor’s fingers stop typing. She spins her seat around and stops dead in front of me.

  ‘Can’t you cancel?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘No, it’s not possible. I’ve signed the contract and everything.’ I am stunned that she would even make such a suggestion. I have lived and worked in developing countries for over fifteen years. Colleagues of mine have conceived and given birth while entirely living abroad.

  And sure, African women have babies all the time. How else would the continent be populated?

  ‘I assume you know there are obvious risks.’

  If this doctor could wrap me up in cotton wool for the next nine months, I swear to God she would. First she puts a downer on my sport, and now she wants me to stay put.

  ‘First, there is malaria to consider. If you catch that during the early months of pregnancy, there is a significant risk of miscarriage.’

  She pauses for effect, but I refuse to react. I have always wanted to go to Ethiopia. How could she dare threaten my travel plans?

  ‘Then there is the question of hygiene and food poisoning,’ she continues. ‘You need to be really careful to avoid parasites, as they can also affect the pregnancy.’

  I am so used to getting food poisoning on my travels that I am probably immune by now, and I have never caught malaria despite years of working in remote African and Asian mosquito-ridden climates. How likely is it really that I will be infected at this stage?

  ‘I am sure it will be fine,’ I say.

  She turns away slowly, and starts to tap again on her keyboard. ‘You’ll need to take malarone if you are travelling to malaria-prone areas,’ she says, handing me a prescription. ‘And you will have to increase your daily folic acid intake from four hundred milligrams to five micrograms when you are taking it. Malarone blocks its absorption.’

  I win. I am going to Ethiopia.

  I am convinced, however, that Pete is colluding with my doctor.

  ‘Do you think it’s wise to still travel?’ Pete says, just back himself from Cambodia.

  ‘So you’re allowed to travel for work, and I’m not?’

  ‘Well, I’m not the one who’s pregnant.’

  ‘Yeah, well, fine,’ I say, annoyed by this discrimination. ‘Listen, it will be okay. I will take the malarone, be careful with what I eat and drink, look both ways crossing the road, won’t talk to strange men, etcetera’.

  Pete folds his arms. My attempt at humour has failed to lighten his mood.

  ‘Look, Pete, I am taking this thing seriously. Sure haven’t I stopped drinking alcohol?’

  ‘I think drinking wine and contracting malaria are on slightly different scales, Moire.’

  But there is no talking sense into me now. I need to find myself an ally.

  ‘Okay, if it helps resolve this issue, I‘ll ask Linda what she thinks,’ I say.

  Linda is the Country Director in Ethiopia for the charity that I will work for. She was the one who hired me before all this pregnancy mess. Linda and her husband, Phil, have both lived abroad and worked for charities for many years. They also have two young children.

  ‘All right,’ says Pete. ‘If Linda thinks it is safe enough for you to go, then I’m okay with it.’

  I email Linda within seconds of our conversation and give her my pregnancy update. She is wonderfully pragmatic. ‘So long as you are happy with the medical advice and the doctors are happy for you to travel, then it is all fine with us,’ Linda writes me back. She also informs me that I will be primarily working in Addis Ababa during my stay; because the capital is above two thousand metres in altitude, it is recognised as malaria-free.

  My conversation with Linda puts both Pete and I at ease. It also makes me realise that, if I am to survive these next nine months, I need to find like-minded women who I can talk to, and who lead similar lives to myself.

  Eight days later, I take an early morning flight out of Dublin, and with a quick transit through Amsterdam, I arrive in Addis Ababa. It is dark when I step out of the airport and I struggle to find my prearranged ride. My mobile phone doesn’t work and the taxi drivers don’t speak English. God, it’s good to be back in Africa, with all its idiosyncrasies.

  I eventually find my driver and arrive at the charity’s guesthouse late that night. I am shattered from the travel and quickl
y hit the sack.

  Linda is bright and bubbly when I meet her at the charity’s office the next morning.

  ‘Hi there,’ she says. ‘Great to see you! Did you have a good trip?’ Linda and I worked together in Nepal four years ago. I am looking forward to catching up.

  ‘Good, thanks,’ I reply. ‘All things considered.’

  ‘It’s great that you were able to make it,’ Linda says. ‘And don’t worry about anything. If you’re not feeling well or need a break, just say and we’ll arrange it.’

  I flush with embarrassment. I can’t believe people have to make allowances for me already, at this early stage.

  ‘Thanks, but I’m grand. Six weeks in and I’m feeling totally fine. No morning sickness or tiredness or anything.’

  Years of running and biking have made me very aware of my body. I am certain that being fit for so long will make this pregnancy a doddle.

  ‘Good for you!’ Linda says. ‘I was going to bars, drinking beer and eating peanuts for weeks before I realised I was pregnant with number two.’

  I settle in quickly and set to work, reviewing documents and conducting interviews. Though most of this assignment will be carried out in Addis Ababa, I also need to travel outside of the capital to do rural field visits. The charity works in Wollo Province in northern Ethiopia and Wolayita Zone in the south. I must visit both locations to successfully complete the mission.

  We set off bright and early the next morning to travel the long distance to the northern city of Dessie in Wollo. I am accompanied by one of the programme managers, Zehara, and a local driver.

  I watch the countryside unfurl outside the car window as we drive for several hours. We pass cultivated fields of green and brown, dotted with grass-roofed farmers’ mud huts.

  It is past midday when we stop at a local café on the roadside.

  ‘Coffee?’ Zehara asks.

  ‘Absolutely!’ I reply. I am totally addicted to the drink.

  Ethiopia is considered to be coffee’s birthplace. Its highlands cultivate some of the best-quality Arabica beans in the world, and even in the remotest rural area, you can still find an excellent cup.

  ‘Macchiato?’ Zehara asks. I nearly choke with excitement. Ask for a macchiato in Ireland anywhere outside Dublin or Belfast, and all you’ll get is a blank look. Now I discover that in the middle of nowhere in rural Ethiopia, a macchiato is the norm. I salivate, as they serve up a small cup of potent coffee, ready to blow my mind.

  ‘Another?’ Zehara says, as she sees me downing its contents in one. Much as I want to order not just another, but several, I know I am not allowed.

  Before leaving for Ethiopia, I had researched what I am allowed to eat and drink as a pregnant lady. The list was long, and most of it not applicable to me; I don’t like liver, and I despise mouldy cheese. But what stood out most were the limits set on coffee. Apparently I am now meant to restrict the amount of caffeine I consume. The recommended amount for pregnant women is two hundred milligrams a day, the equivalent of two mugs of instant coffee.

  I don’t drink instant coffee. I drink proper coffee. Proper strong coffee, to be precise. I think I have just blown my weekly limit with this single macchiato.

  I get back into the four-wheel drive, buzzing with caffeine. It makes the day-long journey to our destination all the more pleasant. Deeper and deeper we drive, into the Ethiopian countryside. Soon I see women bent double in empty fields, digging the dry earth into furrows. Babies are strapped to their backs with coloured cloth. These infant loads shudder with every hoe strike their mothers make. I watch as older children herd gaunt cows and sheep along the roadside. I wonder if I could ever cope being a woman and a mother in Ethiopia.

  I am relieved when we finally arrive in Dessie after a dusty day’s travel. I am looking forward to getting out into the field and finding out more for my assignment. But when I wake up the next morning, I am not feeling the best. I figure the car ride must have taken it out of me, as long journeys sometimes do.

  It is only when I meet my colleague Zehara for breakfast that I know that something’s up. We are grabbing some food in a local restaurant before we head to the charity’s regional office. Zehara has already placed her order by the time I arrive. The waiter soon appears with Zehara’s breakfast and sets it down on the table.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask, trying to sound polite.

  ‘Avocado shake,’ she replies. ‘Want to try some?’

  The green gloop in the glass makes me feel distinctly queasy. I am normally up for sampling local cuisine and I am huge fan of avocados. But for some reason, today my stomach is pleading for leniency.

  ‘Do they have plain bread?’ I ask. ‘And maybe some coffee?’

  Zehara passes no comment as she orders my bland meal. I just hope she is not offended by my rejection of her own breakfast selection.

  We spend the day in the countryside, visiting women’s groups and co-operatives, inspecting farmland and watershed management schemes. The hot sun and pot-holed roads tire me slightly, but the interesting work distracts me from this fatigue.

  We return to Dessie, and I agree to meet with Zehara later to share an evening meal. I am starving after the day’s excursion, and am looking forward to some proper food. Again she brings me to a local eatery, to sample authentic Ethiopian fare. After Zehara speaks at length to the waiter in Amharic, I wait to see what she’s ordered.

  He soon returns with a large flat dish covered by a white spongy pancake, topped with pastes of different sorts. On one side, there is some raw meat that I assume will be cooked at a later stage.

  Dinner is served.

  ‘There’s a basin in the corner,’ Zehara says. ‘We can wash our hands over there.’ I get up and scrub my hands, then dry them meticulously. I don’t want dirt or water to infect me, or the baby, while I eat my dinner.

  I return to discover this meal has no cutlery. The food is instead shared off this communal plate, via a free-for-all. I hope Zehara has been as fastidious as I when washing her hands and nails.

  ‘This is called injera,’ Zehara explains, pointing to the white flatbread on the plate. ‘And these are different types of meat and vegetable stews,’ she says, gesturing to the brown and red blobs dotted on top of it.

  Taking her right hand, she tucks in, and indicates that I should do the same. I snatch a corner of injera, scoop up some stew, and pop it in my mouth. The sour and fiery tastes overwhelm me. Delicious! I tear off more and more, until the plate is nearly drained. Zehara gestures to the waiter and he brings us an entire refill.

  ‘When will they cook the meat?’ I ask, referring to the plate of flesh on the table.

  ‘Cook?’ Zehara says. ‘Oh no,’ she says, realising my error. ‘You eat it just like this.’

  My thoughts catapult back to the day at the doctor’s, when she warned me against food poisoning and parasites. If I wanted to infect myself, and my foetus, this would be the perfect way to do it.

  ‘Try some,’ she says. ‘It is a traditional delicacy.’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ I reply, hoping not to offend. I am willing to take certain risks while pregnant, but contracting salmonella isn’t one of them.

  I wake the next morning, with avocado shakes on my mind. But this time the thought of green gloop for breakfast makes me want to puke. Even the idea of coffee and plain bread is making me feel unwell. It must have been all the injera and spicy stews last night that is making my stomach churn.

  I feel particularly sorry for myself. I am hungry, yet the thought of food revolts me. There is no way this can be morning sickness though, as I feel this way for the whole day. I am also tired, but I’m certain this is due to the long travel days as opposed to anything pregnancy related.

  I am feeling especially wretched at one point when we call into one of the charity’s rural compounds. Outside, the land is brown and barren, parched from the scorching sun. Inside, local women are queuing around the compound walls.

  ‘There are foo
d shortages at the moment,’ Zehara explains to me. ‘They are here to collect flour and cooking oil donations from our emergency supplies.’

  I notice a young woman standing in the queue, holding a toddler by the hand. I look again and see her swollen belly. She is also with child.

  My cheeks flush with shame, thinking how I’ve wallowed in self-pity all day. I don’t have to worry about feeding another child. I don’t have to walk for miles under the hot sun just to feed my family. I have all the food and drink I want. I have all the medical help I need now that I am pregnant. How lucky am I, how spoiled I have become.

  I return to Addis Ababa, chastened by what I have seen. I resolve to get on with having this baby, to do the best I can for it.

  It’s the weekend, so I decide to take some time off and treat myself after roughing it all week in the bush. I find out there’s a spa in downtown Addis Ababa.

  Over the last couple of days I have noticed some unexpected growth. In particular, my nails have begun to sprout. Before, they were short and brittle, but now they resemble creepy monster claws. Oestrogen is coursing through my body, causing everything it finds to grow. I book myself into the spa to sort out this hormonal inconvenience.

  I ease back in the comfy recliner that the kind spa lady has given me. She hits a switch, and suddenly it jumps into relaxing massage action.

  ‘Manicure and pedicure, please,’ I say, pitying her already. She practically needs a bolt cutter to tame my unruly nails into submission.

  As I sit there receiving all this soothing care and attention, I feel emotions beginning to well. For the last few weeks, I have tried so hard to continue on as normal, as if this pregnancy won’t change a thing. But now I have to admit that I was lying to myself. There is still no sign of the slightest bump, but already my body is no longer my own. My body is lethargic. My stomach is rebelling. My hair and nails are going through a growing frenzy. I can’t believe I’m in such a mess when I’m less than a quarter through this pregnancy.

  I wonder to myself how Pete is coping with the impending stress of fatherhood. I find out soon enough, when I get a call from him at midnight a few nights before I’m scheduled to return home.