Bump, Bike & Baby E-Book

Moire O'Sullivan

• Herausgeber: Sandstone Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 427

Beschreibung

'Hilarious'Outsider MagazineLonglisted for the William Hill Sports Book of the Year In Bump, Bike & Baby, Moire O'Sullivan charts her journey from happy, carefree mountain runner to reluctant, stay-at-home mother of two. With her sights set on winning Ireland's National Adventure Racing Series, she manages to maintain her post-natal sanity, and slowly learns to become a loving and occasionally functioning mum.

Leseprobe

Moire O’Sullivan is an accomplished mountain runner and adventure racer. In 2009, she became the first person to complete the Wicklow Round, a 100km circuit of Ireland’s Wicklow Mountains run within twenty-four hours. She is married to Pete and is the proud mother of their two young sons, Aran and Cahal. While busy adapting to and learning about motherhood, Moire won Ireland’s National Adventure Race Series in 2014 and 2016. Bump, Bike and Baby is about this personal journey.

First published in Great Britain by

Sandstone Press Ltd

Dochcarty Road

Dingwall

Ross-shire

IV15 9UG

Scotland

www.sandstonepress.com

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored or transmitted in any form without the express written

permission of the publisher.

Copyright © Moire O’Sullivan 2018

Editor: K.A. Farrell

The moral right of Moire O’Sullivan to be recognised as the

author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

The publisher acknowledges subsidy from

Creative Scotland towards publication of this volume.

ISBN: 978-1-912240-06-7

ISBNe: 978-1-912240-07-4

Cover design by Mark Ecob

Ebook compilation by Iolaire Typography Ltd, Newtonmore

To the two crazies, Aran and Cahal

Contents

1 – Resistance

2 – Denial

3 – Acceptance

4 – Reconciliation

5 – Big

6 – Birth

7 – Trapped

8 – Training

9 – Race

10 – Stress

11 – Abroad

12 – Change

13 – Fight

14 – Adventur

15 – Pain

16 – Killarney

17 – Again

18 – Exhaustion

19 – Blood

20 – Home

21 – Fit

22 – Quest

23 – Family

Acknowledgements

1

Resistance

‘Oh, look! Isn’t she gorgeous?’

My friend has completely lost interest in what I am trying to say. Her attention is now solely on Niamh, who has just walked into the room.

Niamh used to be a kick-ass mountain runner, but lately she’s been missing from the racing scene. One day she was competing, and the next, she was gone. Everyone assumed it was injury that had forced her untimely departure. We thought it must have been a serious muscle tear to make her disappear for so long. Back then, she was a formidable force. She used to bound up steep hills like a spring-loaded gazelle. She would stride down slopes no matter how treacherous the terrain. Now Niamh has barely the strength to carry the large plastic monstrosity anchored in the cradle of her arm.

Niamh disappeared around nine months ago. Now I know exactly what happened to her.

A fluffy pink blanket is wedged inside the industrial black crate Niamh is trying to transport. She manages to lug the contraption as far as ourselves, then drops it unceremoniously at our feet with obvious relief.

Mountain running is thirsty work. All that huffing and puffing up and down hills can make a mountain runner crave liquid refreshment. After a particularly hard race on a warm summer’s day, we mountain runners have congregated in the local village pub in the heart of Ireland’s Wicklow Mountains. Under the auspice of prize-giving, we have descended on this fine establishment to cure our dehydration. And while we are busy knocking back our pints of beer and cups of tea, Niamh has come to pay a visit, but she has not come alone. Inside the car seat that Niamh was shouldering is the root cause of her being missing in action.

‘A little girl,’ my friend coos. ‘Isn’t she so lovely!’ She bends down and gently pulls the blanket back a fraction. She reveals a tiny, reddened, scrunched-up face beneath a woolly baby bonnet. Its features begin to quiver as the warm pub air and stark neon lights flood its crash test carrier.

Oh God, it’s going to start crying.

I look up in distress, hoping Niamh will do something to put the child at ease. But she looks far too tired to comfort her baby right now. Her eyes are bleary from lack of sleep. She has never looked this drained before, even after finishing long, arduous mountain races. Before, she stood tall and straight at starting lines, dressed head to toe in tight Lycra. Now her body hangs limp under baggy clothing.

What has this child done to her? And why has she chosen to give birth to a baby just when she was doing so well at our sport?

More mountain runners spot Niamh and start to congregate. They oh and ah at the little baby, who has now thankfully fallen back asleep. They hug and kiss Niamh, who has finally returned to the mountain running fold.

The arrival of these supporters and well-wishers give me a perfect excuse to escape.

I have no interest in babies, and I can’t understand why someone would want one of their own. They can’t talk, can’t walk, can’t feed or clothe themselves. It all seems like a lot of milk and shite to me. So the idea of standing around, congratulating Niamh and marvelling at her baby totally confounds me.

I also fail to comprehend why Niamh would agree to subject her body to pregnancy. Not only did she miss a full season of racing while her baby grew, but she also jeopardised her own return to peak performance post-pregnancy. I have heard too many stories of dodgy hips, caved-in cores, and wonky pelvises that render mummy running impossible. How could someone agree to risk all this, just to have a baby?

My query goes unanswered, because I dare not pose it to a soul.

My reluctance to ask such a basic question is not without reason. I am a thirty-six-year-old female. All around me, my friends are breeding. Society dictates that this is what I should also do, what I should explicitly want. My biological clock should be ticking. But when I see babies like Niamh’s, I feel zero maternal pulse.

I have another problem: I am married. And my husband, Pete, wants to start a family. We’ve had a few months of trying to get pregnant, without success. So when I arrive home from my mountain race, I tell him all about the course and the conditions but purposely avoid mentioning Niamh and her infant. I know where such talk of bumps and babies will inevitably lead.

I cannot, however, avoid the subject forever. Only days later, it comes up, as if on cue.

‘My sister’s pregnant,’ Pete says, as he coolly puts down his mobile phone. He has just finished his weekly catch-up call with his family. I am sitting on the couch, watching TV. I have no interest in what’s on, but keep my eyes fixed firmly on the flickering screen.

‘That’s nice,’ I say. ‘How long’s she gone?’

‘Don’t know. But she is due sometime in March.’ He crosses the room and stands beside me. I freeze in anticipation of what is about to come.

‘You know she’s younger than me?’ Pete says.

I nod, waiting for the tirade that has become the norm.

‘For God’s sake, Moire. I’m forty-three.’

Here it comes.

‘I can’t wait forever to have children,’ Pete says. And just for good measure, he adds, ‘Sure, you’re not getting any younger yourself.’

I look up to feign offence. We’ve heard that a woman’s fertility falls off a cliff after thirty-five. Mine has been free-falling for a whole year already. Our time is running out fast.

‘It will happen, Pete,’ I say, trying to calm the situation.

‘But when? You promised me before we got married that we’d have children. You knew this was a deal breaker for me.’

It is a promise that I have lived to regret. It is amazing what you agree to when you are in love and having tonnes of fun as a couple. Getting married, being pregnant, and having children seemed a whole lifetime away. My promise to have children was based on the hope that I would see lots of babies born around me, and start wanting them eventually. But with that possibility fading fast, my faith is now with female friends who had declared themselves distinctly un-maternal. ‘It is different when they are your own,’ is what they have all promised me.

Now more than ever, I need them to be right.

‘Maybe we can’t have kids,’ I say. ‘There are plenty of people who have fertility issues these days,’ I hasten to point out.

Pete sits down. ‘Then we’ll get tested. We need to do whatever it takes to start this family.’

It takes all my powers of restraint to stop myself saying that we already have a family. There is Pete and I, and our dog Tom. And judging by the way Pete hugs Tom these days, the dog might as well be his little baby.

‘Okay, okay,’ I say. ‘We’ll work it out. I promise, we’ll try harder from now on.’

Pete gets up from the sofa, patting my knee as he rises. We both force out a smile. He has been successfully pacified.

Little does he know that, despite the promise I have just made, I have ulterior plans. My friend, Paul Mahon, has just asked me to be part of his four-person team for the upcoming Cooley Raid Adventure Race. The route traverses several hundred kilometres of Northern Ireland’s Sperrin Mountains and lasts for twenty-four hours. Teams need to be mixed sex in composition. Paul has already gathered together three lads: Peter Cromie, Adrian Hennessy, and himself. He needs a female member to complete his line-up.

Paul introduced me to the world of mountain running and adventure racing six years ago. He told me which races were worth doing and invited me on training runs and spins. I quickly grew to love mountain running. However, after a few unfortunate experiences, I concluded that adventure racing was not for me. But out of sheer loyalty to Paul, this time I agreed.

Training for an adventure race is not conducive to starting a family. It involves mountain biking for miles, mountain running for long hours, and kayaking in between. Such physical exertion leaves you with very little energy to do much else once you land back home. And as adventure racing is a team sport, you are expected to put in sufficient training and to turn up fit on race day.

So when I tell my husband Pete about my race plan, he is obviously miffed.

‘When are you going to stop doing all this crazy sport,’ he asks, ‘and just settle down and have babies?’

But Pete knew exactly what I was like before we even started dating. I was training for the Wicklow Round when we met, a one-hundred-kilometre circuit of Ireland’s Wicklow Mountains to be completed within twenty-four hours. He saw me training diligently every morning and racing every weekend. If he expects me to change now that we are married, he has another think coming.

‘What about you?’ I say, swivelling around to defend myself. ‘Are you going to change once we’ve got this elusive family you keep going on about?’

Both Pete and I have day jobs as consultants for the international charity sector. It is how we originally met. Our work involves frequent overseas travel from our base in Ireland to developing countries in Africa and Asia.

‘I know I’m going to be left here at home, holding the baby, while you’re off on your foreign trips!’ I exclaim.

Pete says nothing. He knows we haven’t really considered what happens after any potential birth.

Since we got together, Pete and I have lived and worked in places as far-flung as Vietnam, Cambodia and Nepal. We enjoy eating out, drinking fine wines, and absconding on weekends away. Many of our friends and family have noted our lack of forward planning, and they know what our lifestyles are like. They are well aware how much I love my mountain running and adventure sports. They’ve heard I have just come back from running the Camino de Santiago across northern Spain in seventeen days, when most people walk it in five weeks. Very little in our current lives seems conducive to minding young children.

‘We’ll work it out,’ Pete says, patting the dog, who has appeared out of nowhere. Tom knows he needs to be close by when Pete and I are arguing, which seems to be increasingly frequent these days.

Just as I set off for my adventure race, par for the course, Pete heads off to Cambodia for a week’s work. So as he jets off to the humid climes of South East Asia, I drive to the race start in drizzling, autumnal rain along narrow rural roads crisscrossing the Sperrin Mountains.

‘We have to go out fast,’ our team leader Paul declares. All four of us agree. Looking around the start line, there is some serious competition. Not only have some of the best Irish teams turned up, but there is a group of foreigners in our midst. They have to be good if they are sponsored by Salomon and have travelled all the way from Denmark just to participate.

Other teams have similar plans to set a brutal pace. As soon as we start, everyone charges up the first mountain on foot towards the first checkpoint. We reach it first, but are quickly followed by the Danes.

‘I thought that living in a flat country, they’d be useless on the hills,’ Paul says. I pant back in agreement. The lads are all running so fast, I can barely match their speed.

I’ll never keep up with this pace.

‘Here, give us your bag,’ Cromie says to me as we pelt back down the hill. Cromie may be long and lanky, but he is as strong as a pack mule. My rucksack contains all the food and water I need for the next couple of hours. Its heavy load is surely the reason I’m struggling.

With the Danes now ahead of us, our race strategy has to change. ‘Going out fast’ changes to ‘Follow those Danes’. It is a cunning plan: it means we can stop poring over maps and religiously following compasses, activities that expend endless amounts of mental energy, and let the Danes do all this hard cerebral work for us instead. We stay behind them for the next few hours while we trek up and over the trackless, barren mountains, watching and waiting for the Danes to make their move.

It is dark, cold and raining when our teams arrive at the bike transition. We are vying for the lead. My hands are too swollen to fit into my bike gloves. My shoes and socks are wringing wet from being immersed in cold bog water and mountain streams. But despite all these minor discomforts, our team manages to edge away from the elusive Danes.

Our lead is not to last. First, we take a wrong turn, then Paul’s bike gets a puncture that needs repairing. Within a few hours, we have lost all sight of the Danes.

We cycle on through the night, along mountain tracks and country roads. After six hours in the saddle, we are all pretty tired and scruffy. Finally, we arrive at a checkpoint based at the Shepherd’s Rest Inn near Draperstown. This checkpoint also contains a mystery task as part of the race: a spot of rifle shooting.

I have no idea how to fire a rifle, so I ask the owner of the shooting gallery to give me a quick lesson. It soon becomes apparent that my fellow teammates also have no clue. But being male, they dare not ask the man in charge. They fire pellets randomly at the discs in front of us. A potent mix of exhaustion and ignorance mean they register poor scores.

I, on the other hand, score five out of five. ‘Sure what do ye expect?’ says my teammate Cromie. ‘She’s from Northern Ireland.’ Apparently growing up in the Troubles somehow imbued me with superior shooting skills.

I take the opportunity to nip to the Inn’s loo once we are done with the rifles. Peeing on trails and behind trees is the norm in adventure racing, but I can’t resist the allure of a proper indoor toilet while the guys work out where we’re headed next. The pub is wonderfully cosy and dry compared to the wet, wintery weather I have left outside.

I find the Ladies, and scoot inside for a wee. It should just be a quick stop, but I hesitate, as I notice a smudge of blood on the toilet paper. It is not my time of the month. I shouldn’t be bleeding like this.

I am visibly distracted when I return to my teammates, trying to work out what’s wrong with me. Everyone is always out of sorts in the dead of night when adventure racing, so I totally blend back in.

We continue on, running and biking through the dark, arriving at Lough Neagh for the kayak section just as dawn appears. The Danes arrived at the kayaks an hour earlier and are the firm favourites to win. Our aim now is to claim the runner-up prize.

I sit in the boat and paddle away without speaking, summoning up all my energy to work out what’s up with me. The boat floats on, but my stomach sinks when I recall reading recently about spotting between periods. It was on a pregnancy website. Something about when a fertilised egg fixes itself in the uterus, it can cause implantation bleeding.

The lake waters churn beneath me.

We get out of our boats and on to our bikes, and cycle to a mucky mountain. The driving rain and howling winds batter us as we climb towards its summit. From there we battle our way home and cross the finish line before twenty-four hours is up. We secure second place behind the dynamic Danes.

Though the race is over, I sprint back home to work out what’s happening to my body.

A few days later, I call Pete. He is still on assignment in Cambodia.

‘I think I’m pregnant,’ I say to him across the crackling phone line.

‘What? What did you say?’ Pete shouts at me from the other side of the world. ‘Wait a minute. Wait until I step outside and get a better signal.’

I wait for what seems like an eternity until I hear Pete’s voice on the line again.

‘I think I’m pregnant.’ I try again, hating to have to repeat these horrid words.

‘You think, or you know?’

‘I know. I did a test.’

‘Oh, that’s great!’ Pete says. He laughs to himself. ‘That’s so great.’

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 ofpregnancy,increases therisk of miscarriage, premature birth and your baby having alow 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 quickly 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 food 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.

‘Moire, Moire!’ he shouts down the phone, as if I can’t hear him calling all the way from Ireland. But I also know he shouts out loud when he is very drunk. It’s a trick he taught himself in his youth when he used to frequent rowdy pubs.

‘Pete, I hear you!’ I say, shaking myself awake. ‘Why are you calling at this hour? Is something up?’

‘It’s your father!’ he shouts.

Oh God, what’s happened? What’s wrong?

‘He made me go drinking,’ Pete stammers. ‘Oh God, I’m so drunk.’

My dad is in his seventies. He is still strong and fit for his age, and can be very persuasive when he wants.

‘Pete, go home,’ I say.

‘I can’t,’ he says, holding back a sob. ‘I’m going to be a father!’

‘Oh no, you didn’t tell them, did you?’ I was going to wait for the first trimester to finish before giving my parents the news.

‘No, no, I—’

The phone goes dead.

‘Pete, PETE! Where are you?’ It is now my turn to shout down the phone line.

‘Moire? Moire, is that you?’ This time it’s a female voice.

‘Mum, is that you? Why have you got Pete’s phone?’

‘Oh, hello, dear. How is Ethiopia?’ My mother hasn’t understood I am about to freak out with the sudden disappearance of my husband.

‘Mum, where’s Pete?’

‘Oh, he’s just fallen over,’ my mum says, as if this was totally normal. ‘He dropped his phone and I was going to give it back, but then I heard your voice. Is it true that he’s going to be a father?’

This was not how I planned to convey the news of their impending grandchild.

‘Mum, can you pick Pete up and bring him home? I’ll be back in Ireland in a couple of days.’

She puts Pete back on the phone.

‘I love you, Moire,’ Pete slurs. ‘I miss you,’ he says, before abruptly hanging up.

Well, at least I know he cares.

I start to feel a bit better before I’m due to leave Ethiopia. So I join a weekend running club to go for a little canter. We meet up in town and travel to the outskirts of Addis Ababa. There we jog along meandering trails, through hilly forests and brush-filled fields. Though the pace is quite sedate, I struggle to keep up. I find my lungs unable to deal with the city’s high altitude. Or perhaps my breathlessness is yet another random symptom of being bloody pregnant.

When the runners invite me to join them for beer and raw beef afterwards, I reluctantly yet politely decline, without revealing my real reason. It seems that pregnancy is curtailing every aspect of my life, even before having this damn baby.

I think it’s time I go back home and deal with this situation.

3

Acceptance

I arrive home in Ireland, trying hard to accept my pregnancy predicament.

Running in Ethiopia was hard. I felt tired and sick and breathless. How will I cope when I actually have a bump to lug around with me as well?

I am very aware, however, that keeping fit is paramount. Pregnancy, labour and birth are apparently so much easier if the mother-to-be keeps active. But in terms of what to do, how much and when, I still absolutely have no clue.

I start searching for information, eventually finding some online articles that give me clearance to run. But when I look to see how hard and how far I can push myself, the authors refuse to provide specifics.

It depends how fit you were before.

It depends on how hot the weather is.

It depends on how pregnant you are.

It depends on how you’re feeling that day.

I am so frustrated by this dearth of concrete guidance. Though I always strive to be self-reliant, I need to reach out to someone, anyone, who has lived through and survived this pregnancy ordeal.

I decide to contact fellow adventure racer and brand-new mother, Susie Mitchell. A mutual friend had introduced us via email just before I got pregnant. As soon as I tell Susie that I am now expecting, she kindly offers assistance. I am sure she will understand what I am going through, and provide me with some solid, prescriptive advice.

‘Oh God, it’s so frustrating, isn’t it?’ Susie says when I meet her for the first time. Susie is tall and athletic, with long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. Despite her steely appearance, she sports a warm smile and a friendly manner that puts me right at ease. We are meeting in the national library in the heart of Dublin City. Our location forces us to speak with hushed, secretive words.

‘When I got pregnant, I looked everywhere for some practical tips on how to stay fit,’ Susie says. ‘I am a vet by profession, so I needed any advice to be backed by scientific proof.’

‘Any luck?’ I ask. I don’t have the energy or brainpower to engage in any extensive research like Susie did. I just want to be told what to do and what to avoid, and to just get on with it.

‘I suppose you could call it luck,’ Susie says, leaning a little closer. I feel like she is about to divulge the where-abouts of the Holy Grail. Could it be lying on these dusty bookshelves around us, waiting to be found?

‘I finally tracked down a Dutch researcher who did a study on the benefits of exercise during pregnancy,’ Susie says, revealing the extent of her mission. ‘He gave me two bits of decent advice.’

I grip the wooden table tightly.

‘Number one: listen to your body.’

I nod slowly. I think I understand.

‘Number two: avoid sports with a risk of blunt abdominal trauma.’

Susie searches for my second nod. Instead I am staring blankly back at her.

‘Don’t take up kick-boxing.’

I have found the Holy Grail. ‘So, that’s it?’

‘Pretty much,’ Susie replies.

‘Makes sense,’ I say, once I’ve had time to digest her palatable suggestions. ‘I suppose I’ve been listening to my body for ages, what with all the training I’ve done over the years.’

‘I am sure you’re finding that your body is doing strange things at the moment,’ Susie says. ‘You’re just not too sure how to react to them.’

‘Exactly!’ I scream. I feel like lunging across the table and giving Susie a big bear hug. Suddenly I remember that we’re in a library and I don’t know Susie well enough for close physical contact. ‘Like I can normally jog along quite easily at ten kilometres an hour, at a heart of rate of around one hundred and fifty,’ I say, finding it hard to contain my excitement. ‘Now if I attempt that pace or heart rate, my lungs feel like caving in.’

‘That will be the progesterone,’ Susie says, delving swiftly into her medical compendium. ‘That hormone increases your breathing. It’s to make sure your baby has a good supply of oxygen and that you don’t overheat yourself.’

‘So how hard can I go?’ I ask, not sure if I want to know the answer. From out of nowhere, I feel real fear; fear that I may have already damaged my baby from the running and adventure racing I’ve recently done.

‘Probably best to just use the “perceived effort” scale,’ Susie says, without batting an eyelid. ‘Think about a continuum of one to twenty, where one is easy and twenty is really hard. Fifteen is about as hard as you should go.’

‘Thanks, Susie,’ I say with some relief. In the space of a few minutes, she has helped me more than all those endless hours of Internet searches.

‘The problem I had was that I discovered I was pretty good at track cycling just before I got pregnant,’ Susie says. ‘I spent the whole nine months worrying that I wouldn’t be competitive once the baby was born.’

‘I know what you mean,’ I say. ‘I have seen a fair few girls from mountain running who simply disappear once they have children. Or if they do return, their results just aren’t the same.’

I dare not tell Susie that my deepest fear is that I will become one of them.

‘To be honest, I shouldn’t have worried,’ Susie says, flashing a wide, triumphant grin. ‘Just six weeks after the birth, I won an Irish National track medal.’

‘No way!’

‘I’m serious,’ Susie says. ‘I managed to win a World Masters title four months after Tori was born.’

‘But how?’

Her claims are at odds with everything I know about pregnancy thus far.

‘I think I benefited from a bit of a post-partum boost!’ Susie says, shining with pride. I bask in her glow for a moment. ‘There are a number of physiological changes that happen during pregnancy,’ Susie starts to explain. ‘Your ribcage expands to help with breathing. And your heart’s chamber capacity increases, so it can hold much more blood. This means your muscles can be supplied with oxygen much more efficiently.’

‘So you are effectively blood doping,’ I say, before quickly clarifying, ‘but in a legal way?’

‘Well, if you consider all the negatives, like weight gain and loss in fitness while pregnant, a little physiological boost probably can’t hurt, can it?’ Susie says.

For the first time in a long time, I find myself smiling. At last, I have found a silver lining.

‘But remember, it won’t last forever,’ Susie says, as she pops my party balloon. ‘You’ll have the gains for about a year before your system returns to normal.’

Twelve months of natural doping? Have I found an advantage to this whole pregnancy thing at last?

‘So what type of exercise did you do when you were expecting?’ I ask, as I start to formulate my plan. I’m going to get fit, really fit, after this baby is born.

‘I actually spent a lot of time in the gym, weight training if you can believe it.’

‘That must have been a sight,’ I say. ‘A pregnant woman squat lifting!’

‘Totally! Especially when I was overdue by two weeks and was still pumping iron,’ she explains. ‘I actually lifted a personal best of one hundred and seven kilograms when I was seven months pregnant, thanks to all the extra testosterone. I’ve not got even close to squatting that weight since.’

Susie is a slim, slight lady, not exactly what I would term a bodybuilder. But if she’s a track cyclist, she is probably hiding a pair of rock-hard thighs underneath the library desk we’re sitting at.

‘The only reason I kept going to the gym up to the delivery was that I was afraid of going into labour while out on my road bike.’

‘Road biking?’ I say. Now there’s an idea. My doctor had already informed me that walking and swimming up to my delivery date was okay. But she never prohibited me from exercising on two wheels.

‘Sure I biked right up to my due date,’ Susie says proudly. I am so jealous of Susie. She is totally amazing.

‘But was it . . . safe?’ I ask, surprising myself with my caution.

‘As long as you’re careful, you should be fine,’ Susie says. ‘Like no riding on the roads if there’s frost or rain.’ I figure Ireland’s cold and wet weather might hamper my spins, but I’m sure I’ll find a workaround.

‘Probably best not to ride in groups in case of any crashes,’ Susie continues. ‘If you avoid groups, you can also choose your own pace and route, so you can avoid serious hill climbs and scary descents.’

It all sounds logical, but still pretty conservative. But given that Susie has gone through all of this herself just lately, I am willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

I thank Susie profusely for all her help, and leave her in peace to do her library work. Anyhow, I’ve got stuff to do, like find myself a road bike.

I decide to go and buy one before there’s the remotest sign of a bump. I don’t want to have to waddle into a bike shop and have a salesman stare at my midriff while I ask about chain-rings, pedals, and cranks. I’m also afraid he’d refuse to sell me one on health and safety grounds.

I search out my adventure-racing teammate, Peter Cromie, who just happens to own a bike shop.

‘I need some new wheels,’ I tell Cromie. ‘A road bike, to be precise.’

‘Not a bother,’ he says, leading me into a room packed with bikes of different shapes, sizes and weights. They all look so tantalising, but I have no idea which one to choose.

‘I’ve got two grand to spend,’ I say, deciding to be pragmatic. ‘Which one do you recommend?’

Cromie leads me over to the ladies’ bikes, which already limits my selection.

‘This one will do the job,’ Cromie says, getting straight to the point. ‘Carbon fibre, women-specific size, and Shimano Ultegra group-set.’

‘Perfect,’ I say. ‘Does it come in pink?’

Cromie decides to ignore my question, and suggests I take it for a spin instead.

I wobble slightly as I balance on the saddle and try to change its gears. But once I get it going, I marvel at its speed. I race down the high street, blowing the pedestrian lights. I swoosh around the roundabouts as if on a merry-go-round.