Feminism

This Friday, my 99 year old patient was trying to tell me his symptoms and started retching. Instead of my usual response - holding a bowl, rubbing his back, reassuring him - I had to run out of the room and throw up in the nearby eye-wash station.

So, I'm pregnant.

I always envisioned myself as a super-active, unflappable prego. Someone who could get up, drink a kale smoothie, exercise, then work brilliantly all day before coming home to nurture my partner and get a good night's sleep.

Instead, I've been Linda Blair. I have literally, LITERALLY, vomited every day of 2014. I have good days, where I throw up for a few minutes, then settle. I have bad days, where I am crippled by nausea and have to lie still for up to 8 hours.

I've been going to work as much as I can. Luckily, my work is incredibly supportive, but there are only so many times you can run away from a patient holding your mouth and mumbling, "Sorry!"

All my ideas about life, womanhood and feminism have been derailed by a creature the size of a goldfish. I can't work, I need a man to look after me (or someone with a strong stomach and endless patience) and I am delicate and weak, in thrall to my hormones. It has been crushing.

In 2 weeks I start ICU in Peterborough, which promises 14 hour days, 1 in 2 call  and relentless activity. I'm terrified, but the alternative is a leave of absence; conceding that the baby is stronger than me. That my female body makes me unfit to work. I might as well just put my head in the oven now.

I'll keep working. My patients will keep hearing me retch behind curtains. The nurses will keep petting my back while I heave and telling me to take time off. But I'll keep working.

Damn the Man.