Imagine being sick three, maybe even four times a day. Imagine feeling so nervous about leaving the house, using public transport, attending work meetings, or even going to the supermarket because you’re afraid of unexpectedly throwing up. Imagine a condition that makes you unable to drink water, eat fruit, or even stomach the smell of cooking for months at a time. You’d probably urge the person to seek medical attention, right? Unless, of course, that person is pregnant.
At 39, I’m thrilled to be pregnant again. It’s a feeling of purpose, excitement, and pure luck. But it also comes with a constant companion: nausea. Since those two blue lines appeared on the pregnancy test, I’ve been sick in the morning, evening, middle of the night, after lunch, and once while cycling (not elegantly, I might add). I’ve been sick on trains, pavements, in bed, into mugs, and even within inches of a Morris Marina at a classic car show outside my local charity shop. Weeks before I even told anyone about my pregnancy, I was sick while walking a friend’s child home from school. I had to stop in the middle of a park and vomit in a bush, while the man emptying the bins asked the two small children on the path if their mum was okay. He clearly thought I was drunk; my son, picking up on a private joke my husband started making every time I retched, confidently told the waste disposal person that I’d been drinking out of puddles.
I’ve been sick down alleyways in the early evening, in food markets on a Sunday morning, and up against the walls of ancient colleges. This constant state of nausea has taught me a few things. Firstly, onions are absolutely disgusting, and people who eat them smell like sweat. Secondly, most fizzy drinks taste like aspartame and fruit vapes. And finally, that we, as a society, make incredibly poor provisions for those who are sick.
I used to assume all the splatters across British pavements were the result of heavy drinking and, based on appearances, an unfathomable British love for diced carrots. But since I’ve been making daily use of drains, bins, bushes, and gutters, I’ve been forced to reconsider. Perhaps all these unfortunate emetic messes are actually the result of pregnancy sickness? Or Irritable Bowel Syndrome? Or a reaction to medication? And what facilities do we actually offer for people suffering non-contagious bouts of digestive ejection? Now that most bins are covered and public toilets are disappearing at an alarming rate, you’re often left with a choice between someone’s front garden and your own handbag.
Being sick in public is humiliating. It strips you bare, just like lowering your trousers. There’s something inherently vulnerable about surrendering to a basic bodily function under the gaze of strangers. It makes you feel like a child, a goblin, a wretch. It’s not helped by the fact that during early pregnancy, your sense of smell goes into hyperdrive, meaning you can smell everything amplified a thousand times over. I can literally smell people before I see them. I can smell changes in the weather. I’m pretty sure I can even smell thoughts.
Of course, pregnancy sickness is hardly news. Thousands of people are experiencing the same queasiness I am right now, dodging fish markets, cooking oil, and dog poo bins like action heroes outrunning actual fire. And, of course, midwives and doctors are aware of the potentially debilitating effects of constant projectile vomiting. There is, I’m told, medication that can help quell the worst of it. However, as my saintly midwife explained, if I could stomach any food at all, they would be reluctant to prescribe it. I didn’t ask why. Instead, on the way home from the appointment, I retched so loudly outside a butcher’s shop that I think they mistook me for a very tall Alsatian.
