Bump, Bike & Baby

by Moire O'Sullivan

  I look up at him from the kitchen table, where I’m seated with Aran on my knee.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I reply. ‘I thought you’ve trained for marathons before.’

  ‘Yes, but you’ve had a coach for the last two years,’ Pete says. ‘Surely you’ve learned a thing or two from Eamonn.’

  Pete is adding insult to injury. Not only is it unfair that he gets to go out and train while I bumble around the house pregnant, but now he expects me to be his personal in-house trainer.

  ‘Eamonn trains me for adventure races,’ I say. ‘Not marathons.’

  ‘But you must have some sort of idea of what I should do today,’ Pete says, lacing up his Brooks.

  In fact, I have no idea what Pete should do. That’s because I don’t fully understand the ins and outs of the training I do myself. Eamonn does the thinking for me, and I do as he says. Even when Eamonn does explain the purpose of each session, I find my brain is unable to comprehend this physiological gobbledygook.

  But Pete is looking for an answer. I need to suggest something or risk an impromptu argument.

  ‘Well, I suppose you could do some strength and conditioning exercises,’ I say. ‘That could help improve that calf issue you always complain about.’

  Pete looks at me, and then his watch. This wasn’t the answer he was looking for.

  ‘Or you could do a seventy-minute run with some efforts, say one minute on, three minutes off by twelve sets,’ I suggest, realising he wants to go for a jog.

  ‘But what’s an on? And what’s an off?’ Pete asks.

  Oh God, this is getting complicated.

  ‘Look, why don’t you get Eamonn to coach you for this marathon?’ I propose out of desperation. I need to get Pete off my back. ‘He’ll tell you what to do, and answer all your questions.’

  Miraculously, Pete agrees to my suggestion.

  Eamonn in turn gives Pete a training plan from hell. It is full of long runs at high heart rates, combined with really arduous efforts. If I were in Pete’s shoes, I would devise intricate excuses for skipping half the sessions.

  But despite the plan’s difficulty, Pete actually completes all the sessions as stipulated. I am amazed to see Pete train so diligently for his marathon, when any training I’ve seen him do thus far has been haphazard to say the least.

  ‘You’re looking well,’ I say to Pete one day before he heads out the door for his run. He is already a month into his plan. He has actually lost considerable weight over the last couple of weeks, and looks far more toned than before.

  ‘I think those efforts really make a difference,’ Pete says, proud of his new slim-line self. Any time I’ve told Pete to do efforts rather than long slow runs, he has ignored my suggestion outright. But now that Eamonn is the one instructing him, Pete is totally compliant.

  ‘Just knowing that Eamonn is going to check my data and give feedback means I feel I have to do as he says,’ Pete remarks. It is interesting to see someone else training under Eamonn, and the motivational effects that it has. It also makes me realise how lenient Eamonn has been with the training he gives me while I’ve been pregnant or breastfeeding.

  A month before Belfast Marathon, Pete enters a local ten-mile race. It starts in the coastal town of Ballyliffin in County Donegal, on the Wild Atlantic Way. It is a stunning course, circumventing the peninsula just south of Malin Head, Ireland’s most northerly point. Because it is so close to home, Aran and I decide to go along and spectate. Instead of waiting at the finish line on windswept Pollan Beach, I bring along my mountain bike and decide to ride the course to see the race pan out.

  I hoist Aran up into his carrier, and strap him to my back. I am twenty weeks gone, still small enough to secure the waist strap safely under my emerging bump. When the gun goes, off Aran and I cycle, weaving through the crowds. Two miles in, and the runners have strung out sufficiently to allow us to bike alongside Pete. Though he is jogging along well, I decide to accelerate up the next incline, and wait for him at the top.

  When we reach the crest of the hill, I take Aran off my back and place him on the ground so he can watch out for his dad. All of a sudden, Aran starts to clap every runner that comes past.

  ‘No, that’s not Daddy,’ I tell him, hinting he can hold off on the applause for a bit. But Aran is getting so many smiles and cheers from the runners he’s clapping, that he’s encouraged to keep it up. When Pete does finally pass us by, Aran is ecstatic. He giggles and stamps his feet with all his might, making Pete wave and beam back proudly at the sight of his cheerleading son.

  Once Pete has passed, I lift Aran back on to my back, and pedal off towards the finish. All this clapping has, however, proven a little tiring for Aran. He soon falls fast asleep as I ride my mountain bike. I have to concentrate hard to balance bump on my front and Aran on my back without falling off myself.

  A mere week later, Pete and I set off to hospital for the mid-pregnancy scan. Though we’re both easy about the gender of this baby, I’m secretly hoping for another boy.

  My desire is totally short-sighted. The mere thought of having to go out and look for girls’ clothes tires me out, when we already have all the boys’ clothes we need from Aran’s hand-me-downs.

  There’s a more pertinent question I need to ask first, however, as soon as the sonographer starts the scan. ‘Is there just one in there?’ I say, fearing the imminent announcement that we’re expecting twins. My mate Peter Cromie got two for the price of one, but I’m happy to forgo that special offer. When I find out that we’re expecting one baby, and it’s a boy, my Christmases come all at once. As soon as the sonographer has a good look around and sees the baby is in perfect health, then I’m practically skipping out the door, down the corridor doing the hula-hoop. It is only when I hear the midwife calling me to one side that my skipping stops with a jolt.

  ‘Is it okay if we take your blood again for a test?’ the midwife enquires.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, though I don’t remember this happening the last time with Aran. ‘What’s it for?’

  ‘Well, your file says that there were antibodies present in your last sample,’ she explains. ‘So the doctor wants them checked again.’

  ‘Antibodies?’ I say. ‘What does that mean?’

  The midwife tells me not to worry, that it’s just a follow-up check. But when I press her for more details, she says to ask my doctor the next time I see her.

  I leave the hospital elated with the scan results, but confused by the extra blood test. Pete, at my side, is trying to reassure me. ‘If it was serious, I’m sure they’d tell you,’ he says, holding my hand, squeezing it tightly.

  I wonder if he is concerned too, though doesn’t want to say it. I nod in agreement, but I still can’t help being distracted by what has just transpired. With the standard of care I’ve received thus far, I’m sure the doctors and midwives would sort it out if there was anything up with the pregnancy. But still, I can’t stop wondering if something serious is wrong.

  I continue to count down the weeks to my final due date. It is May and I’ve still over three months to go before this baby’s birthday.

  I haul myself on to Bike and start to slowly pedal. It’s a Friday, and I have a one-hour bike session to do on my indoor rollers. I derive little enjoyment from Bike these days, as my bump is starting to get in my way, just like it did with Aran. But now that I have a power metre installed, I can see the exact effects of its growth. I try to keep a steady heart rate of around one hundred and twenty beats per minute but, by keeping this steady state, my power just drops and drops. My average power hits below one hundred watts. Aran’s granny could pedal harder than this. And even with this reduced power, I get an annoying stitch.

  I look down at Bike’s crossbar and see stickers from last year’s races that I’ve lazily left in place. The stickers have my race numbers on them and the names of the events. I see the stickers from Dingle, Killarney and Gaelforce West, and feel a surge of pride. If I’m going to stay motivated to keep fi
t through this pregnancy, these stickers will help serve as a constant reminder of future competitions.

  I am lost in the world of racing when my mobile phone rings. I had left it on the sideboard beside me just in case I needed to call for help during my bike spin. I stop pedalling and pick up the phone. The saved number flashes up that it’s from Altnagelvin Hospital.

  ‘Hello,’ the man on the line says. ‘This is Doctor Glackin.’

  I am so puffed from pedalling my bike that I just nod as I hear the name.

  ‘We need you to come into the Fetal Assessment Unit at the Hospital as soon as you can,’ he says. ‘Your antibody levels have risen.’

  ‘Well, I’m on my bike, so . . . ’ I stop myself. Normally nothing comes between me and my session, but this sounds serious. ‘I can be there in thirty minutes.’

  Nervous sweat drips from my hands. I nearly drop my phone as I hang up. I was right, something must be wrong. ‘Pete, Pete!’ I shout, shaking as I try to dismount Bike without falling. ‘I gotta go.’

  I hear Pete emerging from the office and rushing towards my training spot.

  ‘I need to go to the hospital,’ I say, bending down to unstrap my bike shoes.

  ‘Oh my God, are you okay?’ he says, grabbing hold of my arm.

  ‘No, no, I’m fine,’ I say, straightening up right away so to not raise any undue alarm. ‘It’s just . . . ’ A wave of emotion sweeps through me and I suddenly lose my words. Oh God, there’s something wrong with the baby.

  Pete holds me tight and leads me to the nearest chair. ‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘Just tell me slowly.’

  ‘The doctor just called,’ I say. ‘It’s about those antibody levels. He wants me to go see him immediately.’

  Pete offers to give me a lift to the hospital, but I politely decline. I can only deal with one person being stressed right now. Instead, I pull on the bravest face I can manage, and march straight out to the car. I can deal with facts, but not emotion. I need to suppress every feeling that is bombarding me at this moment in time.

  It will be okay. The doctor will know what to do. He will make everything better again.

  19

  Blood

  Half an hour later, I am stumbling around the hospital’s maternity unit, trying to find the Fetal Assessment Unit and the consultant doctor who just called. I am sure there are signs around the building to show me the way, but I am in such a blind panic, I fail to notice a single one. Finally, a midwife takes pity on me, and leads me straight to his door.

  ‘Moire?’ he says, as soon as I enter his office.

  I have to think a moment. ‘Ah, yes. That’s me.’

  ‘Good,’ Doctor Glackin says. ‘Thanks for coming so quickly.’

  I could have come sooner but I had to put my bike and rollers away, out of Aran’s potential reach. I had to also strip off all my sweaty bike gear and change into respectable maternity wear. I skipped showering to save me a couple of minutes because there was no way I was delaying any further. I need to know what’s wrong with my baby, and how this doctor can intervene.

  ‘Your blood tests have come back and your antibody levels have risen considerably,’ Doctor Glackin says.

  ‘You said that on the phone. But what does that mean?’

  ‘Well, I see from your notes that your blood group is O negative,’ he says. ‘You must have been exposed to rhesus positive blood in the past, potentially from a previous pregnancy.’

  ‘But, hold on,’ I say. ‘My husband has O positive blood and my first child has O positive blood as well. But I was given anti-D injections during my first pregnancy to stop antibodies from forming against their different blood type.’

  ‘It is rare for it to happen, but sometimes the anti-D injections don’t work,’ Doctor Glackin says. ‘It is something called Rhesus Disease. I think I see around two cases of this per year.’

  Now I know why my own mother was so glad that all her children were the same blood group as herself. She had children before the anti-D injection was available, and what with my father having a positive blood group, getting pregnant with us was risky to say the least.

  ‘Now we don’t know for sure, but it is likely that this new baby is also O positive,’ Doctor Glackin explains. ‘That would explain the rise in antibody levels in your blood. Your body is detecting the baby’s foreign blood cells in your system and is trying to destroy them.’

  My body is attacking my own baby. That’s what making this doctor so alarmed.

  ‘But is the baby okay?’ I say. There is real urgency in my voice. ‘The twenty-week scan said he was completely fine.’

  ‘Yes, everything looks fine thus far,’ Doctor Glackin says reassuringly. ‘But it’s important that we keep a close eye on the baby from now until his birth.’

  I nod silently. I hate the idea of additional medical checks. But I’ve got to remember that this isn’t about my own health, but the health of my unborn child.

  ‘We’ll do an ultrasound scan every fortnight to check the blood flow in the baby’s brain,’ Doctor Glackin says. ‘This will help tell us if your baby is becoming anaemic or not.’

  ‘And if he does become anaemic?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, if that happens, then we might have to give him a blood transfusion while he’s still in the womb.’

  I recoil at the mere idea.

  ‘But don’t worry,’ the doctor continues. ‘We’ll cross that bridge if we get to it.’

  He instructs me to lie down on the raised, hard, narrow bench, and he squirts ultrasound jelly on my stomach. He switches on the ultrasound machine and, using the wand, finds the specific artery he’s looking for in my baby’s brain. He takes a series of measurements.

  ‘It all looks fine,’ Doctor Glackin says as soon as he knows the prognosis. ‘Blood flow is normal, so no signs of anaemia thus far.’

  I breathe a huge sigh of relief. ‘So why the rise in my own antibody levels?’ I ask, assuming the two would correlate.

  ‘It’s a bit of a mystery all right,’ Doctor Glackin says. ‘I once treated a patient whose antibody levels were sky-high, but the baby didn’t seem to suffer any ill effects.’

  I wipe the jelly off and slide off the couch. Good job I didn’t shower before I came: this jelly is sticky and leaves an unpleasant residue no matter how hard I rub.

  ‘I will make an appointment for you to return in two weeks’ time,’ Doctor Glackin says, typing today’s results into his desktop. ‘You’ll have to give bloods again to check your antibody levels, and we’ll do the same scan as we did today.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I say. I hate the idea of coming to the hospital every fortnight from now on, but thankful for all the attention my baby is receiving. ‘So we’ll keep going with these checks until the baby’s due date?’

  ‘Well, yes, the checks will continue,’ he says. ‘The only thing is that it is best we don’t leave the baby in there any longer than necessary, and risk further exposure to your antibodies.’

  Did I hear the doctor right? Is there a silver lining to having Rhesus Disease?

  ‘We’ll probably induce you three weeks early, so when you’re around week thirty-seven,’ Doctor Glackin says.

  That means I’ll give birth at the start of August instead of at the very end. I so hate being pregnant that I can’t help but be pleased that I’ll have three weeks less to suffer this horrific state.

  ‘The only thing is, we’ll have to admit you to the normal wards for your labour instead of the midwifery unit,’ he explains. ‘We need to be able to monitor the baby’s heart throughout the delivery, and that’s not possible if you’re having a water birth.’

  Though I’m disappointed that he’s just ruled out the birthing pool, I’m relieved that this condition has been caught before any damage is done, and that I’ll be closely monitored going forward.

  ‘I see this is your second child,’ Doctor Glackin says, just as I am about to get up to leave.

  I nod in confirmation.

  �
�Just so that you’re aware, you’ll always have these antibodies present in your blood.’

  I sit still and listen very carefully.

  ‘It means that, if you do decide to have another child, and if that child is also O positive, your antibodies will probably rise even more,’ Doctor Glackin explains. ‘Any subsequent pregnancies will need to be monitored even more closely, as there could be a greater risk with each one.’

  Is the doctor trying to tell me it’s best I stop now at two children?

  I could jump up and kiss this consultant, and thank him for this get-out-of-jail card. Instead, I sincerely thank Doctor Glackin for all his help, and go home to tell Pete all about my unscheduled hospital visit.

  Pete greets me at the door and hugs me tightly. He looks relieved to see I am still in one piece.

  ‘How did it go?’ he says. ‘Will everything be all right?’

  The short car ride home has given me enough time to gather up my own thoughts and feelings.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply with conviction. ‘There’s no need to worry. Everything will be fine.’

  I explain to Pete what these antibody levels mean, and how additional blood tests and scans that will be necessary from now until the birth. I reassure Pete that Doctor Glackin has everything under control, and that I have full confidence in him.

  ‘There’s just one more thing,’ I say, hoping Pete can cope with the onslaught of information I’ve given him thus far. ‘The doctor says it’s risky for us to have more children after this one.’

  I look up at Pete to see his reaction. His blank expression divulges nothing.

  ‘The risk would be minimal if another baby had the same blood type as me,’ I say, trying to explain further. ‘But if they had your blood type, then this antibody issue could be even worse than now.’

  ‘That’s okay. Two is enough,’ Pete says unexpectedly.

  I raise my eyebrows. Where has this sudden change of heart come from?

  ‘I’ve been thinking about how knackered I feel these days,’ he explains. ‘I’m too old to be running after a horde of young children, when I am barely able to cope with Aran’s current antics.’