Chanelle Hayes - Baring My Heart

by Hayes, Chanelle

  ‘What’s really the matter with you?’ he said, slurring his words slightly.

  ‘I told you. Just a bit of the flu but it’s nothing serious. I’m fine.’

  There was another pause and then he just came out with it, brutal and to the point. ‘You’re pregnant, aren’t you?’

  I couldn’t understand how he’d guessed. ‘What? I don’t…’

  But before I could even get my thoughts together, he butted in, ‘You are. Tell me the truth, Chanelle.’

  What could I say? It wasn’t meant to happen like this at all.

  ‘Well, er… Yes, I am pregnant. But how did you know?’

  He just looked at me and I noticed all the colour had drained out of his face. ‘What the fuck have you gone and done?’

  I couldn’t speak. This was a world away from the reaction I was expecting. In my head, I was going to give him the card with the scan in a few days’ time and he’d pick me up in his arms and shower me in kisses, saying, ‘This is the best news ever!’

  We got home and he seemed so angry. He slammed the front door closed and went into the kitchen, opened a bottle of red wine and poured a large glass.

  ‘Why are you cross?’ I said, silently crying on the sofa. ‘I thought you’d be so happy.’

  He sat down in a chair with his legs crossed, swilling around his glass of wine like he was some country gent.

  He looked straight at me and his next words tore me apart. ‘You did this on purpose. You tricked me into this.’

  ‘No! I swear to God I didn’t,’ I wept. ‘Check my medical records. I didn’t have a clue, Matt. I honestly thought you would be pleased. It was meant to be your Christmas present.’

  He just shook his head and fixed me with a look of disgust that I’d never seen on his face before. Although it was very late, he then called his mum, Lesley. This was hardly going to help matters – she had never really liked me, I think because she felt I’d taken her beloved son away from her. He used to visit her almost every day but now he spent all his time with me. I’d always tried to be very polite to her but I sensed she looked down her nose at me.

  A little while later, Lesley turned up at the house. ‘I told you she would do this, didn’t I, Matt?’ she glared at me. ‘I told you all she wanted was your money.’

  I felt my own temper flare then. How dare she say that?

  ‘What are you talking about? I earn a very good living of my own, thanks very much. Do you think I would throw my career away just to live off him? With all his injuries, he might not even be able to play football for much longer.’

  ‘Whatever,’ she said. ‘You’re just a little gold-digger.’

  I was absolutely raging by now. ‘Lesley, why don’t you come round to my house? I’ve got five bedrooms, a double garage and a huge garden – and I paid for it all myself. I don’t need anybody else’s money. And even if I didn’t have any, I’d have no qualms about cleaning toilets or stacking shelves in Asda. I’m not afraid of hard work.’

  Matt said absolutely nothing. He just sat mute in his chair in his beautiful house with his stupid glass of wine.

  ‘You make me sick,’ Lesley droned on. ‘It was your responsibility to take your pill and you obviously haven’t been.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? I take it every day. I’ve actually had extra tests to check that the baby is OK because of the very fact I’ve been taking the pill.’

  Then I turned to Matt. ‘Are you going to let her talk to me like this?’

  He didn’t even look up and I said, ‘I can’t believe this is happening. I truly thought you wanted this.’

  He spoke up at last. ‘You tried to kill yourself only a few months ago. Do you seriously think you can look after a child?’

  ‘Yes, I do actually, Matt. This baby is going to mean the world to me.’

  He let out a cruel little laugh and shook his head.

  At that point, I couldn’t stop myself. I jumped forward towards Matt, grabbed the glass from his hand and threw it hard against the wall. Red wine splattered all over his gorgeous luxury wallpaper.

  ‘Fuck you!’ I screamed at the top of my lungs. ‘If you don’t want your child, that’s fine but I’m having this baby!’

  Lesley piped up again then. ‘Who do you think you are?’

  ‘Oh, shut the fuck up,’ I snarled. ‘You’re a nasty, evil bitch.’

  Like it was a scene from Jeremy Kyle, I then felt her hand strike me clean across the face and it stung like hell.

  I clutched my cheek with my hand and knew I had to get out of there. Grabbing my purse, I pulled out some notes, chucked a load on the floor and, as I walked out the door, said, ‘Fix your fucking wallpaper yourself.’

  Driving back home down the A1, it was snowing so hard I could hardly see through the windscreen, especially as I was inconsolable at the wheel. At one point I had to pull over to the side of the road because I felt like I was having a panic attack and couldn’t breathe. When I got home, I took down my Christmas tree and sobbed myself to sleep. I just felt so horribly sad at how things were unfolding.

  The next day, I called Mum and told her what had happened and she was just as gutted as me.

  ‘I genuinely thought he’d be delighted,’ she said. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘This doesn’t change a single thing, Mum. I’m keeping the baby and, if Matt doesn’t want to know, tough. I’m going to love him or her enough for us both.’

  ‘Well, you know you’ve got our full support, Chanelle.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’ That really meant a lot to me.

  A few days later, Matt had all my stuff sent to me. He also sent me some particularly nasty text messages. ‘I can’t believe you trapped me,’ he said again. ‘Everyone told me not to trust you and that you’re devious.’

  I calmly replied, ‘If that’s your take on it, fine. But let’s get a few things straight: it takes two people to have sex and two people to make a baby. If you don’t want to be around this child, that’s fine. But I have suffered for a long time because of the mistakes I’ve made in the past and you are very wrong if you think I’m going to make another mistake.’

  In full flow now, I continued, ‘I will be a brilliant mum and give this child a good upbringing. If you don’t want to be involved, that’s your choice. But don’t bother sending me abuse because you’re not going to change my mind.’

  It was so strange – we never sat down and had a proper, rational conversation about our options – just that nightmarish fight and then a string of these horrible texts.

  Quite why he was so against having the baby I’ll never know. But I think it probably all boiled down to money, plain and simple. Of course, lots of girls get pregnant so they can get themselves a nice house to live in but I had one of my own. And he should have known me well enough to know that I’m not one of those sponging trollops who target rich footballers so they don’t ever have to do an honest day’s work again. My strong work ethic is one of the things I’m most proud of. I was brought up to be like that and, even though Dad has always worked hard as a graphic designer, he also does social work on the side. He and Mum are natural grafters and they definitely instilled that principle in me. So what Matt and his spiteful mum were accusing me of was so far wide of the mark.

  I can’t lie though – my pregnancy was very tough. For the first three months I was so sick I couldn’t eat anything without throwing up. I lost about a stone and a half and had to be rehydrated at hospital a few times and some nights I slept on the sofa because I was too weak to get up the stairs. One of the only things I could eat without being sick was Haribo cola bottles – they were so sour that they didn’t even taste like food.

  When I later went for a 3D scan with Mum, I told the nurse doing the ultrasound, ‘I reckon it’s a girl because, apparently, you get more sick with girls. And believe me, I’ve been so, so sick.’

  ‘Well, let’s find out if your theory is correct, shall we?’ she said with a grin.


  And then, as the mesmerising image of my baby came up on the monitor, she said, ‘I’ve got some news for you. It’s a boy!’

  ‘You’re kidding?’ I exclaimed. ‘I’d have put my mortgage on it being a girl!’

  ‘No, look – there’s its little willy,’ she said pointing to the screen.

  ‘Are you sure that’s not an umbilical cord?’

  ‘No, it’s definitely a willy.’

  We all laughed. I was so certain I was having a girl that I’d been planning a pink nursery, so this was quite a surprise. But as I got used to the idea, I felt really pleased – boys were surely far easier and less complicated than girls, after all!

  Not only was I poorly for months on end but I was going through it alone. Matt and I were hardly speaking and the only contact we had was via awkward text messages. A few months into my pregnancy, it struck me that I was going to need a bigger car when the baby arrived, as I only had a tiny Mini, which was highly impractical for lugging around kids’ stuff. I knew that Matt was in the process of buying a new Bentley and I had this genius idea that I could borrow his old BMW for a while, once I’d given birth. Surely that was the least he could do for his own child.

  I texted him to ask if that would be possible one Friday afternoon, while I was waiting at the doctor’s surgery for a pregnancy check-up. His reply shot back straight away: ‘You’ve got a nerve. I knew it wouldn’t be long until you started asking me for everything.’

  I was flabbergasted. ‘But it’d only be a loan. We can draw up a contract to say that I’ll give the car back again when I’ve gone back to work.’

  ‘My mum was right,’ he wrote. ‘She warned me you’d be like this.’

  This was ludicrous. ‘Matt, what am I supposed to do? Shove the baby on the roof of my Mini with the pushchair sticking out the window? I need a bigger car and your BMW is going to be sitting on your driveway, not even being used.’

  ‘I’m giving it to my mum,’ he said.

  So that’s what it all came down to. ‘Well, if you’re that bothered, your mum can have my Mini for a year and then, when the baby is old enough to sit in the front, we can swap back again.’

  As our messages went back and forth, he then said, ‘I’ll get you a new car – a Fiesta for £600.’

  This comment really upset me – how could he even think of letting his own son or daughter be driven around in a heap of junk?

  ‘Matt, I could buy a car like that myself but I don’t think it would be safe for me to drive our child around in some rust bucket.’

  His next reply was even more painful: ‘Gone are the days when you were earning more than me so, if I don’t want to give you a car, I won’t give.’

  Even though I was in a public waiting room, I’d started to cry and my tears were still streaming when I was called in to see the doctor. She took one look at me and said, ‘What on earth is going on?’

  I told her what had just happened and the whole story came tumbling out as I sobbed hysterically. You know when you’re just gulping in air because you’re so upset? That’s exactly how I was.

  ‘I feel like I’m all on my own,’ I cried. ‘I just feel like I can’t cope and that I need more support. What am I going to do?’

  She listened to me talk and, as I started to pull myself together, fetched me a glass of water.

  ‘I’m so sorry about all of that,’ I said. ‘The timing was just really unfortunate. We’d been having it out right there in the waiting room. It was so hurtful and I just needed to get it off my chest.’

  She looked at me with a concerned expression but said nothing.

  ‘I think it’s just hit me that I really am going to be a single parent and that it’s going to be incredibly tough.’

  Finally, she spoke – and her response wasn’t what I was expecting. ‘Chanelle, what are you saying? Do you think you’re going to harm yourself or the baby?’

  ‘No! Of course not,’ I said incredulously. ‘I’m just feeling a bit overwhelmed at the moment but I’ll be fine. I’d never harm my baby.’

  I will never forgive her as long as I live for what she did next.

  ‘I’m sorry, Chanelle but I don’t feel confident about that. After what you did last summer, I can’t be sure you won’t do something rash again. Therefore, I cannot allow you to leave this appointment.’

  What the actual hell? Were my ears deceiving me?

  ‘I’m afraid I have no choice but to section you under the Mental Health Act.’

  My eyes must have looked like they were out on stalks. Did she actually just say that? I was utterly horrified.

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ I snapped. ‘You can’t section me! I’m just going to drive home now – I’m fine! I came to you for some support but that doesn’t mean I’m going to do something stupid.’

  ‘But I can’t take that risk,’ she said. ‘It’s my duty to protect you and your baby.’

  I had known this woman for years – she was like a friend to me, so this seemed like some sick, very unfunny joke.

  ‘Oh my God, do you actually think I’m going to go and stab myself in the stomach or get in a hot bath with a coat-hanger and a bottle of gin? This is bullshit.’

  I stood up to leave but she said, ‘I’m sorry, Chanelle. You can’t go anywhere. I really do have to section you.’

  ‘Well, how are you going to do that? You can’t physically drag me there yourself. I want to go home, right now.’

  ‘That’s not possible, Chanelle. I’ve already told the reception staff to call an ambulance and a community police officer will be here soon, in case you refuse to go.’

  This was simply unbelievable. I was about to be taken off to a padded cell, just for getting upset over a fight with my unborn child’s father. Hardly a sign of raving bloody insanity, was it?

  Trying not to let the panic show in my voice, I said, ‘I need to phone my parents. Let me speak to them.’

  She did, at least, allow me to make the call but Mum was so stunned that she passed me on to Dad, who clearly didn’t fully understand the severity of my situation.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing we can do if you’ve gone in there in such a state, is there? Just get yourself checked over and I’m sure it’ll all be fine later.’

  Great! Thanks for that, Dad. Really helpful. So I phoned my mum’s sister, my Aunty Susan, who is one of the nicest people in the world. She and Mum finish each other’s sentences and probably speak five times a day and I love her to bits. In fact, she and my Uncle Paul are just like Mum and Dad but from a different village.

  Anyway, Aunty Susan said she’d come straight to the doctor’s but, by the time she arrived, it was too late. I’d been carted out and taken by ambulance to Fieldhead Hospital, in Wakefield – a renowned mental-health facility. I know it sounds awful but Fieldhead used to be the butt of our jokes at school. It was known as the local loony bin; where all the crazy people go – and now I was being treated like one of them.

  The paramedic led me out of the doctor’s by my arm and I tried to shrug him off, saying, ‘Why are you doing that? I’m perfectly capable to walk by myself.’

  ‘Well, you’ve been sectioned,’ he said. ‘You might be a little unstable.’

  ‘I certainly am not unstable,’ I replied. ‘I just happen to be pregnant and have an ex-boyfriend who’s being a bastard. But if we’d had this argument yesterday, you wouldn’t even know about it.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but there’s nothing you can do and, if you resist coming with us, you’ll be arrested.’

  Over at Fieldhead, I was admitted to a tiny, claustrophobic room, which could make even the sanest person alive feel like some kind of lunatic. It was terrifying. I sat there for six hours in a room with no windows, no light switches and nothing remotely sharp. There wasn’t even a handle on my side of the door. Everything was smooth and flat so you couldn’t hurt yourself.

  My Aunty Susan eventually turned up but I told her to go home, as they’d said it would be hours
until I was assessed. And I just sat on the bed thinking, ‘What did I do in a previous life to deserve this?’ There was a camera in the room focused on me all the time and, despite me being about 20 weeks pregnant, I was given nothing to eat all day. All I had was a glass of water and nobody came to see if I was OK. That really was enough to send you stir crazy.

  Eventually, this nice doctor with kind eyes came to assess me. He asked me a ton of questions, like, ‘How are you feeling?’ and, ‘How do you feel about your baby?’

  I basically told him what I’d said to my GP – albeit in a much calmer manner – and that I would never harm my child in a billion years.

  After a few seconds, he stood up and said, ‘Well, I’m very sorry but you shouldn’t have been brought here. We need to get you discharged as soon as possible.’ Thank Christ someone had a bit of common sense here! ‘It was obviously a very extreme measure and all I can do is apologise.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, so grateful I could have hugged him. ‘I know it’s nothing to do with you but the way I’ve been treated is a complete disgrace.’

  He nodded. ‘I will follow it up because it’s been a waste of our time too and taken up a room that we could potentially have assigned to another patient.’

  Looking back on that encounter, I’m still appalled by it. I know the NHS is brilliant and I’ve always championed it but, to this day, I can’t understand how I was put in that position. I guess my doctor was only trying to cover her own back because, if I had done something silly, it would have been a big news story. She was probably on red alert because it had been in the papers when I’d tried to kill myself the summer before. So I do understand it from her point of view, but to be dragged off to a mental institution like that was an epic overreaction. I have suffered minor bouts of depression since then but now I would never go and see a GP about it because I’m sure they’d try and make out I was clinically insane again. I’ve lost trust in the system, which is such a shame.

  The doctor told me I was free to leave but it wasn’t that simple. ‘My car is still at the doctor’s,’ I said. ‘And all my money and my house keys are in my bag, which I locked in the boot.’