By Alissandra Smith
My friends call me Ally, or “Ally Cat” due to my lazy laid back and curiously greedy fat-cat attitude. My mum moved here from England when I was only 10 and as soon as I was sufficiently educated at 19, I left miserable England and moved “home” to Malta, joining my mother and grandfather.
I’ve been happy here ever since, for the island holds dear memories to my every milestone. From burying my grandfather, to falling in love. I honestly don’t understand life anywhere else, other than here in Malta anymore.
I’m now 26, and have been with my 28 year old, Maltese boyfriend for the last 2 years (aka ‘The Guy’). He even puts up with my rude English attitude, and I put up with his procrastinating habits.
Then came the test. Our test.
It was a week until Christmas and I was busy getting my last minute gift shopping done, and planning what bird to stuff for my guests and what party I could be making a fool of myself at on New Years Eve.
My mentally noted resolutions included fixing up the flat I had just bought. None of my New Year resolutions included what was coming next though.
The positive pregnancy test
As I witnessed those two little lines appear, it dawned on me that this moment symbolized the end of my youth. The end of spontaneous travelling. No more junk food. I had to suddenly be RESPONSIBLE.
So between sweat, tears and hyperventilating I gracefully phoned ‘The Guy’ and blurted in a poised fashion: “Where are you?! Never-mind just get me another pregnancy test, this one’s faulty! Why does nothing here ever work?! Hurry up!”
Poor guy had two simultaneous heart attacks, whilst I just sat staring at myself in the mirror waiting and wailing like a grief-stricken widow.
I told myself tests are wrong all the time. I’ll have time to continue with my life plan of getting married, making millions, followed by me becoming a mother and starting our perfect little nuclear family. Dog included. The sun will shine.
But when the second “hit test” (that’s what the doctors are calling it?) flips me off with two little pink birdies for the second time my brain switches off and back on again. Like when you reboot a computer and it makes that tired sighing sound like it just can’t be “on” anymore. Then it comes up with a load of codes and numbers that don’t make any sense to anyone.
Well that’s what my brain did, except the gibberish letters were muddled up overlapping half thoughts and paranoia.
How did this happen? This is all his fault!
Am I mature enough to take care of an infant?
I’m going to be ugly!
I can’t go to India now! Am I going to mess it up?
Will the world mess it up?
Can my body cope?
I’ve been drinking for months! How do I tell mum?
Tell dad, he can tell mum.
Mum is going to disown me.
Am I dreaming?
I have no plumbing this is no environment for a child!
Is sex ruined now forever?
No guy will ever look at me the same.
Should I get married?
I killed so many goldfish by forgetting to feed them.
Could this kill me? How didn’t I realize this sooner?
How long have I been pregnant?!
What if there’s loads of babies in there!
Should I get an abortion??
Maybe it’s wrong again and i’m just fat.
Can I even get an abortion?? Would I have to fly home to England?
Could I live with myself after getting an abortion? No probably not.
‘The Guy’ remained sullen and silent, pale and sort of frozen solid on the sofa. Then he got up and announced that he’s going to go and make me a hot drink. He was shaking so much that by the time he returned, the carpet had drank it instead.
Well it was a nice try. He was attempting to appeal to my English ways.
We decided to go to a hotel, planning to relax for a few days in the Jacuzzi and mull things over in the hot bubbles whilst indulging in room service and Netflix. This could be the last time we ever do this (!)
Albeit the fact that the hotel we chose actually did not offer room service, the fact that the water in the Jacuzzi was ice cold and that the free WIFI was actually not free after all, it was still refreshing to be out of the house. We ate takeout in bed enjoying the fact that we did not have to clean the mess the following day.
We pretended to be normal, we were just having a relaxed night in.
But I felt diagnosed.
My heart held too much blood sinking it into the depths of my stomach where it was churned by acid and fear. It beat slowly like it was moving a stone back and forth using everything it had to pump my veins with motivation.
I just lay there, on a strange bed unable to move. I was’nt ready to close my eyes and go to sleep.
I wasn’t tired and I wasn’t emotional, I wasn’t anything. Except, pregnant.
Between crying, waking and sleeping, the night passed and I was confronted with breakfast.
What on Earth can you eat when you’re pregnant? I had no idea.
Can I even take coffee? I filled my plate up with boiled eggs, baked beans and grilled tomatoes as everything else looked hauntingly questionable.
This was well made up for by ‘The Guy’ who ate the entire buffet three times over, much to the dismay of the restaurant manager who kept wishfully taking away his utensils and smiling in that “go away” fashion.
But neither of us were in the mood to be polite, we stayed, we ate, we argued, and let the reality slowly seep into our brains.
We were pregnant. This is it. We are in for one hell of a ride.
To be continued….
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