Health, the Family Way
Anne Lord
“Date of last period?” enquired the nurse, as I stepped off the weighing scales. “Oh hang on, I’ll have to work it out, it’s been a while,” I replied. “What do you mean?” she sounded a bit sharp. “Well, I’ve missed one or two,” I laughed. “Are you pregnant?” “No, I’m not pregnant. We don’t do it that often,” I was confident. “Anne!” the nurse exploded. I got her meaning. I wasn’t a youngster anymore, I was in my early forties, I should have known better. I was a regular at the Family Planning Clinic at the Community Centre, Penrhys, collecting the free contraceptive pill and since a previous test had come back showing “irregular cells”, getting a cervical smear every nine months instead of the usual three years. “I can’t sign off your prescription. You’ll have to see the doctor, but she’s not here today, you’ll have to go to Tonypandy this evening. Get a pregnancy test.” “Ok,” I agreed, “but I’m not pregnant.” As I walked the short distance to my home, the doubts began to creep in. I’m not. I’d know, I knew last time, straight away. There’s been no changes in my body. But the only times you’ve ever missed a period you were pregnant.
The arguments for and against another child raged inside me all day. Along with the realisation, that if I did have a child he or she, would be younger than my grandchild. How embarrassing would that be? There was only one way to find out. I’d have to ring Den, my partner, and ask him to give me a lift to Tonypandy Surgery that evening, as the buses would have stopped running by then. In the car Den asked, “Why are you going to Pandy? You usually go to Penrhys.” Should I tell him the truth, or make some excuse? He was so good to me. A confirmed bachelor, until I’d come along and disrupted his life. He’d never wanted a wife and children. He’d said to me one night, early on in our relationship, he was a bit tipsy at the time, “I love you enough to marry you,” then hastily added, “that’s not a proposal!” “They want me to have a pregnancy test. But I’m not pregnant.” “Oh, my God!” “I’m not pregnant!” I was adamant.
He dropped me off, and went to find a parking space. I checked in at reception, waited my turn to see the doctor. While I was in the consulting room, I could hear Den’s voice outside in the corridor. I came out clutching a bottle, waved it at Den, and found my way to the loo, then handed the bottle to the nurse. “What now?” Den asked. “Now we wait 15 minutes!” We sat in silence for a while. “I need a fag. I’m going for a walk,” he exclaimed. I was called back in to the doctor, “You’re not pregnant,” she announced. Thank you God. “I knew that,” I nodded. The doctor explained that menstruation had probably ceased because I’d been taking the contraceptive pill for a number of years, and that it would be a good idea to have a break, to give my body a chance to get back to normal. There was nothing to worry about. Den was waiting for me, I shook my head. “Negative,” “Oh, thank goodness! Have you seen the price on prams in that shop up by there?” The corridor full of young women, burst out laughing!
My grandmother didn’t like doctors, she believed in the do-it-yourself method, if it was at all possible. Known as Auntie Vello to the entire community of Stanleytown, she had delivered several babies in the village, and without any form of training, was the person first called upon to any accidents that occurred, until her son, my dad, a trained nurse took over from her. He, I hastily add, didn’t deliver babies. My grandmother was known to tie a piece of string around an offending tooth, tie the other end of the string to a door handle, then slam the door shut, I don’t think she ever visited a dentist in her life. When I was growing up, both my mother and her sister-in-law, spent their entire lives worrying about their weight, and were constantly on diets that never worked. Neither of them were particularly fat. My Auntie Eiry’s packed lunch for work consisted of two Energen Rolls and a flask of PLJ, then she’d come home to a meal cooked by her mother, of pork chops and potatoes mashed with milk and butter! My friend Janet was known as Twiggy, she was the same shape as the famous model, tall and thin, with no bust, always neat and tidy, not a hair out of place. I was the one with the short fat hairy legs, or so I thought at the time, 4’ 10 ¾” in my rolled down white socks, weighing 6st 6lbs. My periods started when I was eleven and I got my first bra shortly afterward. White cotton broderie-anglaise, 32A. No Sabrina, but I had a figure. I thought I had a bit of a pot-belly too, and wouldn’t wear a bikini. How things have changed, mind you I still won’t wear a bikini.
My health has been reasonably good. I’ve only ever stayed in hospital due to pregnancy, and for a few days when I broke my ankle. I was once confined to bed for three months as I was immobilised with sciatica. Acupuncture, at a private clinic in Cardiff, got me back on my feet. I suffered terribly with eczema when I was a child. My parents tried every remedy under the sun, from the horrible prescribed thick, sticky, coal tar ointment, to cabbage water, and at one time even being wrapped head to toe, like a mummy, in bandages soaked in Robin starch. None of them worked. Steroid treatments were the only answer. Becky told us that she doesn’t want a medical history, so I won’t go into all the things that ail me at the moment, suffice to say that if I was an automotive vehicle, I’d stand no chance of passing my MOT. Laughter is the best medicine, and I’m a bit of a joke. So, I’ll keep smiling and carry on.