Chapter 10 The Price and Prize of Motherhood

It was in a friend's bathroom in March 2017 that I discovered I was pregnant. I had attended her birthday party the day before and slept over. The following morning, I had a strong urge to have a pregnancy test, having missed my period. So, I bought the test kit and went to the bathroom. And that was when it dawned on me that my life was about to change in a significant way. I had spent February that year in London with Jamie. It was at the peak of our relationship, and we had special moments together, including on Valentine's Day.

In March, I was back in Ghana, and when I missed my period, I knew something was brewing inside me. (I remember the doctor gave me November 12 as my due date for delivery. I was excited because that was my birthday, but Ryn came two weeks earlier). The result of the test was a confirmation of what I thought it was. It was also a validation that I was capable of conceiving, something I had had reason to doubt. My desire to have children started when I turned 29. By my 30th birthday, it almost became desperation. I remember a particular spot in my bedroom at Redrow Estates, where I would lie down and pray to God for a child. I had not been told anywhere that I was incapable of conceiving, but self-doubt and the reality that not every woman is able to have her own child heightened my anxiety. In my case, the history of the abortion years ago and its complications stoked my fear and dimmed my odds whenever the thought of having my own children came up. Getting pregnant was, therefore, an answer to my intense prayer. It was a miracle, for the whole process of having a human being form from a tiny drop of semen and grow inside you is a miracle. I felt privileged and received it with gladness. Jamie was equally happy that I was pregnant for him. I had always wanted to have children, but meeting him settled any reservation about anything to the contrary. His relationship with his children was great. It convinced me that should I want a father figure for my child, then this was the ideal man. That preoccupation did not consider the possibility that things could go wrong. He lived in London and I lived in Ghana, but the possibility of the relationship going sour and our children being left stranded did not cross my mind. Things seemed too perfect to ever go wrong. It remained so until I became pregnant. Jamie said we should keep the news to ourselves until after three months. I understood him and did just that. So, it was after the third month that I broke the news to my mother. I set up the camera and announced it to her. I wanted to have memories of her reaction so I set up the camera without letting her know. She was happy for me, but that happiness soon dissipated and left in its wake a palpable worry. She was happy that I was pregnant and would bring forth a child, but her worry stemmed from the fact that I was not married. She did not hide that worry. She expressed it, but I was determned that nothing in that regard would dim my joy. I had outgrown those concerns, so I told her that I was okay with whatever was happening in my life. I was in control, with or without a husband. The next few weeks into my second trimester were frantic moments for me. It was as though I was going about my daily outdoor chores until an unannounced downpour started, forcing me to halt and get indoors. I couldn't get inside with many things hanging in the rain. They needed to be carried inside. I knew my career was going to be interrupted. Just how long that would be, I could not say. I was not going to be featured in other people's movies for a long time to come. I could not feature in my own movies and would certainly not be able to produce them. My clothing business was going to suffer because I could not supervise or travel to replenish the depleting stock as was my custom. When I discovered that I was pregnant, I was shooting Heels and Sneakers. I had to shoot as many episodes as possible before my abdomen bulged. In the latter days of the shooting, the cast and crew who paid attention would have suspected that all was not well with me. Though my abdomen did not give any clue, I spat a lot. And whoever had been with me for long or known me would wonder what was happening to me. I didn't want the news of my pregnancy and its attendant reactions and attacks to complicate the already complex life I was confronting. The decision was therefore to keep it out of public eyes and ears and mouths. Only a few trusted friends knew I was pregnant. To quell the public gossip, I subjected myself to solitary confinement in my home. If I needed to shop for groceries, I sent for them. I cancelled all appointments and did not accept new ones. The only place I drove to was my mother's house in Dansoman, and I was careful that nothing would blow my cover, literally. Part of the reason I frequented my mother's place was to placate my weird cravings. I couldn't taste pepper when I became pregnant, but that didn't stop me from craving for peppery foods. I remember I would ask my mother to prepare gari with pepper and crabs, which I savoured with satisfaction. I also craved warm milk. At times, that was all I needed. I would warm the milk, and drink it. The next moment, I would fall asleep. The loneliness was, perhaps, part of the reason I suffered so much during my pregnancy. Jamie visited in the first trimester of my pregnancy and did not return until a few days before my delivery date. The emotional support and love I needed most in this period were missing. But that was not all. I was also going through pain. I had read the email from Jamie's ex-wife and knew our relationship had no future. Knowing that was one thing, and accepting the reality was another. So, even though I knew that our beautiful and almost perfect relationship had hit a hard and impenetrable rock, it was still difficult to ignore any social media post he made with another woman. With my hormones all over the place and the least issue triggering depression, I felt like he had put my life and my world on hold and did not even care about it. He could have gone out with those ladies, but if he wasn't doing that to spite me, he would have kept the outings from social media, I thought. Did he know what I was going through? Did he care about posting a black lady he had taken to the restaurant he once told me was his favourite? His choice of women was black and if he took a black lady to his choicest restaurant and posted about it, I didn't need any confirmation from him that they were dating. Did he care about the impact of that on me? I answered all these questions negatively, and those answers pushed a dagger into my heart. One of the worst moments during my pregnancy came through a phone call from Nigeria. I had an endorsement deal with Glo, and the call came from there. I remember a woman called me to shoot an ad and I came clean with her that I was pregnant. I explained that I would deliver in three or four months and we could continue with everything. Her response was: "The dynamics will change." I did not have the opportunity to deliver and continue with the deal. Shortly after that, my contract with Glo was not renewed, and I knew it was down to the pregnancy. That broke me. But I had to fight on and live for the precious being inside me. Though it was my first pregnancy, I did not have a lot of physical complications. It was more of the emotional distress. The absence of companionship made the burden heavier. I attended the antenatal clinic alone and had to take extraordinary measures to ensure that news of my pregnancy did not leak. At the hospital, my folder did not have my name. I went by the name Regina Van Helvet. I remember there were times I had to be prompted by a nurse that I was the one being called because I forgot the pseudonym I had chosen for myself. When my baby was finally born, her cot did not have my name. It was Regina Van Helvet. I watched it and smiled, momentarily forgetting the drama that heralded the arrival of that little angel. My water broke on October 29, 2017. It was at about 5 a.m. in the 38th week of my pregnancy. It was a Sunday morning when I felt the gush of water down my thighs. I immediately knew I had to get to the hospital. I had learnt from my antenatal sessions and my own research (reading and watching YouTube videos) about what to expect. I had downloaded apps that showed the development of the baby at the various stages of the pregnancy and what to expect. I was always on top of issues. Nothing took me by surprise, so when the water broke, I knew the moment had arrived, and I needed to get to the hospital as soon as possible. Jamie had been back a few days earlier and was with me, but I couldn't trust him to drive me. Ghana and Britain drive on different sides of the road and whoever switches without enough practice is likely to cause havoc. The last time Jamie had tried driving in Ghana, he almost killed himself. In a state that required utmost care in order to get to the hospital alive, therefore, I could not trust him to transport me. The first person who came to mind was Sammy Forson, a broadcast journalist who lived in the area. When I called him, however, he did not answer. I then called Nii, another friend who lived around. He, too, did not answer his phone. In that mode of controlled panic, I was running out of options until I remembered a neighbour, Johnson Kotey, whom I had given my dog to. I had a dog, but the demands of pregnancy, allergies and other related issues did not permit me to give the dog the needed care so I gave her out. Mr. Kotey was getting ready for church when my call came. He responded quickly and was at my gate the next moment. With him in the driving seat and Jamie and I behind, we headed for the Lister Hospital and Fertility Centre at Airport Hills. It was a 9-kilometre journey that lasted longer than the 20 minutes it normally would require to cover that distance. At the time, the road from my house to School Junction and to Adjiringanor was not tarred. This meant that the driver had to exercise utmost caution in order not to worsen my delicate situation. Speed was of the essence, but arriving safely was more important. When we got to the Underbridge at East Legon, however, things changed. The baby's head was visible through my vulva, when we were still about two kilometres away from the hospital. The road from Underbridge to the hospital was tarred and would not take us long to get there, but it was almost too late. My baby's head was already showing, and the pain was something I had never felt before, not even during my neardeath abortion experience. I had read that the stage I was in was called crowning, but nothing had prepared me for the pain that came with it. It was as if a million people were holding my vagina and trying to forcibly open it to allow the baby out. In order not to hurt the baby, I could not sit. I held the hand grab of the vehicle tightly and suspended between my seat and the driver's seat. When the driver turned and saw the baby's head popping out of my vagina, he shouted, "Oh my God! Oh my God!" "Drive!" I barked back at him. And he literally flew like a formula one driver. Jamie had, by now, learnt to mind his business or rather keep his worries and encouragements to himself. He was the one who bore the brunt of my fire that morning. When the pain intensified and he tried to comfort me, I screamed at him to shut up, for he had no idea what I was going through. He appeared to forget this instruction often and instinctively offered words of comfort, but nothing made sense in that moment of excruciating pain. When we finally arrived at the hospital, I was given a wheelchair. I thought a stretcher would have been ideal for my situation. The baby's head was already coming out so I could not sit properly or even close my legs in the wheelchair. I however managed to hang in there in a way that would not cause any harm to my baby. When I got onto the delivery bed, I was asked to push. I had felt the urge to push while in the car, but the confusion of not wanting the baby to come out in the car and not knowing exactly how to push had put that urge on hold. I still could not tell whether I was pushing the right way, but the midwife leading the team that delivered me suggested a cut. She produced a pair of scissors and cut the opening to my vagina. Shortly afterwards, my baby slipped out effortlessly. When Ryn was handed to me, I quickly instructed them to take her away. I wanted to hold her forever, but considering the torturous journey, I wasn't sure if she arrived with all the safety boxes ticked. I, therefore, wanted them to be sure she was absolutely fine before returning her to me. After all, I would spend the rest of my life with her and I could cuddle her as much as I wanted. After cleaning her, the nurses brought her back to me. She was healthy and unscathed except for the few days after the delivery when we noticed that her eyes were yellowing and returned her to the hospital. She was diagnosed with and treated for jaundice. The joy of seeing and holding Ryn in my hospital bed numbed any pain that still lingered. It erased the loneliness and stress I suffered during the pregnancy. It placed a weight of responsibility that would forever alter my worldview and dictate my actions and choices. Since she came, I have been more careful and more purposeful about life. She is an anchor of stability in my life, a guardrail against carelessness. She is a constant awakener of my sense of awareness that I no longer live for myself only. I am more careful with every step I take. I have a responsibility to guide her through the unpredictable maze of life until she is old enough to be on her own. I dread the consequences of leaving her in the middle of nowhere, making her vulnerable to the merciless vagaries of human actions. She was my comfort when the custodians of morality descended on me with harsh judgment and condemnation. I posted a magazine cover of my pregnancy on November 12, 2017, my birthday. I had managed to keep it out of the gossip mill and out of the prying eyes of bloggers. However, about 30 minutes after my delivery, the news was already out that I had a baby. If I had managed to keep my pregnancy a secret, I lost control of the environment when I got to the hospital on the day of my delivery. I was not in control of the narrative and could definitely not have stopped any health worker from texting a friend or colleague that Yvonne Nelson had delivered a baby girl. So, while I was battling with my own postpartum, the merciless judges in the court of public opinion had their way and their say. To them, I was a role model to many young women and the fact that I had given birth without being married sent the wrong signal. I had broken a moral code and could influence those who looked up to me. These and others are the pressures that often force young women to terminate pregnancies when they are not prepared to face the world. Having suffered it and almost lost my life, it is not something anyone takes lightly. When I had my baby, I would not say I didn't care about the attacks. I was, however, mature enough to stand them. Besides, I had to be strong for myself and my child. I had to live to see her grow. I had to live to teach her to be a woman of valour. I want to teach her to be a woman who will respect other people no matter their creed, race or status in society. I want her to be that woman who will believe in herself and her convictions. "The loneliness was, perhaps, part of the reason I suffered so much during my pregnancy. Jamie visited in the first trimester of my pregnancy and did not return until a few days before my delivery date..."