It was summer. My husband and I were on holidays. He had decided everything about our trip without asking me even one single time if I liked his choices. We ended up in a campsite in the mountains. I was cold. The road had been absolutely terrifying. But there had been one good thing: food. Lovely fresh baguettes, scrumptious cheese, and delicious wine. One night, my husband was probably more relaxed than usual and we had unprotected sex.
A few days after, I felt that I was pregnant. My pelvis was literally steaming. I was much warmer than usual. My sense of taste changed, my breast was tense, I knew. I waited a bit, did a test, the first one said no, the second said yes. I called my husband. His voice was monotonous, somewhat muffled, and had no trace of happiness.
I had not been expecting an explosion of joy, but at least some kindness. It was his baby too. We made it together, and he was fully aware that I was ovulating and that this intercourse would result in a fecondation.
No explosion of joy.
Curiously enough, now that I was pregnant, he wanted more sex than usual. I really didn’t like it. I had to comply, but I couldn’t put up with his constant need for dominating me. It would hurt, and he would not stop. He kept pushing his penis against my cervix. This was wrong, and painful.
After a few months, I felt unwell. There was some blood. My husband wanted to examine me. A voice in me started screaming: he is not a doctor, go to hospital.
I was put in a wheelchair. Then a nurse took me to a bedroom where the heart beat of the baby and my contractions were monitored. I was told that I would have to stay until I stabilised. I was put on oxygen, got some steroid shots to help the lungs of the baby in case of premature delivery.
When I was finally allowed to go home, I was told to remain lying down for at least two months. I hated it. I got so swollen. My nerves were trapped. I put on weight and became planetary huge. My poor skin couldn’t handle the change, and my dermis started to crack all over. The epidermis was so stretched that, in some places, it wasn’t even joined to the other layers of my skin. My body was full of holes.
I was brave. It was hard. I couldn’t sleep, I would immediately choke when resting on my back. My sacrum couldn’t take any more pain, resting on my side was out of the question. I was this massive suffering vessel that couldn’t flow but would ooze sweat constantly. My kidneys were suffering.
I managed to keep the baby for 9 months in my womb.
One day, I felt the contractions again. My husband was at work. I thought he would rush back home to take me to hospital, but no. For about 6 hours, I was on my own, at home, counting the intervals between the contractions. I called my husband, insisting that the baby was on its way. When I finally arrived at hospital, it was too late for the epidural, and I was told my husband had not taken me to all the examinations so I wasn’t allowed to get it anyway.
I was so angry. So so so angry. I was trying to breathe, and he just stood there like a giant sausage, out of place, useless, and slightly greasy. The nurse told him to leave the room.
In less than an hour, the baby was born.
But I remained angry, and so did the baby.
Even though I was full of stitches and could hardly walk or take care of myself and the baby, he made clear that he was entitled to having sex again. He kept ranting about women who stop having sex with their husband once they are granted a child. He was so shallow, seeing our life through the anecdotes of people who had nothing to do with us. I was not these women, he was not these men. That’s when it started, lying down and praying for England, while his thrushes were tearing off the stitches, and him saying that I needed to have the entrance of my vagina cut wider to accomodate his big and slightly deformed phallus better.