How would I cope with work and being pregnant. Part II
How would I cope with work and being pregnant. Part II

I walked in, my husband must be home. I should have come home before him to enable me prepare myself for giving him the news. He came to meet me at the door.
‘Long day at work? You’re late.’ He pecked me.
‘Yeah, I went to the doctor’s.’ What better chance than now? I wondered.
‘The doctor’s? Why? Are you ill?’ he looked worried and he felt my forehead. I kept a poker face and he searched my face for answers.
‘We’re having a baby.’ I produced the test result and flashed him a smile waving it in his face. He was frothing at the mouth with joy. He was ready, and I thought I could be ready also.
He wanted me to stop work, due to its nature, but I refused. How could I not work for nine months? It just didn’t make sense. How about my clients? How about Kele? He was mad about the fact that I did not want to quit work. He got sensitive about every little thing around.
I started seeking information about pregnant women and the sorts of things they did. I reduced my form of instruction from ‘do it with me’ to ‘do it’.
Six months into the pregnancy, Kele was already near the end of her training. Finally, I had conquered. She was a proud evidence of my work. She had so much confidence that she told me that she was going to run for the post of the student body president at her school. I promised her a dinner when she wins. She ran off happily. I smiled in her wake and started to go home. I felt a bit dizzy and rammed into the door.
I noticed blood and rushed to the hospital. I called my husband on the way. I had my baby, a very tiny baby boy. He was placed in ICU. I wondered if it was any of my fault. The doctor tried to calm me saying I could not have stopped it. I gave him a rundown of my activities from the time I found out I was pregnant up till that day.
I had not been training or working out except minor exercises. I felt stiff and fat, but I didn’t quit work anyway, I went daily and did more of supervising than instructing. So where did I go wrong? I was confused.
My husband came to the hospital and gave me a stare I wasn’t sure I understood. He stood looking into the ICU at his son. I saw him talking to the doctor. He looked angry, then he stormed out without saying anything to me. Was be being serious? I asked the doctor what he was angry about. The doctor told me he tried to explain to him that it was not my fault.
I did not wait to hear more. Was he being serious?
Two weeks later, Sammie left us, I had named him Sammie the next day after he was born. He fought, he really did fight to live. He died peacefully. It hurt me, it hurt a lot and I cried. I took his remains away to be laid.
The two weeks I was at the hospital, my husband barely talked to me. I paid him little attention, I was more focused on my Sammie.
When I went home, he was at home and he didn’t talk to me. His eyes were bloodshot. I got in, took and long shower during which I cried a lot. I came out of the shower not feeling any better. I dried off and wore an evening dress. I prepared dinner and called him to eat but he did not answer me. I took food to him but he flung it in my face. I nodded strongly and packed up and went to bed. He came in took his pajamas and went to the visitors room.
The next day, I stayed in all through. When he came home in the evening, I ran his bath, which he refused to use and went to the visitor’s room again.
I went there to meet him. I told him we needed to talk, he gave me a get-the-hell-out-of-here look, but I was not buying that. I would not let our little family break up without a fight. He walked out on me.
Two days again, I went to have a talk with him, blocking the door so he would not leave again, and he slapped me. He hit me. I refused to fight him back, I was used to taking pain due to the nature of my job so I did not fight him. If that was the price I had to pay for our family, so be it. Perhaprs, he would ocme to his senses after the beating. I hoped.
He hit me and injured me real bad, I bore it, and went to the hospital, I was admitted for a couple of days. When I got back to the house, he did not talk to me. I told him I was bedridden, he did not answer.
I realised he changed the locks and when I questioned him, he said he did not owe me any explanations and when I asked him for a set of the keys, he asked me out of his house. His house? We both built the house, but I was not ready to fight over it with him. He came into the room and started flinging my clothes out of the wardrobe onto the floor.
I took my keys and a couple of documents I had in the house.
‘Kenneth, you should realize that I am a woman, I am human too. And Sammie was my son too. I have given you time to get over your grief but you seem to be running mad with rage. I lost clients because I could not instruct, they wanted an instructor not a director. I went through the labour pains of having him. Sammie was my son too. My son died too.’ I said and without waiting for his reply I left. I had enough money to live on. I lodged at a motel up town for a couple of weeks till I got a house.
After about a month, fully recovered, I went to the office. Almost two months and it looked like I left it for nine hundred years. I spent at the whole day sitting on the floor thinking.
Kele came in and sat with me. She told me she had been coming daily, as she had neither my phone number nor knew my address. She hoped I was fine. I told her about Sammie and she wept into her handkerchief. I thought she cried easily.
‘I owe you a date.’ I told her when she stopped crying.
‘How did you know?’ she asked a little shocked.
‘You would not have enough confidence to come here if you lost. I do not just instruct, studying people is part of my job. It helps me know how handle each client.’
She asked if she could be my assistant. I smiled. It did not need much deliberation. She had a huge part of me and I was proud of her.
I looked on her as my child.
She helped me clean up and resume for business.
I knew things were never going to be the same with me again but I hoped for the best.

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