Partner story: Roland Kay-Smith

I used to be emetophobic. I had a very real fear of vomit and vomiting. No longer. Thanks to my beautiful wife and her hyperemesis gravidarum, exposure to constant and violent heaving has cured me of my ailment.

Pausing the television while my pregnant wife bolted to the bathroom became instinctual. I’ve spent my fair share of time on the side of a suburban road rubbing the back of a heavily pregnant woman while she, hands on knees, regurgitated the contents of her stomach. Sick bags and buckets became a regular feature in our home during 8 and a half months of my wife’s 9-month pregnancy. 

The vomiting and resulting exhaustion rendered my wife’s unable to work. I became her primary carer. Keeping her hydrated, nourished and medicated became my daily duties. I made more toast in those 9 months than I had in my previous 34 years. I became a master pharmacist, administering medicine with detailed knowledge of side effects, dosage and interactions. 

At night, once my wife was tucked in bed, I would close my eyes and drift off to sleep knowing that at any moment I could be roused to drive to the hospital for a laundry list of reasons. Unstoppable vomiting? Emergency department. Severe dehydration? Emergency department. Unable to feel the baby? Emergency department? Mental exhaustion? Emergency department. 

I know the Sutherland Hospital emergency department like the back of my hand. If I solely treated pregnant women with severe nausea and vomiting and hyperemesis gravidarum, I probably know enough about the treatments to get work as a doctor. Maxolon. IV fluids. Rest. None of which would work particularly well, mind, but that’s the advice we would receive to manage the comfort and health of my wife and unborn child. 

Eventually, we would develop a relationship with the maternity ward and we were exempt from the emergency department song and dance. What are your symptoms? Vomiting. Do you have a virus? No, it’s hyperemesis. Maybe it’s food poisoning? It’s pregnancy sickness. Have you tried ginger? Fuck off. 

Once we found our routine at the maternity ward, we had some level of comfort. Not physical comfort, but knowing that we had a place to go that would provide us with the care we needed put our minds at ease. It wasn’t perfect, but we received more sympathy from the midwives than we did with the doctors and nurses downstairs. Everyone did their best, but they clearly hadn’t ever dealt with a case like ours before. 

The final stretch of the pregnancy became a mental game. Now I was a psychologist. Was I good enough to get my wife through to the end with her sanity intact? There were breakdowns, tears, phone calls to those more qualified in the human mind than I. There was pleading with doctors to bring the end of the pregnancy forward. Anything to end the 9 months of torture. 

I imagine most expectant parents spend this time preparing to be parents. Giddy with excitement at decorating a baby room and picking names. We experienced these moments briefly in between ear-shattering screams down the porcelain. 

When the baby did come, it was pure joy. I wept. I instantly clicked into dad mode and knew I would love the baby unconditionally and in perpetuity. My wife felt the same things too, but she had the complications of a difficult pregnancy to deal with. Like a soldier who had witnessed the worst of war, my wife suffered a form of pregnancy PTSD. Anything that reminded her of being pregnant could trigger panic. Warm baths. Hydralite ice blocks. Smells. Sounds. The horror, the horror. 

And like a soldier, my wife deserves the highest honour. She’s been through something very few will ever fully understand and she was victorious. For her, victory was a beautiful baby girl and reclaiming her body as her own. She returned home a hero, but she will never be able to forget the experience.