The Pregnant Superhero

“Don’t have too many pickles,” my husband says, “it will cause dehydration which is bad for your condition.”

I ignore him the same way I have always ignored my condition, sticking my hand to lick the leftover on the edges. As I twist the jar to pull out my hand, I realise it is stuck. I struggle to separate the two.

My husband notices and holds my wrist firmly, “Uh-uh, wait! You’ll hurt yourself.”

I roll my eyes, “How does it matter, Prem? I wouldn’t feel it anyway.”

“You won’t, but the baby might,” he says, patting my 8-month belly. Annoyed, I jolt my hand, and it hits the floor, shredding the glass bottle all over the white marble. The transparent glass becomes noticeable as blood drips. My hands are dark red.

The television screen in front of us plays Ramayana where Sita is consistently blinded by tears like she is shedding some on my behalf. I barely remember the last time I cried. And just like every time, I didn’t cry yet. Because just like every time, I didn’t feel the pain.

Prem caresses my bruised hand, carefully pulling out the shreds of glass. Tears well his eyes, “Are you okay?” he asks me, sniffling. “Yes, Prem,” I say, patting his hand.

“How do you feel?” he asks me, like every time.

“When did my Congenital Insensitivity to Pain ever allow me to feel?” I say, “but if you ask, it’s like a small creature, like an ant, bit me and…” I giggle.

“And?”

“The ant died,” I shrug.

Prem smiles, slapping my shoulder. He brings me a glass of water to keep me hydrated. I drink half of it and pour a little on my blood-stained hands with the water flowing free on the floor. He does not complain. Instead, he cleans my soaked hand with a soft cloth and bandages it.

It reminds me of our younger and naïve days.

#

Prem and I were bonded to each other since our childhood. This is why, at times, he understood my condition better than me. He never saw it as a disease. To him, a girl who doesn’t feel pain was no less than a superhero.

Once, I played with my geometry toolbox, carving my arm with a compass. It was more fun than using it to draw a circle in mathematics class. My classmates got scared and complained. The teacher targeted me in front of the whole class. My hands embedded the initials PK for Prem Khanna, my then neighbour, and classmate.

But I didn’t reveal his name. Seeing the bloody cuts on my hand, she called my parents and suspended me from school. She condemned it as an attempt to suicide and for provoking my fellow classmates. Prem rushed to me when he heard the news. He held my hands and caressed the self-inflicted bruise.

He looked at it carefully, and when he realised, he slammed his face with his palm. “Are you crazy?” he asked. “Maybe,” I said, “for you.”

“Your mom will slap you when you reach home,” he said.

“Thappad se darr nahi lagta, andhere se lagta hai,” I said. (Slaps don’t scare me, darkness does.)

He took a marker from his school bag and wrote on his arm ‘MR’ – for my name Maya Roy. “I don’t have the courage to bleed my hand like you. But, I promise, when I grow up, I will get this tattooed,” he said.

I took the marker from him and pulled his hand. I morphed the writing on his arm – ‘MRS. MK’.

I looked at him and smiled, “One day.” He smiled at me and said, “When no one can suspend you anymore.”

Today he had the tattoo of my name, just like he had promised.

#

At times I curse my fateful luck for having survived so many years with bruises here and there on my body when most children with my condition die at a young age. I have not seen any less – from bleeding tongue to fractured legs.

Ever since my pregnancy, I have been high on energy. I had to be careful while exerting myself such that it wouldn’t cost the life of the baby. With Prem around, I am careful.

Early morning, he gets me bed tea, dipping his little finger slightly to check the temperature. Every day, he makes my bathing water ready to ensure that I do not burn or freeze myself. Some evenings, he accompanies me to the park to play, and each time I fall, he checks if I have hurt myself. Often, we replace it with long evening walks, and to keep the baby healthy, we engage in worldly talks. This time, it isn’t just about me but also about the baby.

When we visited my gynaecologist, he warned me, it is natural for me to be high on energy but if I keep exerting myself my water might break.

One fateful night, around 4AM, I feel an urge to urinate. As I wiggle sleepily on the commode, I notice the unfamiliar dampness. I touch the fluid flowing out and realise the foreseen has happened – I had a water break.

All of a sudden, my fun time turns to regret as I curse myself for playing in the park and running around. I crawl my way back to our room as my head whirls. I feel fine, but my body moves slowly. As I reach our bed, like a turtle whopping on a shore, Prem wakes up.

“The water broke.”

“Are you in labour?” he sticks his ears on my belly.

I pat him on his head, “Do we get to know like this?”

“How do you feel?”

“Nothing, except my body, becoming heavy,” I say.

Prem tries to reach our gynaecologist but fails. He calls the hospital and lets them know about the urgency. The hospital asks us to come over immediately.

Prem was never a confident driver like I was, but unable to get a cab at 4:45 in the morning, he carefully drives the car out of our garage. He makes me sit comfortably.

“Keep breathing. Do Anulom-vilom,” he says.

I look at him awkwardly, imitating his pranayama. I don’t realise when my heaviness puts me to sleep. I wake up on a stretcher.

#

Prem and an unfamiliar doctor stand next to me.

“We have called Dr. Mukherjee. He is on his way. You will have to wait here,” the doctor says, referring to my gynaecologist.

“Call him fast then,” Prem says in an irritated tone, “what if something happens to her.”

“We can’t do anything, sir. She has a special condition, so only Dr. Mukherjee can do the delivery,” the doctor says, “Did your labour start?”

“How will she know! She doesn’t feel pain,” Prem says, as I try listening to them attentively.

I wave my hand, “Like, when I vomit, I have an urge to vomit,” I say, breathing heavily, “but I don’t feel the urge to push the baby.”

The doctor and Prem are stunned at my comparison for a moment.

“We might have to induce labour then,” a voice says behind me. It is Dr. Mukherjee. “If you don’t feel the urge in a few hours, we will induce it, else it will increase the risk of infection,” Dr. Mukherjee says.

At times Prem disliked Dr. Mukherjee’s efficiency because he wished to understand my condition as he did. Dr. Mukherjee accompanies Prem to a corner and asks for my previous prescriptions.

Prem hands them over. “I told you the water would break,” he says to Prem, checking the prescription. “We stopped Naloxone due to pregnancy because of which she may have acted out as she won’t feel any pain at all. Did she hurt herself in this duration?”

“Injured her hand with glass,” Prem says.

“Any other injuries?”

“No.”

“You’ve taken decently good care then. We’ll check the rest,” Dr. Mukherjee smiles.

#

Hours later, they take me in. They create contractions artificially such that I feel the urge to push out the baby.

I feel exhausted as if I had played from day to night without a break. I want water, but Prem is not around. All I hear is “Push a little harder” as my vision blurs.

But no one tells me how hard to push. So, I muster all my remaining strength and push, leaning forward. Something hurts my back, near my spinal cord, like a twist.

I ignore. And one more time, I push as hard as I can. Just then, the baby is taken out. As I lean back, I feel the twist again. I put my hand on my back as a scream escapes my lips, “Aahh! What is this!!” For the first time, I feel pain.

As Prem enters, he sees the baby in the nurse’s arm. He looks at me with pity and kisses my sweaty forehead. But I never sweat. Tears flood my eyes.

“How do you feel?” Prem asks.

“My, my back hurts,” I say with quivering lips, “I feel it.”

His smile changes to confused amusement. He looks at the doctor.

“Let us check.”

The doctors examine me only to discover that a pain-receptor nerve, nociceptor, is damaged near my spinal cord. Since I never felt pain, it has a reverse effect on me.

“Doctor,” the nurse says.

The baby does not react to pats with a warm towel on his back. Nor to his mouth and nose being cleaned. Our hearts halt, hoping he is not stillborn.

I ask the doctor to draw the curtains and turn off the lights. The room is dark. Prem switches his flashlight on the baby. The baby’s eyes flutter lightly, and he lets out a soft cry.

I realise that my baby will bloom with my genes. He doesn’t react to touch because he doesn’t feel. I look at Prem as he sees me struggle with my newfound sensations of burning and tingling.

“Are you okay?” Prem asks, holding my hand.

I mumble, “He took my curse on himself.”