I started work at for the BMX Company of Death in August, and in September, I discovered I was pregnant. I didn’t get a sweet little “a-ha!” moment like lucky some women have, however, my realization took place at eight in the morning when I threw up my breakfast.
It was the Monday after Labor Day weekend, which Paul and I had spent in South Dakota at a music festival, and I was headed to work. I woke up feeling nauseated, but showered, dressed, and headed out the door anyway. I had a thirty-five minute commute from Ankeny to southern Des Moines, and I had gone about ten miles when I realized I would never make it through the day. I exited the interstate, called Katie, and headed back home.
When I arrived at the apartment, I had just unlocked the front door when a wave of nausea washed over me. I ran to the bathroom and began what would soon become a ritual. I spent the day in bed with a bucket on the nightstand. I threw up every two hours for the entire day. After throwing up a handful of crackers, I didn’t dare eat anything else, so by five PM I had completely emptied my stomach. Paul had left earlier that morning and would be working out of town for several days, so I was on my own.
The next morning was no better, nor was the one after that. Eventually, I got up the courage to run to the grocery store for soup and jello. I also purchased a pregnancy test. The test proved to be the only thing I found helpful, as I couldn’t keep down the soup, and I wasn’t surprised to discover that I was pregnant.
A normal day’s menu consisted of a cup of tea and a handful of saltines, both of which usually exited my system before lunch. I searched internet forums for advice to control morning sickness, but all the suggestions I came across included eating something, an activity I currently could not do.
Ginger snaps, peppermint tea, saltines. Nothing would stay down and as the days went by and I began to lose weight, Paul became concerned.
We phoned the doctor, but they refused to see me until I was at least eight weeks along. We guessed I was at about week five. “You don’t understand,” I heard my husband explaining as I leaned over the toilet, “she can’t even keep down water.”
After several minutes of arguing, he poked his head into the bathroom. “They’re phoning in a prescription. I’m going to go pick it up.” I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, lest he get more than he’d asked for.
After a week, we called the doctor again. “I know she’s only at six weeks, but the prescription you gave her isn’t helping. She’s lost ten pounds since last week.” There was a long pause. “She only weighs ninety pounds! She’s dehydrated and she spends the entire day in bed. I don’t think that’s healthy for her or the baby.” There was another long pause before Paul finally said “Thank you,” and hung up.
He sat beside me on the couch and stroked my hair. “There’s one other thing they can give you. It’s pretty strong stuff. It’s normally used to control nausea in chemo patients, but they think you need it.” He smiled encouragingly at me. “I can pick it up in an hour.”
The drug turned out to be, not only strong, but expensive. Without out health insurance, it would have cost us $1600 a month. As it was, we paid about $30.
It took a few days for the drug to get into my system, and even then it wasn’t great, but it controlled my morning sickness enough that I at least stopped losing weight.
Over the course of the next two months, I averaged about one day a week that I was able to get to work. This arrangement didn’t do much for our finances, but we managed. By Thanksgiving time, I was just about back to normal.
On the days that I made it to the office, I was very much enjoying my job. My employer had his annoyances to be sure, and he made it a very stressful place to work when he was there, but as the year wore one, he was gone more and more.
The Mikes and I had a very pleasant camaraderie between us that gradually grew less and less like camaraderie between coworkers and more and more like friendship. They asked how I was feeling after long absences, and were excited to see the ultrasound photographs of my son, Jeremiah.
On the days that we were left to our own devices, we had a lot of fun working together. The Mikes had a daily ritual of selecting a music theme and playing nothing else. There was “classic rock day,” “hip hop day,” and my personal favorite, “showtunes day.” Despite gallant efforts, some of the more interesting themes, such as “showtunes day” only managed to survive until lunch.
The atmosphere quickly changed after Christmas, however. Suddenly, Patrick was at the office almost all the time. Something had apparently happened over the holidays, and his previously happy-go-lucky demeanor took an unhappy turn. As a result, our work environment became almost immediately “less happy.’
Re-shoots had become rare in the weeks before the holiday, and Patrick had been at least semi-pleased with my work. Complaints became a daily occurrence now, however, and I was shooting products three or four different times before getting a grudging “ok.”
I quickly learned that when he told me to “be creative” what he really meant was “shoot it exactly the same way as it is now.” There was only one way to shoot sprockets. One way to shoot frames. One way to shoot seat posts.
Consequently, Patrick began wanting to be more and more included in the photographing process. He wanted to be on-hand to offer direction, and set up the posing himself. This further slowed down my work and added to my frustrations. I didn’t need his help. I was a competent photographer and the work I was doing was superior in every way to the work he had been doing.
After had complained, again, about one particular sprocket photograph, I took my argument to the Mikes.
“He’s says my photo is too dark.” I tapped a fingernail accusingly on the Mikes’ computer monitor. “My photos aren’t dark, “I insisted, “they’re accurate.” My finger stopped tapping and was now jabbing threateningly at my coworker. “He’s gotten so used to staring at photos with blown highlights that he doesn’t know what correctly exposed looks like. Look at this.” I pointed back at the monitor. “Look at this. What color would you say this is?”
Mike hesitated, fearing the wrong answer. “Pink?”
“Exactly. Does that sprocket even come in pink?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It doesn’t. It comes in purple.” I turned around to face him and threw up my hands, scattering papers over the floor as I did so. “Does no one else see this as a problem?”
Mike managed a meek smile and put a hand on my shoulder. “Honey, we’re on your side, okay?”
I sighed in resignation and turned to head back into the studio. I had just rounded the corner when Mike H walked out of the office. Muttering, he threw a clipboard down on his desk and sat down. He turned to his coworker. “Let’s stage a coup.”
“Having that good a morning already?”
“He’s an idiot.”
“Want some coffee?”
I poked my head back into the warehouse. “Can I have some? It’s freezing in here.”
“Sure. Help yourself.” He slid a cup across the desk in my direction.
“Why do we have to have the thermostat set at sixty, anyway? I feel like I’m in a frozen foods warehouse.” I eagerly grabbed the offered cup but instead of taking a sip, I held it in my hands to warm them. I’d purchased several sets of fingerless gloves to try to keep my fingers warm, but the warehouse had only been at fifty degrees when we arrived that morning, and the chill was difficult to ward off.
Mike H glanced at us from his computer. “Keep costs down, or some similar crud.”
“He could at least let us have a space heater.”
Mike P looked surprised. “I thought you had one.” He reached for the coffee, adjusting his stocking had with his other hand.
“Had one. Pat took it away last week.”
“What? Why?”
“He said it’s a fire hazard.”
“Figures. That’s why we don’t have a coffee maker anymore.”
“Well…yes,” I admitted slowly. “I suppose I can see how that could be a fire hazard. I mean, if we tipped it over on it’s side and stuffed gasoline-soaked toilet-paper inside, the entire block could erupt in flame.” Death and destruction all because of our need for a stimulant-based beverage. How deceptively evil was our Mr. Coffee, quietly brewing pots of joe, while all the time planning our demise. How good of our boss to look out for the safety of Southern Des Moines.
“Uh huh. Hamilton didn’t seem to share my feelings of appreciation. “I think it’s just because Pat doesn’t like the smell of coffee.”
I sighed. “Well, anyway, thanks for the coffee. I better get back to work. Maharry is supposed to be coming in later to talk to me.”
“Chris Maharry?”
“Yeah.”
Mike P grinned, “That guy is just awesome. He’s a photographer too, you know.”
I returned his grin. “We’ve met. He invited me over to his house to meet his wife”
“Yeah, I thought you two would hit it off.”
“Anyway, I have to get some stuff done before he gets here.” I grabbed my camera off of Mike Ps desk and headed back the studio. “Give me a head’s up when Pat get’s in, will you?”
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