I had dutifully read a few chapters of What to Expect When You’re Expecting and had perused the Internet for the obvious dos and don’ts of pregnancy: what not to eat, when the nausea would kick in, etc. “Can I still go to the gym?” I asked, half-knowing I would continue to go with or without her consent.
“Yes, light exercise. Don’t let your body overheat too much, don’t sweat too much. Keep your heart rate moderate.” I was relieved I would be able to hold on to one of my rituals.
“I am on my way to Senegal next week.”
She looked at me askance. “I would advise you not to travel. Flights have radiation that is not good for the embryo at this stage. It could be harmful.”
The words were like daggers in my heart. No travel? Impossible. “Really?” I asked skeptically. “I have never heard of that before. For how long is there a risk period involved with flying?” I was convinced it must have been an Indian folktale.
“The first three months are the most sensitive. And for the duration of your pregnancy, I would limit all long-haul flights—flights over six hours—to a minimum.” I tried to contain my shock. No one had ever told me to limit my travel before. “And there is malaria in Senegal. Do you have to go to Senegal now?”
Claustrophobia set in. “Yes.” The words flew out of my mouth. It was a knee-jerk reaction. “I cannot cancel now.” As I said the words, I realized that to someone outside my profession, to whom journalism was just a job, I probably sounded insane, being willing to possibly jeopardize my pregnancy for a ten-day Times assignment.
“There is a risk you can lose the pregnancy if you get malaria in Senegal. And I would advise you not to take antimalaria tablets while pregnant.”
With every sentence I felt a part of myself dying. My life was being taken over by a microscopic union of Paul and me growing inside my uterus, and I had yet to feel that overwhelming joy all these women talked about when they talked about pregnancy.
“I can use bug spray,” I started, and before I finished the sentence I realized that bug spray, too, might be harmful to an unborn child.
“You can use citronella,” Dr. Verma said.
I left the hospital in a cloud of defeat.
I went to Senegal in mid-May, enveloped by the exhaustion and nausea of my first trimester. I left a certain amount of the risk of malaria, of the radiation of flying, and of whether I could handle a physically challenging assignment in the hands of fate. After all, it was the philosophy that had governed much of my life. I thought often about Elizabeth and of how she had traipsed through the Korengal Valley laden with body armor for her entire second trimester, and I suddenly understood why she had forced herself to keep working throughout her pregnancy: because in a sense, our work was our life. It defined who we were, it wasn’t just a job we did for a living, and I needed to hold on to that for as long as I could.
With the exception of military embeds, I took on all my regular assignments, hiding my burgeoning belly beneath loose-fitting shirts, cargo pants, and sometimes, fortunately, the necessary hijab. I convinced myself that if I didn’t tell anyone, I wouldn’t have to compromise my life. I was adamant that my editors and colleagues were not to know until I could no longer hide it—I feared editors would deny me work on account of my pregnancy. I had fought hard to reach a place where I had a consistent stream of assignments, and I wanted to make sure that I wasn’t written off with the girth of my belly.