‘By the end of the sixth month, I couldn’t leave the house without someone looking at me like I was about to go into labour right in the middle of the grocery shop. Strangers would make this awkward half-smile and ask, ‘Is it almost due?’ and I’d have to fake laugh and say, ‘Actually, I’m still a few months away from giving birth.’ Then their faces would pull up like I had just told them I was carrying an elephant.
I get it. I was huge. But I still couldn’t help but feel like everyone thought I was doing something wrong. That I was overeating or hiding the twins or lying about how far gone I really was. Even my Aunt Lela, who I adore, took me aside at a family barbecue and whispered: ‘Honey, are you sure there’s only one?’
Yes, Aunt Lela. I’m sure. The ultrasounds only showed one little dumpling kicking like it owned the place. My doctor said I had extra fluid, but nothing dangerous. It’s just… big. Really big.
But then things got weird.
At my prenatal yoga class, a woman named Trina kept looking at my belly. After class, she caught up with me in the car park and said: ‘You need to get a follow-up exam. I had a friend who looked like you, and…’ She stopped talking. ‘Just… get another scan.’
I laughed at first, but that night I couldn’t sleep. Her words kept echoing in my head. The next morning I called my OB/GYN, asking for a last-minute appointment. They squeezed me in two days later.
I wish I could say that calmed my nerves. But something happened during that visit that I didn’t expect at all.
My doctor, Dr Mahmood, started the scan as usual, chatting to me about heartburn and food cravings. But then he became silent. Too silent.
He squinted, moved the sensor a little and leaned back, saying: ‘Hold on. I want to bring a colleague in to check something again.’
My heart did that awful ‘dumb’ beat and I blurted out: ‘Is everything okay?’
He smiled, but the smile was strained. ‘I just want to be thorough. This won’t take long.’
Ten minutes later another doctor walked in, a woman named Dr Clara, who had a calm voice and tired eyes. They stared at the screen together, whispering about something I couldn’t make out.
Finally Dr Mahmood turned to me and said: ‘So… this is a bit unusual. You’re only carrying one baby anyway, but there’s something we need to check. There’s a mass – probably benign – but it’s causing your uterus to overstretch.’
A mass?
I felt my throat go dry. ‘Like a tumour?’
‘It could be a fibroid,’ he said softly. ‘They’re fairly common. Often harmless. But its size, combined with the extra fluid, makes your belly look bigger than usual.’
I nodded as if I understood, but honestly, my head was spinning.
I left that appointment holding onto the printout and the referral to the specialist. I sat in the car for twenty minutes just trying to breathe and not cry.
The specialist confirmed it a few days later – one large fibroid, not cancerous, but big enough to push my boy into a weird position and make my belly look like I was pregnant with triplets.
Suddenly everything made more sense. The tightness. How short of breath I was after climbing one floor. Even the occasional bouts of pain that I thought were normal for pregnancy.
But here’s the twist: the fibroid also made it difficult to properly monitor the baby. It was blocking some angles and affecting blood flow to one side of the placenta. We needed to monitor the condition every week. ‘Just in case,’ they said, but I knew it was more than that.
It was the start of a new routine – ultrasounds, checkups, stress tests, repeats. My belly continued to grow like I was hiding a beach volleyball. I stopped going to yoga. I started avoiding the grocery shop.
One evening, seven weeks before my expected delivery date, I felt a deep, throbbing pain that wouldn’t go away. I tried drinking water, lying on my left side, even walking around the house. Nothing helped.
That night I ended up in the hospital, and it turned out I was going into premature labour.
Things became a blur from there – monitors beeping, nurses quickly saying something, my mum running into the hospital with her shoes half dressed. They managed to stop labour this time, but they warned me: this baby might come sooner than expected.
I actually spent the next few weeks on the couch with a body pillow and a bag of frozen peas around my waist.
And then – on a rainy Tuesday morning – he came.
Nico.
Five pounds eleven ounces. A high-pitched scream. A head full of black hair.
They had to do a C-section because of the position of the fibroid, and recovery was hard, but I’ve never felt so grateful in my life. All the stares, the whispers, the worries…it didn’t matter now. He was here. Safe.
And the fibroid? It shrank on its own after a few months. I didn’t need surgery.
But that’s what stayed with me:
That sense of judgement. How quickly people assume something is wrong just because something looks different. I wish more people would show kindness before curiosity.
If you ever see a pregnant woman with a huge belly, maybe just smile. Maybe don’t ask if she’s ‘about to give birth.’ Chances are, she’s much more worried than you think.
And if you’re that pregnant woman who feels overwhelmed and watched – you’re not alone. Trust your feelings. Speak out loud. Get another checkup if something feels weird. You know your body better than anyone.
Thank you for reading. If this story resonated with you, please like and share – it may help someone feel less alone.
