Happy belated Mother’s Day from me and MacGyver.
You know the dude from TV: nothing and no-one can stop him from overcoming every odd using, oh, say, a flexi tie.
Mother’s Day on the couch is a celebration of my very own MacGyver.
In 1990, aged 29, I was diagnosed with Addison’s Disease and was told menopause would hit at about 34. Having no desire to inflict what I was sure would be lousy mothering “skills” on some poor mite and considering the difficulties Addison’s would present in a full-term pregnancy, I had my tubes tied without many qualms about being childless.
Over the years and with a few exceptional souls, the medical profession has done its best to shuffle me off this mortal coil. But five years after the Addison’s diagnosis, when I was 34, it seemed the medics had it spot on and the fertile years were done.
That November, my grandad was in a Toti hospital and I made daily trips to see him. I was exhausted, stressed, nauseous and feeling out of sorts. Like any good Addisonian, I increased my cortisol dosage to allow my body to cope.
After grandad died, the women in the family, with young nieces and another niece or nephew on the way, gathered to support gran.
We had a family expression for when you were glad a problem was not yours: I’m glad I’m Bugs Bunny. Gran and I watched the overworked young moms with their lively, demanding bundles, and imagining another addition, and chuckled that we were glad we were Bugs Bunny.
But body things were happening and my tummy was bloating. An X-ray in December showed nothing abnormal.
The slightest smell made me gag and, not wanting to spend our family Christmas hugging the loo, I bought some anti-nausea pills. And for reasons that are still unfathomable, a home pregnancy test.
What a Christmas morning discovery.
Turned out, my MacGyver had been nestling inside for five months and had been subjected to many “banned-for-baby” substances, the X-ray and my increased dose of cortisol. When he started producing his own, our level was three times higher than normal, causing all sorts of worries and tests, which he thankfully passed. Karma had been hovering the very same time as the smug Bugs Bunny scenario was playing out.
The nickname MacGyver was adopted by friends and family because he had beaten the fallopian flexi-ties and the maternal “abuse”.
His birth day produced one of the funniest moments of my life. Having made it to the hospital after my waters broke, I was told my gynae was on the way and another gynae would check us out. He naturally focused on the baby and briefly lifted his head to tell me MacGyver had breeched and an emergency C-section was vital. As he switched focus to my face, he asked if we knew each other.
As long as I live, I will never forget his face when I told him he was the guy who tied my tubes. He joined my gynae and they both peered around during the C-section, reporting that all flexi-ties were in place. I was just grateful he had arrived safely, with all the right bits, and looked forward to many Mother’s Days with my MacGyver.
- Lindsay Slogrove is the news editor
The Independent on Saturday