Limbo - by Theo

If we've been quiet on the blog recently it may because we feel a little like we're in limbo. We're waiting.

We've found a house, agreed a price, appointed a solicitor and are now just waiting on a green light from the mortgage company and a decision on a moving date: it could be July 1st or it could be August 1st. Until then we're in Limbo.

I've nearly finished my course: my last assignment has been handed in, just one more week (more like half a week actually, as Wednesday is a day off and Friday only exists in theory) and then I'm done. I then I wait to start work. I no longer feel like a student, but I don't yet feel like a teacher. Limbo.

And of course...

...Rosie is waiting impatiently for the arrival of her little baby brother! 2 months!

Once More Into The Breach.... By Kate

...but hopefully not a breech this time.

Just under a year since my previous short-lived pregnancy, we discovered that our various efforts to combine sperm and egg had once again been successful. Various tell-tale symptoms meant I already had my suspicions and was fully expecting the positive line that appeared when I performed a home pregnancy test on the day my period should have arrived. I kept my own counsel for another week, then wrapped up the positive test and put it in Theo's Christmas stocking.

He looked quizzically at the digital device in his hand, then recoiled in shock at the message it contained: pregnant 2-3.
"Two to three...?!"
I was slightly taken aback by his shocked reaction. Then I realised.
"Not babies, Darling - weeks."
He visibly relaxed and gave me a hug, which was equal parts relief and congratulation.

My feelings were mixed. I was delighted that we had managed to conceive and I had been starting to worry about the length of time it was taking. After all, 41 is getting on a bit in child bearing terms. With that in mind, after several months of unrelenting menstruation (and one possible chemical pregnancy - a miscarriage in less than 5 weeks of gestation) I had decided to step up our baby-making efforts. Accordingly, I had invested in some sperm-encouraging lubricant, some ovulation predictor tests and a course of fertility-assisting acupuncture (a cheap deal courtesy of Groupon).

Turns out the phone call to book the acupuncture was enough on its own - I was pregnant within the next fortnight with nary a needle inserted. Powerful stuff, this acupuncture.

So the very fact of conception was a definite biological victory. But pregnancy after the emotional upset and numbing disappointment of a miscarriage is a very different experience from the pregnancies that take place with no troubled history behind them. A post-miscarriage pregnancy is an altogether more tentative and anxious affair - the blithe assumption that a healthy baby will come at the end of it just doesn't exist any more. We are made more cautious by sad experience.

The NHS midwives, although sympathetic about my concerns for the viability of my pregnancy, wouldn't refer me for an early scan unless I had a concrete reason to believe it may have gone wrong. Perfectly reasonable, but given that my previous pregnancy had hit the buffers with no external clues until the 10-week ecografia revealed its untimely demise, that was no comfort to me.

So I decided to shell out seventy pounds and pay for a private scan. It was carried out at just over 8 weeks and was seventy pounds well spent, as far as I was concerned. Despite having maintained a reasonably calm "que sera, sera" attitude up to that point, I burst into tears of pent-up anxiety and relief when the sonographer cheerily indicated the thankfully flashing beacon of the fetal heart beat. And statistically, I was now in with a 95% chance of carrying through a successful pregnancy. Heartening stuff.

The next sticking point was the outcome of the first trimester screening to check for the more "common" chromosomal abnormalities. With Rosie, a 1-in-60 risk of Down's Syndrome had come back to scare us and I'd endured an anguished and tearful few weeks deciding to have an amniocentesis test (carrying a small risk of miscarriage), then waiting to find out if that procedure would cause me to lose the pregnancy and whether the fetus' chromosomes were as they should be. It didn't and they were.

I was dreading going through all that again, but when the specialist midwife phoned to tell me we had a 1-in-47 risk this time, I surprised myself by shrugging my shoulders and calmly booking another amniocentesis. I think it helped that I had been through the whole thing once before with no bad outcomes and that I was wise enough this time to understand that the risk of having a child with Down's Syndrome was still less than 3%, so still very small.

The only time my pulse rate went up this time round was on the day of the initial result from the amnio. It came back as normal. And even though I knew that wasn't the definitive result, I immediately relaxed. Ten days later the full result was phoned through - chromosomes all fine and we were having a boy. Now we could start to allow ourselves to feel excited about the prospect of having another child - and know which set of names to consider for our impending new offspring.

Yesterday we cleared another hurdle with flying colours - the 20 week scan, known as the anomaly scan as it checks the fetus' organs, limbs and facial features for any problems. This is another nail-biting stage, as some of the problems detected can be severe and may show that the fetus, if it survives until birth, most certainly won't live for much longer. I know personally at least two people who have had to terminate their pregnancies at this stage for this reason.

But our baby boy had a clean sheet in terms of his tiny internal organs, face and limbs. Everything in the right place functioning as it should. I let out the last bit of breath I had been holding.

Yes, things can still go wrong of course, but all the main risk factors (barring my age) have now been discounted so there's every reason to believe we'll get there okay.

As for me, from the beginning I have been travelling hopefully. A friend who had lost a pregnancy in very sad circumstances (and went on to have another perfectly healthy baby afterward) gave me that advice when I asked how she had coped with the anxiety.
"All you can do is travel hopefully," she said and they are words I've taken to heart. They have served me well.

Now it's time to start accepting that another baby is on the way and start getting ready for his arrival. Where did I put that Pregnancy Yoga book?

Won one, lost one By Kate

We got lucky first time with Rosie. She was the result of one of the four in five pregnancies that ends with a baby. Second time round that luck took a holiday.

Instead of expecting a brother or sister for Rosie early in October as we had thought, we discovered from our first scan that we weren't expecting a baby at all. Our embryo had stopped developing at just over eight weeks and no heartbeat could be detected. A missed or "silent" miscarriage. The radiologist's mouth tightened into a line of regret. "Es un aborto," she said, "Lo siento."

We were stung by disappointment and slightly stunned, but took the bad news calmly. "Ah well," I said to Theo as I climbed off the scanning table, "That's that, then." It would explain why I had been experiencing so few pregnancy symptoms, especially during the last fortnight or so. Everything had come to a full stop.

When we got home, the tears came. Although I was already counting my blessings (better to lose a pregnancy early on; I know I can carry a healthy baby; I know I can get pregnant fairly easily; maybe a slightly bigger gap between children would be better; at least this takes the pressure off our return to the UK etc. etc....) it was still a sad loss and some grief was inevitable. Theo comforted me, as best he could. For him, the initial disappointment had rapidly changed into concern for my well-being. Cuddling Rosie helped me too.

But now we had to turn to the practicalities of the situation. Our radiologist had told me to go to hospital either today or tomorrow...but was vague about the details. A bit of research online told me most of what I needed to know and a friend who'd been through the same thing a few years before told me the rest. I would need a medical procedure called ERPC (Evacuation of the Remaining Products of Conception), once known as D&C (Dilation and Curettage). A straightforward operation performed under general anaesthetic. Bearing that in mind, we elected to go the following morning in the hope that I would be home that same evening.

Accordingly, we arrived at Urgencias Maternidad, Hospital La Paz at nine o'clock the next morning. Theo had taken the day off work so he could look after Rosie and support me as much as possible. We signed in and I was taken off to be scanned again. The staff were kind and friendly (a couple of the younger medics even attempting some reasonable English) and although none of them offered sympathy, they put me at my ease.

I had done the right thing by not eating any breakfast, although the news that I had had a few mouthfuls of water was greeted with some consternation. Eventually they judged I hadn't had enough for it to be a big problem. I was told to remove my clothes and jewelery, then put in a wheelchair and taken to a small ward for two on the fourth floor. It all felt strangely familiar as the room was identical to the one I had stayed in for five days after having Rosie. Except this one couldn't come close to the view we had had on the eleventh floor and the circumstances couldn't be more depressingly different.

Theo and Rosie came to give me a hug and bid me a temporary farewell, then I was joined by an older woman who was given the other bed as she waited to have a bladder operation. I smiled politely and did my best to keep up with her Spanish, using my own imperfect command of the language to explain why I was at La Paz. She nodded sympathetically and told me (I think) that she had also had a miscarriage. But she now had three healthy adult sons to her name, so not to worry. Although she suspected the miscarried baby would have turned out to be a girl and that made her feel sad. I nodded sympathetically in my turn.

A couple of nurses came in, gave me some forms to sign, then popped a couple of pessaries inside me to "soften things up" for the coming procedure. I was then left to relax in my bed and read.

An hour and a half later, it was time to go. My bed, with me in it, was wheeled down to the operating theatre. Outside it, I was asked the same succession of questions by five different people (No, I hadn't eaten since last night, Yes I'd drunk a little water this morning, but not much etc. etc.) Bafflingly, one junior anaesthetist asked me in broken English about the importance of the decision I had made. Confused, I replied, "Es un gestation interrumpido. Es un aborto. Este operacion es necesario, no?" He agreed it was. I think he had been under the impression that I was aborting a live fetus, for some reason.

The operation itself went without a hitch. The most painful part was having two needles inserted into the back of my left hand for the various drips, but the rest was plain sailing. The medical team helped me onto the operating table, stuck my legs in stirrups, tested my blood pressure, sluiced my nether regions with shockingly cold antiseptic then inserted a nozzle in my mouth...and I promptly passed out.

The next moment (probably about twenty minutes or so later) I came round trying to push this strange foreign object out of my mouth with my tongue. When I opened my eyes and saw various medics gazing down at me I remembered where I was. I felt amazingly refreshed and realized this was probably the first time I had slept really deeply since I had had Rosie, more than thirteen months earlier.

"What luxury," I said in Spanish, "Can I have some of that stuff to help me sleep at night?" They smiled and I was wheeled back to the ward, still attached to the drips, and was left to snooze off the effects of the anaesthetic for the next couple of hours.

Rosie and Theo returned to find me well-rested and reaching the exciting climax of my novel. It was then a matter of hanging around until a doctor could be persuaded to check me over and discharge me. Eventually one bustled in after Theo used the simple expedient of waving Rosie meaningfully at the nurse receptionist and saying the baby would need to go home for supper and bed very soon.

I was told I could breastfeed Rosie that evening provided I expressed the first lot of milk to get rid of any lingering anaesthesia. Then I was given an information sheet telling me what to expect over the next few weeks and what symptoms to look out for in the event of an infection. After that I was free to change back into my clothes and go. Which I did.

It was the next day that we discovered I hadn't only left the remains of an embryo behind me at Hospital La Paz. Unfortunately my wedding ring had slipped from the plastic folder where I had thought it would be safe and was most probably well buried among the hospital refuse by now.

I am very hopeful that a new wedding ring and a new pregnancy will both be forthcoming before too long. After all, you've got to try and be philosophical about these things sometimes.

Of matrons and matronas By Kate

Our midwife rocks - and believe me, after hearing a few stories about some of the other matronas in Madrid, it's a lottery and we're quids in. Or at least, euros in.

This morning we decided to drop in on Maite to seek advice about our, erm, little episode yesterday. I was still pretty certain there was nothing to worry about, but Theo wanted to be sure. Accordingly, we toddled off to the Centro de Salud in Ciudad Lineal to catch Maite at the end of her Thursday morning posparto session. When we arrived, the room where we have our pre-natal classes was a veritable buggy park of new babies, surrounded by attendant mums, dads and grandmas. We decided to wait outside until there was a bit more parking space.

While we waited, a senior senora spotted my bump and came over to ask us all about it. She nodded approvingly when we told her we were having a girl and said girls were "blessed". She then asked if we were going to raise our daughter with "beliefs". After puzzling over the translation of that for a moment, we realised she was talking about religion. Rather than answer her directly and get into an argument which our Spanish probably wasn't up to, I told her my grandparents and mother are all Catholics. But what about me, she wanted to know? I told her I had been baptised into the Church of England. Protestant, she inquired? I affirmed that this was so. It's just as good, she replied, clearly relieved that our daughter was in with at least a chance of a Christian upbringing.

One slightly unexpected side-effect of our wait in earshot of the new baby club was my reaction to the sound of the infants crying. In the past, the main emotions I've felt when hearing a baby bawling were sympathy for the parent and (it has to be said) a certain amount of irritation at the disturbance of my peace. This time, on hearing one newborn crying in serious distress, I started feeling twitchy, as if I should get up and offer comfort, then felt helpless and upset, then became teary. A tissue was needed to mop me up and if the baby hadn't mercifully calmed down, I think I would have been in a worse state than it was. That's pregnancy hormones for you, I guess. I think it's highly likely that I will react emotionally to our own ones cries at times, especially early on - but I sure hope I get to grips with it sooner rather than later, for everyone's sake.

Eventually, the room emptied of all but two babies and their mums and (in one case) gran so we went in to wait for Maite. We chatted with the assembly about our forthcoming happy event and how they were getting on with their own newborn nippers etc., until finally Maite made her appearance. To assess who she needed to see first she asked us and the two mums what we needed from her. Theo plunged straight in and mentioned that I had been bleeding. Maite looked startled and concerned until Theo described the circumstances (I'm not ashamed to say I blushed at this point) at which, her expression relaxed and she hooted with laughter and the other mothers broke into grins.
"It's normal, nothing to worry about!" she said, while I felt my cheeks start to cool down.

But to set our minds at rest, Maite ushered us into her consulting room, bade me to bare my bump and ran the fetal cardiomonitor over it. Fosbella's heartbeat rang out loud and clear, going like the proverbial clappers - just as it should be.

"All fine, no sign of fetal distress, relax", said Maite and smiled reassuringly. Phew, then. But I resolved to go out and buy nappies later in any case - there may be a month to go, but who knows what may happen? Time to get the nest ready, methinks.

Another bunch of pricks by Kate

And so the ante-natal medical merry-go-round continues. On Monday morning I was back at the health centre in San Blas, sans breakfast (I'm beginning to associate that place with pangs of hunger) and clutching the number 129 as the patient counter beeped its way from number 40 upwards.

Mind you, this conveyor-belt type system they operate for blood tests may be a tad impersonal, but I've got to admit it's efficient. Patients were called to the testing room in batches of five, hobbling, shuffling and waddling their way to the door of the testing room, clutching their requisite medical forms to their chests. Because I didn't have to do a glucose test (thankfully) I waited with the general melee, rather than the other embarazadas and with the help of PG Wodehouse, the time passed fairly quickly.

By now, I knew the drill, so when 129 came up I took my place in the queue and handed my form to the white-coated staff at the desk who, much to my relief, only labelled six test-tubes for blood collection - half the amount of my previous visit. Buffy The Vampire Slayer must have been in town or something.

It was all over mercifully fast and I was soon back out the door with Theo, who'd collected more appointment forms for me - fortnightly checks with the Tocologia and one to go up to Hospital La Paz for some kind of fetal heart monitoring.

Next day was pre natal class - a "gym" session this time, so Theo was left at home. Despite my lack of detailed understanding of what was said, the time passed fairly pleasantly with me and my fellow embarazadas dutifully deep-breathing our way through the various birth-helping and pregnancy-relieving exercises. As we were re-donning shoes and coats, a woman I recognised from the previous cycle of pre-natal classes came in - with her newborn twins. The thought of having one baby is a pretty huge deal - but two?! We all gazed at her in admiration - not unmixed with a little sympathy. Exciting, yes - but blimey, hard work too.

Theo and I had a bit of a moment this morning. After a lazy lie-in together (let's enjoy them while we still can!!) and some - ahem - intimate couple time together, I suddenly produced a little blood. Our initial thought was that our exertions had dislodged the mucus plug in the cervix and this was "a show" (which can be an early indicater of the onset of labour). Then Theo did a bit of internet research (not always a good idea in these situations!) and worried that it might be a sign of something more serious and bade me to make an appointment with the ever-helpful (!) Dr P. I did some further research and, given my lack of any other worrying symptoms plus the colour and amount of the discharge in question, decided it was most likely to be some harmless spotting from the cervix, whose lining becomes thinner in later pregnancy. A very common thing after you-know-what, apparently. We'll double check with our midwife tomorrow.

Anyway, one result of that mini-drama was to galvanise us into action when it came to getting some pre-baby organisation done. The baby clothes which had been shoved in a bag in the corner waiting to be washed and aired are now clean, dry and have their own dedicated drawer with another shelf set aside for nappies and other items. We've re-arranged our bedside storage (and changed sides) in readiness for the baby's "cot" (which will either be improvised from a stack of tough PVC boxes lined with sheet and blankets or will take the form of our multi-purpose baby transport system, depending on which arrangement she and we prefer). Next thing will be laying in a stock of washable nappies, sorting out a few more bits of bedding, purchasing items like breast-pads and getting the hospital bag packed.

Okay, we've still got just over a month to go before the due date, but today's little episode reminded us that it doesn't do any harm to Be Prepared. My time as a girl guide has not been wasted.

Money for nothing By Kate

Beware, all pregnant teachers - your work could damage you and your unborn child. I know this because I have been plucked from the jaws of peril by a team of Spanish bureaucrats and at times it was a close-run thing.

After acquiring the risk assessment survey, which uncovered the treacherous nature of language teaching, then the recommendation of my doctor that I should be signed off work due to the inherent dangers to myself and my developing offspring, the next step was to convince the Social Security.

The faithful Marina and I accordingly took a taxi to the Asapeyo office, the organisation set up to protect workers in Spain and prevent avoidable accidents and illness during employment. We had an impressively fat wad of bumf to take with us - my boss, already acquainted with the Spanish way of doing things was taking no chances. He'd made two copies of everything official related to me - my passport, Certificado de Registro, doctor's notes, work contract, etc. etc.

Marina and I carted all the paperwork to the office (which turned out to be at a different address to the one we'd been given, but no matter - it was only across the road) and after one redirection, made it to the desk of a young woman, who expertly sifted through all the data and separated out the stuff she needed to manage our claim.

We were both slightly taken aback to be scolded for neglecting to apply for the baja por emarazada del riesgo earlier - it seemed a bit harsh, given our combined efforts before Christmas and the third-time-lucky routine with the tough talking Dr P. The young woman told us that to ensure the baja was granted quickly, we would have to go to another office to see a further official and be assessed by the Asapeyo doctor. This, we were told, should be little more than a formality, but we must get on with it straight away.

Ignoring our grumbling stomachs (it was lunchtime, after all), we flagged another taxi to take us across town and found ourselves sitting at the desk of another official, this time a man named Jorge. He went through the sifting routine again, made a few notes and tapped something into his computer, then sent us back out to the floor receptionist.

She went through what appeared to be almost the same process, then bade us sit down for a moment. This we did until we were summoned back and told to go down two floors and wait to see the doctor on duty there.

It was a good thing Theo had slipped an emergency clementine in my bag, because I'm not sure Marina and I would have made it otherwise. We shared it and entered the lift with our strength slightly revived.

Another floor, another waiting area. After about five minutes, the doctor called us into her office and smiled kindly. What repetitive actions did I have to do in the course of my job, she wanted to know? I stood up and did a little mime of writing on the white board, feeling like I'd stumbled into a rerun of What's My Line. The doctor seemed satisfied with my performance and I was allowed to sit down again. She then asked what hours I had to work. I said around seven per day, including lesson preparation. That, apparently was enough. She told Marina and I that the fact I was often on my feet for several hours at a time was enough to categorise my situation as risky. She said she would recommend that I be signed off on that basis and that we would have the definitive answer from the Asapeyo in the next few days. She gave us the impression that this was likely to be little more than a rubber-stamping exercise. She told me she would ring me to let me know the outcome, at which I admitted I might have trouble understanding her, as my level of Spanish wasn't very high.
"That's all right, nor is my English", she said (in Spanish) - which was supposed to be reassuring, I think.

So, all being well, in the next day or two I should be officially entitled to receive 100% of my salary from the state until the day our baby is born and I start my four months maternity leave. And my boss will get a bit of help paying for my replacement, which I think he more than deserves after all his (and his wife's) efforts navigating through the swamp of Spanish bureaucracy. Possibly, they should be awarded some sort of medal as well.

In celebration of our achievement, Marina and I headed gratefully to a nearby cafe and shared a mixed salad (which we requested to have without tuna, given that I'm a vegetarian - they obliged and brought one sprinkled with cubes of ham instead) followed by French omelette and chips. I was so hungry I had practically wolfed the lot before I realised the omelette was still very runny in the middle - pregnant women are supposed to avoid undercooked eggs at all costs because of the risk of listeria. Out of the fire and into the frying pan.

Maternity Leave begins - it's official - by Kate

Of course, I'm going to finish my novel, write an album's-worth of new songs, plan some English lessons, spend time with friends, prepare myself for birth and parenthood (as best I can) and nest like crazy.

So what have I done in the first few hours since Theo went off to work, leaving me alone at our flat?

Obsessively surfed social networking websites and watched the snow melt from the surrounding rooftops.

Bliss.

In the name of taking some exercise, my next mission is to heave the bump up to Calle Alcala to browse the rebajas (sales) and possibly do something vaguely useful like buy some vegetable stock cubes.

This is the life

Yes, She's Sitting Comfortably by Kate

In the UK, the NHS allocates you two routine ultrasound scans during pregnancy, here in Spain you get three full scans plus a quick once over every time you have an appointment with your obstetrician. Seeing as we got sent to the specialist radiology department at one of Madrid's biggest hospitals for our twenty-week looksee, we didn't realise that our appointment at our usual obstetrics clinic was for the complete scan minus an obstetrician. That's why my boss' lovely wife came too as part of our ongoing quest to get officialdom to decide my bump is at risk if I continue my teaching job too long.

Our next mistake was to join the queue at the wrong room and wait there until our obstetrician's assistant kindly pointed out that we weren't on her list and maybe we should check downstairs. Having taken the details for the appointment over the phone, doubt was immediately cast on my imperfect understanding of Spanish - we hadn't received the usual follow up confirmation by post. But a quick scouting mission by Theo and Marina established that I had got the date and time right, but the wrong room. It turned out we should have been waiting another five doors down.

We amended this and presented ourselves to the assistant who was brusquely herding various other bumpees towards their scans. She was less than overjoyed to see us and only grudgingly accepted that we formed part of her morning's work after we pointed at my name on her appointment list. Marina, having also experienced our doctor at her least helpful (during our abortive attempt to secure the baja), was shocked by her unhelpful attitude.
"They don't need to be so rude!! What's the matter with them?" Theo and I, having by now spent a lot of time among the white-coated acolytes of the Spanish medical system, were more philosophical. I just hope we don't get a bum deal on the staff front during the actual birth.

So, in we went at last and Marina once again launched into her preamble to try and encourage a recommendation for the baja por emarazada del riesgo, only to be briskly headed off at the pass by the information that we would need to consult the obstetrician, not the radiologist for that sort of thing. Another wasted trip for Marina. Although by compensation, she did get to join Theo and I in viewing our rapidly growing offspring looking sprightly inside the womb.

By now, she's pretty much finished developing her main organs, so a quick check of brain, heart and fetal movement was the main order of the day. Everything appeared to be present, beating and twitching as it should be, so the radiologist was quite satisfied and even gave a us a quick tour of our daughter's main body parts in English. The one problem at this stage is that Fosbella is neatly wedged in an upright sitting position - as I already suspected from numerous proddings at my belly's topography and by noting the position of her kicks and hand taps. To use the official term, she's breech, which is not ideal for a natural birth.

Of course, we still have more than six weeks to go and the statistics are reassuring - most breech babies do turn round before labour begins, (some leaving it to the very last minute). I'm very much hoping young Fos will duly oblige as I'd rather not have a C Section if I can avoid it. In the meantime, the advice is to spend time on hands and knees, waggle your pelvis around while it's higher than your head (this is not very easy with a large bump, believe me), sit up straight, do yoga and tell your foetus to please get off its arse and do a headstand. It's all got to be worth a try.

Getting the Social Security to step in By Kate

In Spain, if you've made social security payments for a minimum of six months, you're entitled to maternity money from the national system. You get four months fully-paid maternity leave and after that it's up to you and your employer to negotiate the remainder (I'm a bit hazy about that part because maternity leave would take me to the end of my contract with the language academy where I've been working anyway).

However, the widely practised way of enhancing one's maternity allowance is to request a baja del medico from your doctor. Basically, you quit work and ask the doctor to officially sign you off on sick leave. 99.9 per cent of doctors are happy to do this for any embarazada complaining of tiredness or a sore back - the usual health complaints that accompany the third trimester. You then lumber back to your health centre once a week and your doctor renews the sick note, usually without any further conversation required. The good part about this is that you start receiving sick pay (70 per cent of your salary) and it continues until the day you give birth, at which point maternity leave officially kicks in and instead of losing part of it pre-partum, you get the whole paid four months once the baby is born.

However, my boss wants me to go one better than this. I had indicated that health-allowing, I would be willing to work until at least the end of January (mainly because I would like to contribute another month's-worth of salary to the domestic piggy bank before earning a living becomes a secondary priority after baby care). He accepts this, but from his point of view, it makes more sense for me to finish my classes at the end of the Christmas term and my replacement to take over at the beginning of the Spring term. Not wanting to cheat me out of my full January salary (and possibly because he would also receive a little financial support from the government) he's been advised by his lawyer that I should request a baja for an embarazada del riesgo.

What this amounts to is that I claim my work is not just becoming difficult for me to perform because of my condition, but that my work is actually putting my pregnancy at risk. A baja obtained for this reason would basically mean I was treated as if I had had an industrial accident. I would receive 100 per cent of my salary from the Social Security until the day of the birth and I wouldn't have to keep heaving myself to the health centre to get it renewed.

When I first consulted my GP about being signed off, I hadn't appreciated the difference between the two bajas. Dr Paniagua indicated that she would be willing to give me the ordinary baja, but I would need to return once I'd actually stopped going to work. Once my boss realised my Spanish wasn't up to the intricacies of discussing the finer points of the other baja, he bade me to make another appointment and lent me his Spanish wife as chief negotiator and translator.

Marina and I arrived at the appointed time in the waiting room, only to observe Dr Paniagua choose that moment to leave her consulting room, lock the door behind her and depart the vicinity. We both treated her disappearance philosophically, as did the other patients in the queue, and settled down to chat until such a time as she should choose to reappear. This she did some twenty minutes later, carrying a shopping bag and with renewed post-coffee break vigour. She then glanced perfunctorily at her appointment list and called my name ("Katt-ee Sal-eess-boorr-ee?"). Marina and I promptly took up positions in front of her desk.

Luckily, I only had to say one sentence in my halting Spanish before Marina took over and laid out the facts of my risky pregnancy to Dr P. The whole time Marina was making her impassioned plea on my behalf, Dr P seemed more interested in trying to disentangle the cord holding her ID, then re-attaching what looked like a small pair of surgical scissors to it - no easy task as far as I could judge. Half way through Marina's brilliant and articulate outlining of my case, another medic unceremoniously walked in and interrupted her flow with some query or other for Dr P, which then became a peripheral discussion. When she thought the other medic had finished, Marina started again, only to be interrupted a second time with another question, which completely ignored the fact that Dr P was in the middle of seeing a patient. Marina and I waited patiently for Dr P's attention to come back to us, such as it was.

When Marina resumed, it seemed clear that Dr P was not buying the risky pregnancy scenario. "So what if she gets tired and has to work late in the evenings, so do I," seemed to be the central tenet of her argument. Eventually - once I'd pointed out that I was awaiting the results of a test for gestational diabetes - Dr P grudgingly gave us a form indicating a suspected risky pregnancy, but told us we would need to get the opinion of an obstetrician before she was prepared to give me the baja.

Both Marina and my boss were taken aback by the doctor's attitude. Apparently, signing people off work for whatever reason is usually a straightforward process in Spain and the medics don't generally fuss too much about establishing the veracity of each case as it's not their problem. Just our luck to get one of the few who was a tougher nut to crack on that score.

Of course the irony of all this is that my pregnancy is unlikely to be risky, given its progress so far (touch wood). Yes, I do get a bit tired (especially when climbing the steps of the Metro) and I have a little backache, but these are relatively minor discomforts. Overall, I feel pretty healthy and have had a very easy pregnancy so far. The only risk element is my age - 39 - but that's hardly unusual nowadays, half my friends have had their babies at around the age of 40 with no serious problems to speak of. As for the diabetes, well I was being honest about waiting to hear the results of my second glucose curve test, but given that I haven't been recalled (beyond a routine 32-week appointment with my obstetrician in January) with any urgency, I rather suspect the result was normal.

Anyway, Marina will come with me to see my obstetrician and have another crack at getting the baja. Only this time she will be armed with a risk assessment my boss commissioned for the academy in terms of hazards for a pregnant woman. Rather to our surprise, they are many - three full pages of them. It seems my work-place is a potential death-trap for people in my condition, with danger lurking in every computer, photocopier and classroom (not to mention the biological hazard of coming into contact with so many germ-infested students). Whether this will convince the Madrid medical profession of my imminent peril - well, we shall see.

The Yucky Bits by Kate

I always quite liked the idea of being pregnant - swanning around, proudly sporting a neat bump up front and blooming with glowing skin and shining hair. That's the glamorous image of approaching maternity and I've been fairly lucky in managing to pull off all three so far. But there are so many less appealing aspects to the process - and bear in mind, I've actually had it pretty easy so far!
Wind - those hormones sure stir up the digestive gases. Most unladylike.
Leaking orifices - runny or blocked nasal passages, for example. I'll leave the rest to the imagination.
Bleeding gums and nostrils - apparently the maternal hormones are responsible for thinning out your membranes in these areas. Still, they've stopped short of absolute haemorrhage, thankfully.
Spots and rashes in odd places - while the skin on my face is loads better than usual, my thighs seemed to have developed an ongoing acne problem. At least it's easier to conceal from the world at large.
Backache - changing centre of gravity and loosened joints because of the hormone relaxin can be a killer combination. Luckily, I have a husband who is always willing to massage the affected area.
Acid reflux - as the womb expands with the growing foetus, everything else gets compressed, including your stomach. Hence, food reasserting itself in fiery fashion at unexpected moments.
Constant need to pee - see above. Drink half a glass of water and you're running to the loo fifteen minutes later. A short stroll to the shops can be punctuated by any number of urgent toilet dashes. You never squeeze out much more than a trickle, either, it's very unsatisfying.
Clumsiness - changing body size and shape tends to impede co-ordination pretty effectively.
Absent-mindedness - studies have demonstrated the veracity of this one. I can't seem to start a class without rushing back to get the text-book, register or note-book I forgot to pick up.
Tiredness and breathlessness - heaving the extra tum around is pretty knackering.
Fat in unwelcome places - the bump's pretty cool, but why did I have to get an even-bigger-than-before arse to go with it? It's all fat deposits for lactation, apparently. Go, breast-feeding!

All the above thankfully excludes things like constipation, piles, swollen ankles, face-rashes and other delightful side-effects of growing a bairn. So far, anyway.

Uno, Dos, Tres... empujad!!

A combination of a lack of half-decent Spanish and lack of tennis balls meant I approached my first pre-natal class with a certain amount of trepidation. I wasn't sure why the tennis balls were necessary, but Maite had instructed me to turn up wearing pantalones (trousers) and with two of the balls. I had successfully found my last remaining pair of trousers that I could get over my expanded derriere, but had failed with the tennis balls, owing to lack of time and the Spanish shop opening hours (10 am mostly - or at least those tiendas selling pelotas de tenis...). So, there I was in my pink pantalones, sans tennis balls and smiling in what I hoped was an ingraciating way at the arriving members of Cuidad Lineal's local Bump Club (Club de Bomba) with their impressive range of bulging tummies.

We started with exercises to help with breathing and labour positions. I managed the first pair activity by copying the other women and wih a little gentle encouragement from my partner. Maite then solved the problem of my patchy understanding of the lingo by firmly indicating to me to move to a spot on the mat beside her and saying "Tu, aqui!" She then proceeded to demonstrate the rest of the exercises by picking up my various limbs and manoeuvring them into the required positions, which was a very sensible way of handling the situation, all things considered.

The tennis balls, it turned out, were for a massage technique that involved rolling them firmly up and down each other's backs - and luckily, I could borrow my partner's sports equipment for the job, so that was okay. She was a quiet but friendly Muslim woman (Syrian, possibly?) who wore her head-scarf throughout the class and did a pretty decent job of easing some of the tensions out of my back.

After the exercises, which culminated in a lesson in pushing, Maite gave us a lecture about what to expect directly after the birth of our forthcoming babies. This may seem a little advanced given that it was my first class, but I had joined the group half way through the sessions - I would have to do the first few classes after Christmas. If, however, I had waited until then to do the whole course, it was a fair bet that Fosbella would have emerged before I had completed it. Doing the second half followed by the first half was the next best thing.

Anyway, despite the rapid Spanish, I managed to get the gist of most of the advice surrounding health, healing, breast-feeding, contraception and other post partum matters. I also learned some new vocabulary related to the female anatomy, including pechos (breasts) and suelo pelvico (pelvic floor). I also realised that the frequent mentions of la "ba-heenah" was actually the Spanish pronunciation of "vagina" and that cicatriz meant scar and cicatrizarse is the verb meaning to heal. It's probably just as well partners weren't allowed to the class, the discussion wasn't for those of a squeamish nature (ie, men).

After that, we were instructed in the finer art of foot massage, which we were assured would be excellent to practise on our offspring to help them relax and sleep better and which would be excellent for our partners to practise on ourselves for the same reason. Then, while gentle ambient music played, we lolled about massaging each other's feet while Maite continued her lecture about the days following the birth (nappies, layette and other practical requirements our new-borns would be needing).

After the class ended I had a few brief conversations with some of the other women - a Paraguayan embarazada whose emphatic reply, when I asked if this was her first child was, "Si, y la ultima" ("and the last"); a Spanish woman with whom I compared gestation times and genders and a friendly Italian who chatted to me in English while I replied in Spanish, which had the satisfactory result of both of us practising our non-native languages and gave me a considerable boost in understanding her words as well as she could clearly understand mine. One thing's certain, I'm part of a highly international group of ex-patriots and although my command of Spanish is probably at the bottom of the class, it's comforting to know I'm not the only foreigner plotting my uncertain course through the Madrileno pre-natal set-up. Ex-pats of the world unite, all power to the embarazadas inmigrantes!

Poked, Prodded and Spiked by Kate

The Spanish ante-natal system has now clutched me to its starchy white-clad bosom and my overriding feeling is that it's a good job I'm the one carrying the baby and not Theo. I'll come back to that in a moment.

Our first appointment with the obstetrician in our local clinic was best characterised as perfunctory. No leisurely hour-long chats with a friendly midwife here - at least, not yet. We were given a list of matronas and we assume we choose one, but we're still a tad confused about that part. Anyway, with minimum hanging around we were ushered into the consulting room where the obstetrician and nurse worked as a team. While the obstetrician asked questions and took notes, the nurse busied herself taking my blood pressure, weighing me, then ushering me round a screen and motioning me to bare my midriff. Once I had done this, the obstetrician came in, slapped on a load of cold gel and proceeded to scan me with breath-taking efficiency. Theo hovered at the back and managed to get a glimpse of our unborn daughter, but I wasn't so lucky. After less than a minute, the obstetrician nodded and gave me the briefest half-smile (she was far too business-like for a full rictus), said “Todo bien” (“Everything fine”) and handed me a tissue to mop the gel off my tummy. Apparently we would have to wait another three weeks for a full scan before we could take a proper a look at what was in there. When I asked Theo how she was looking, he replied, “A bit fat,” which was slightly worrying. Maybe I should cut down on the chocolate biscuits.

A few minutes later we were dismissed with a sheaf of forms, a pregnancy advice booklet and strict instructions to go to the medical centre at San Blas the next morning before nine with a urine sample and absolutely no breakfast (me - Theo was excused that part).

When we arrived at a quarter to nine prompt, we found the waiting room choc-a-bloc with a numbering system policed by a dour looking male nurse who periodically barked out the next five numbers and shooed their owners through a door. We never saw any of the patients come out again, which was slightly worrying. As an “embarazada” (pregnant woman) I was excused the queueing system and was instead told to wait until I was called. While perching on a moulded plastic chair I noted a number of other women with assorted tummy bumps and urine sample-shaped pots wrapped in various bags or bits of foil. Clearly I wasn't the only embarazada at this party.

“Embarazadas!” called out the dour nurse and about twelve of us heaved ourselves out of our chairs and crowded round the door. The nurse herded us into an ante-room where another medic gave us a brief lecture about what we could expect. From what I could understand we would be subjected to various tests, the last of which assessed us for possible diabetes and involved a wait of an hour and an absolute prohibition on eating or drinking anything except water. We were each given a sheet of numbered labels and bidden to queue up at the reception desk in another room full of tables with white-suited medics waiting expectantly behind them. While we waited our turn, the dour nurse abruptly changed demeanour and started cracking jokes, which I smiled at dutifully, despite a total lack of understanding of the punchlines.

When my turn came, an orderly took my urine sample and stuck my stickers on a bewildering variety of colour-coded vacuettes, handing them to me and motioning me to one of the waiting nurses. I sat down and watched in growing amazement as she rapidly took one blood sample after another out of my torniqueted left arm. I counted twelve. When she had finished, she wound on a compress and sent me back to the ante room where I waited, feeling the teeniest bit faint from lack of blood and exchanging glances with the other embarazadas, who were also looking slightly shell-shocked by the experience.

Once we were all assembled, another nurse came in and started handing out plastic bottles full of a suspicious-looking orange liquid. This we were instructed to drink - all of it - and then return to the waiting room. It tasted like a fizzy vitamin drink, only twice as sweet. Spanish people have quite a sweet tooth, but most of the other embarazadas grimaced a bit as the full sugary force of the glucose drink hit their taste-buds. Obediently, we all swallowed the bottles' contents and were released back to the moulded plastic chairs.

Throughout, Theo had been waiting patiently for me having foregone breakfast in a gesture of solidarity. It was a good job he hadn't been invited into the sampling room as I dread to think what effect a room full of medical blood-letting would have had on him. He was also astonished at the amount of blood taken and wondered aloud whether the medical centre was actually a front for a local detachment of vampires. We settled down with some marking to pass the time.

When the hour was up, there was another call for embarazadas and we all trooped back into the testing room. Numbers were called out and as ours came up we were sent to another of the tables and ordered to bare an arm - the other one this time. Thankfully, we only had to give a single sample and I was jabbed, blotted, told to go home and have breakfast, then sent packing again in the space of about ninety seconds. By now feeling somewhat light-headed from a combination of blood-loss and hunger, I gratefully returned to my dutiful husband and we did exactly as I had been told.

So that's that, for another few weeks. We've been informed we'll be notified about my next appointments by post or telephone and in the meantime, we aim to do a bit of research about the business of finding a midwife and choosing a hospital for delivery. On the language front, I'm pleased with myself at having managed a bit of pregnancy chat with some of the other embarazadas, including how far along we were and who was having a girl or boy - or twins in one case - and possible names. It made me feel like a little less of an outsider. Language barrier and unfamiliar systems aside, we are all in the Bump Club.

The Kindness Of Strangers by Kate

So here we are back in Madrid and suddenly I've been promoted on the Metro. In the last few days complete strangers have been giving up their seats in crowded carriages and inviting me to have them instead. This is both touching and gratifying and one of the best bits so far about my abdomen sporting a now unmistakeable bump.

Spaniards - generally speaking - are very much in favour of children, babies and pregnancy and I'm just starting to appreciate that fact. It doesn't help us insert ourselves and our potential new Madrilena into the Spanish ante-natal system (they're chocka and trying to book ourselves to have our now overdue anomalies scan is proving to be a bit of a struggle) but it does bathe things like Metro journeys in a benevolent glow.

So back to the beginning for a quick recap. Theo and I abandon contraception at the beginning of the year and get on with business as usual. Just as the weather gets seriously hot I start feeling unusual. Alcohol and caffeine are suddenly unattractive to my taste buds, my breasts feel a bit strange and I keep getting ravenously hungry, but just don't fancy eating anything. I break out in the type of acne I only get when there is extra progesterone in my system (experience with previous contraception). I can't remember when my last period was, but I start feeling suspicious and report the symptoms to my experienced sister (four children). She admits they sound fairly classic, but counsels against any over excitement about the situation just yet. I don't actually feel excited anyway, just a tad queasy.

Theo has gone off to a residential camp for a week. On the phone I tell him about my suspicions. He forbids me to self-diagnose until he gets back. I pass the next six days feeling disinclined to eat or drink anything sweet. How did I get this virtuous?

Theo returns and we do the pee stick. The line flames up positive even before I have a chance to pull my knickers back up. Theo is very excited about the prospect of suddenly probable parenthood. I feel justified.

The next few weeks pass in a heat haze and Theo is highly solicitous, dealing patiently with my new found fussiness about food and giving me lots of back rubs and foot-massages. I milk it.

We get back to England to see friends and family, lie to the NHS about our current address and book ourselves in to see a midwife and radiographer in Bristol.

The first scan seems fine, as far as these things do. We suddenly realise there really is a living thing in my belly, not just a collection of physical symptoms. We also realise we're two weeks further on than we thought. A bump - still smallish - obediently appears below my midriff. I scour Bristol's charity shops for roomier clothes. The midwife takes lots of blood out of my arm and nods approvingly when I tell her I don't drink or smoke and I fully intend to breast-feed. Theo doesn't watch the blood extraction part.

First hitch when we are told we have a high risk of our foetus (now christianed Fosbury) having Downs Syndrome. This is upsetting news. I calm down a bit when I realise that a 1 in 65 risk still means it's less than 2 per cent. Nevertheless, we opt to have amniocentesis and thankfully that all goes fine.
“Look out for its feet!” says Theo at one point during the procedure.
“Oh, I've stuck loads of needles in babies, don't worry about it,” says the consultant cheerfully. He doesn't on this occasion, thankfully.

A few days later we are back in Spain and the initial news from the amnio is good. The three chromosomes which are affected if Downs Syndrome is present are normal. Phew. Two weeks later we learn that in fact, all the chromosomes are normal and we are growing a female. We change the foetus' name to Fosbella.

Which brings us up to date as, having registered with the Spanish health system, we wait for our next scan (although most possible anomalies were checked at 17 and a half weeks and nothing untoward was seen then, so we're not hugely anxious). Anyway, it seems like a good plan to get it done as soon as possible, so we are considering paying for a private scan or pulling strings to see if we can get one done when we are back in Bristol for a wedding.
Meanwhile, I am busy committing foetal-related words in Spanish to memory. Luckily, being medical, they are largely the same as their English equivalents, just pronounced in a more Spanish way. Disappointingly, “scan” is not “escano ultra-sono”, as we had hoped. Never mind. In the meantime, I will keep on enjoying my new Metro privileges.