There's that familiar whirring again as I come awake. I sit up and immediately feel gut wrenchingly sick. Flopping back to my pillow on an enormous groan, I soon appreciate my error when my stomach turns, indicating that I haven't got time to lay here and determine just how crap I feel. I'm going to be sick.
I dive from the bed, straight into the bathroom, where I just about make it to the lovely toilet before I decorate it with last night's dinner. 'No,' I whine to myself as I yank at the roll of toilet paper. It doesn't feel so right now. My body is completely rejecting my contented thoughts. I hug the toilet for an age, my head resting on my arms as I fight off the sweats and moan under my breath to the empty space surrounding me. 'Shit,' I grumble. 'Why are you doing this to me?' I look down at my stomach. 'You're going to be challenging too, aren't you?'
On a long, drawn out sigh, I pull myself up and go to the bedroom, tugging on the nearest thing I can find, which happens to be Lisa's discarded shirt from last night. I don't bother to try and make myself look better because I want her to see me suffering. I go downstairs and meet her as she rounds the corner from the gym, looking all spectacular in her sports bra and running shorts with a towel draped across her shoulders and her hair a mess of damp locks. It makes me feel sicker.
'Oh baby,' she mumbles sympathetically. 'Crap?'
'Terrible. ' I try to pout, but my exhausted body won't allow it. I'm just standing in front of her lifelessly, my arms hanging limply by my sides. I'm feeling mighty sorry for myself.
She picks me up and carries me into the kitchen. 'I was going to ask why you're not naked. '
'Don't bother,' I grumble. 'I'll throw up on you. '
She laughs and sits me on the worktop, brushing my wild blonde locks from my pasty face. 'You look beautiful. '
'Don't lie to me, Manoban. I look like shit. '
'Roseanne,' she scorns me gently. I don't apologize, mainly because I can barely muster up the energy to speak. 'You need to eat. '
I retch at the very thought of trying to get food into my stomach and shake my head pleadingly. I know that I'm fighting a losing battle. She won't leave me alone until I've had some breakfast.
I hear the front door open and close, and then the chirpy sounds of Cathy singing. All I have on is Lisa's shirt, but I can't even find the strength to be concerned by that, so I remain exactly where I am, unconcerned, unbothered and very unwell.
'Morning!' she sings at us as she places her huge carpet bag on the worktop. 'Oh dear. Whatever is the matter?'
Lisa answers for me, which is a good job because I'm incapable of speech. 'Roseanne's not feeling too good. '
I scoff at her understatement and direct my forehead straight to her chest. I feel positively dull—dead, even.
'Oh, the dreaded morning sickness? It'll pass.' Cathy declares, like I don't look like I'm ready to keel over. She knows, too, then.
'Will it?' I garble into Lisa's chest. 'When?' I feel her hand stroking my back and her mouth in my hair, kissing me dotingly, but she remains silent. It's a good indication that she would love to know the answer, too.
'It depends.' she says, and I hear her flick the kettle on. 'Some women have a few weeks of it, some struggle throughout the whole of their pregnancy. '
'Oh God. ' I howl. 'Don't say that. '
'Shhh,' Lisa hushes me and increases the rubs of my back. I'm not even being a baby. It really is that bad.
