Mum (to be)'s gone to Iceland (with apologies to my friends who are of Icelandic heritage)

For Brits, Iceland is not just a breathtakingly beautiful island state between Greenland and Norway, it's a cheap supermarket where you buy frozen foods high in additives and low in nutrition with the slogan "Mum's gone to Iceland".

Let's all take a moment to think of those mums, dejectedly pushing their trollies between aisles of frozen chicken tikka bites, sausage rolls and arctic rolls, thinking: "Why the f*** have I gone to Iceland again? Why? Why hasn't Dad? It's the normative gender stereotypes of modern day advertising that really piss me off, as they seem to reinforce my position as the poor sod who has to brave this vision of fluorescent-lit hell to buy frozen polystyrene masquerading as food."

Anyway, that's the feminist bit out of the way, let's get on with this "What I did on my holidays" post. 

Last summer I was pregnant with Desert Baby, a fact I may have mentioned one or two times in the course of the past nine months or so, and due to a saga involving passports, we were confined to the UAE for the duration. Spending the hot season here can be trying at the best of the times for a spoilt ex-pat, but when knocked up, it's a form of purgatory, because you can't even partake of the consolations of brunching and swim up bars to pass the searingly hot and humid days quicker.

By the time we had resolved the passport debacle and cobbled together our annual leave, we were more fed up than usual and desperate for cool air. And so, in late October we chartered a long boat to Iceland, home of Vikings, sagas, rotted fermented shark-based snacks and fantastical prices. We found found ourselves a place to stay through airbnb and spent a week trotting around Reykjavik, hiring the world's smallest four-wheel drive to explore the countryside and generally wrapping up in winter coats, turning our faces into the bitingly cold wind and saying: "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh."

We saw the Northern Lights, which locals refer to as "dancing Elves". I think at six months gone and up in the middle of the night in freezing conditions to view them, I may not have been entirely predisposed to appreciate them, but the pictures (taken by him indoors as I lack the technical ability and patience) suggest it was a pretty impressive sight.

 We also visited the Blue Lagoon geothermal spa, described by the guide books as a "shameless tourist ripoff" which may be true, but, frankly, we have lived in Dubai for getting on for five years, so an attraction has to be fairly far beyond a shameless ripoff to put us off. While you are there, you can get a massage, which means meandering through the naturally heated water to float on a rubber mat while said massage takes place in the open air. You are dunked under the warm water every now and then to make sure you don't get too chilly on the cool air.

Ripoff it may be, but I enjoyed the heck out of that massage. The attraction was also pretty popular with a large party of British teenagers, presumably all from the same posh school, providing him indoors and I with plenty of opportunities for snorting laughs. For me, it was at the girls stressing about their super model, St Tropez sprayed and designer bikini clad figures in the changing rooms, while I looked on in frank envy as I squeezed my pregnant bulk into a swimming costume. For him, it was overhearing a bunch of teenage boys say: "I'm gonna exfoliate sooo hard" while smearing on gallons of the restorative pots of gritty white mud placed at convenient intervals around the main pool. Times have changed since us 30 somethings were teens and applied Biactol to our pimpled complexions under cover of darkness, I tell thee.

One of the fascinating things about Iceland is its natural geothermal resources, which I managed, somewhat ineptly, to capture on video at Geyser. Because, you see, geysers are all named after Geyser, the place where this rather brilliant example of the  phenomenon is located. I am not even going to begin to try to explain the science behind them because I will make a total t*t of myself, but from what I gathered, this incredible natural force provides sustainable energy meaning Iceland is far less reliant on fossil fuels than the rest of us.

I will let the pictures do the rest of the talking, apart from my four other favourite fascinating facts about Iceland.

1. Icelanders refer to each other by their first names, even in formal situations. For example, Snorri Sturluson, writer of some of the most famous Icelandic Sagas and 13th century politician, who met a bloody end typical of the age, is largely referred to as "Snorri".

2. Icelanders like to eat fermented, rotted shark as a snack, washed down with a spirit, the name of which translates as "Black Death".

3. Many Icelanders believe in elves, and that rocks are the homes of elves, and that terrible things will happen if these homes of the elves are moved or destroyed. So, you will find rocks built around or disrupting building projects, with claims that the rocks cannot be moved due to mysterious mystical or super natural forces, with bulldozers grinding to a halt, pneumatic drills breaking and shovels bending.

4. The population of Iceland is roughly 300,000 people. Many Icelanders can trace their ancestry back to the country's original settlers, ergo, finding someone who you are not related to in one way or another to marry can be tricky. A result of this is the foreigners often "do very well" in terms of naughtiness as locals are keen to look for opportunities to breed outside their own nationality. This crude generalisation is in the guide books and everything. It might have been that I was a bit touchy due to being Dubai Sand Witch with added beach ball stomach, but I had to give a very stern look to a beautiful Icelandic teenager who gave some rather lascivious glances to him indoors while serving us meat soup, the ancestrally Viking hussy.

Anyway, more pics below.

My actual dream home. 

Such vehicle owners, so at home in Dubai, have also made their way to Iceland, it would appear.

We popped down this road to see if Bjork would invite us in for a shot of Black Death, but she was a bit busy believing in beauty with Venus as a boy

Practical stuff: There are tons of options for flights to Iceland from Dubai, but no direct flights. We flew with Qatar Airways via Doha and London, picking up an Icelandair flight to Reykjavik. You can get a taxi to the centre of town from the airport, but it's far cheaper to get a bus, and unless you're a millionaire, you're going to have to watch your pennies while you're there as the cost of living is sky high. Bus tickets are available in arrivals.  

Get your t**s out! Breastfeeding in Dubai

I feel the urge to start this post by saying that I don't want to enter into the breastfeeding debate that seems to crop up in the press on an almost daily basis at the moment. Well, it appears that way to me, perhaps because I may be somewhat tuned into it. If you can and want to breastfeed, then well done you. If you don't, don't. Why would you give a s*** about what I think about your parenting choices anyway?

For what it's worth, yes I am "exclusively" as the medical professionals like to term it, breastfeeding Desert Baby, and yes, it was a bloomin' struggle getting it established. My experience of it was this: After she was born, the nurses asked if I was going to breastfeed, I said "yes" they brought me a special gown to enable flapping my engorged mammaries out with relative ease, and Desert Baby made vague, slightly anaesthetised newborn attempts at putting her mouth in the right direction, and away we went. Simple. Except it wasn't that simple at all. For the first few weeks at least, it hurt like f***, because I had failed to acquire the fabled "technique" that one thousand and one patronising YouTube videos by various alpha mummies who suckle seven kids at once deem to be of paramount importance. There was weeping, there were feelings of inadequacy, there was a tear-sodden, hysterical refusal to allow a nurse to give Desert Baby formula during one particularly grim night in hospital, but we got there in the end, and Mini Me is so far gaining weight at the speed she should.

I could bore on for hours on this subject, but I shan't, but I will say, there are various breastfeeding or "lactation" consultants in Dubai but they were of little or no use to me because they all seemed to be on holiday for two or three weeks when I really needed them. I was recommended this place instead, where you can pay a small fee for an appointment with a midwife who will take a look at you feeding your baby, and advise you. Or, if you're at the so tired and hysterical that you can't get out of the house without slices of toast stuck to your hair with your nightie on backwards having not showered for a week phase, they will visit you at home for a slightly larger fee.

It all worked out for me in the end, as I had plenty of help and advice from a big sister who had been through the same thing less than two years earlier, but I am conscious of the fact that it does not work out for many women in the UAE, for a number of reasons, some of which will probably make another post at some point. But in the mean-time, this is my attempt at being all touchy feely and helpful and in a "sisters are doing it for themselves" way. It's primarily for ladies who might think that getting your t*** out in public in order to feed your squalling child in a country where public nudity is punishable by prison sentences on occasion is a bad idea. It isn't.

Breastfeeding is a topic much discussed in the UAE, partly due to this law, which does not just encourage mothers to breastfeed their babies but requires it, for the first two years. Far be it from me to try to speculate on the motivation of this law, as I would not know where to start, but, as far as I am concerned, it means mums have the green light to breastfeed in public as long as they abide by standards of modesty normally expected in the UAE.

A lifetime ago, pre Desert Baby, I thought about things other than how fast my genius child is growing and how very advanced she is for being able to simultaneously crack a smile and make noises like Wellington's war horse charging into battle when she fills her nappy. At that time, I got somewhat hot and bothered about the UAE dress code debate in this post. Yes, you are required to dress modestly covering your knees and shoulders in Dubai, although many expats ignore those requirements, and, you would think flopping a t** out would be a problem because of that.

Like so many things here, the truth of it is that staying out of trouble is a matter of common sense, which in this case, requires investing in one of these. Other brands are available, including this one. I have Bebe Au Lait, and it's alright, does the job, although it has a pattern like Smarties and it makes me feel like a demented children's party entertainer who has just one trick - making a baby appear. It was the only one available in Mothercare other than a black one, which I decided would be too warm. The Nuroo one looks way nicer when used, at least, it did on the very chic lady I met at a mother and baby group yesterday. Actually, it may be that she was just super cool and stylish compared with me, which wouldn't be difficult at the moment as I am currently rocking an eclectic combination of maternity clothes and a succession of increasingly peculiar breastfeeding tops.

So, the question is, do people hassle you for breastfeeding in Dubai? The answer is, as far as I can see, no. Here is a list of places I have breastfed using my "nursing cover" without problems:

1. La Brioche cafe, Bay Avenue, Executive Towers, Business Bay
2. Cafe di Roma, also in ET.
3. Cafe Rumi, ET.
4. Chez Sushi, ET.
5. Tangerine, Thai restaurant, ET.
6. Omar Khayyam, Iranian restaurant, ET.
7. La Fragola (gelato, pancakes and waffles, don't judge me, I'm breastfeeding), ET.
8. Costa Coffee, 2nd floor, The Dubai Mall.
9. Carluccio's, The Dubai Mall.
10. Social House, also TDM.
11. On the floor in the shade at the Taste of Dubai food festival, Media City.
12. On a bench in the foyer of TDM's cinema parking, when him and indoors and I were having a forgetful new parent "where did we leave the car?" moment and Desert Baby decided she didn't fancy waiting for us to get her home.
13. The cafe at Mediclinic Welcare Garhoud Hospital.
14. Poolside at ET.
15. Poolside at the Emirates Grand Hotel.
16. Caribou Coffee inside Dubai Aquarium, TDM.
17. Ikea restaurant, Festival City.
18. Other places that I can't remember.

No one has raised an eyebrow at any of these venues when I have fed Desert Baby. What this tells you, apart from the inordinate amount of time I have spent in cafes in the past couple of months, is that if you feel embarrassed or shy about feeding your baby in public, you don't need to be. The only time it has even been mentioned to me is when a waitress offered to move my pot of tea slightly closer so I could reach it, thus, feed and drink tea simultaneously. Now that's civilised.

So, go forth and feed your children habibtis, be not shy with thy mammaries. Now, if anyone's got any tips on how to take a baby for a walk in her pram when it's 40C plus, I would love to hear them.

An incomplete guide to the cost of having a baby in Dubai

Here I am, back with another post about having a baby. The reasons for this are as follows: 

1. Desert Baby is nearly six weeks old, and although I am getting the hang of this parenting lark, my brain is basically a lump of breast milk cheese. To be frank, there is not much else going on in my head at the moment.

2. I spent quite a lot of the time on the phone and trotting around hospitals in the run up to Desert Baby's birth in the name of research, all of which could have been prevented if hospitals posted their costs on their websites. Some now do, but many don't, so this post includes a non-comprehensive guide to the costs. I should add that the hospitals mentioned are the ones affiliated to my insurance company, so they are the ones that I looked at when thinking about where to have Desert Baby. There are many more options in Dubai and the wider UAE including government hospitals, for which the costs are likely to be lower, or in some cases, higher.  

The first thing you need to do is check your health insurance maternity coverage. I was told by our insurer that we were covered, but when I started to look into what actually was covered, I found out that there was a financial limit. This is common, and it's also fairly common that the financial limit does not cover the full cost of the birth, unless you go to the cheapest hospital you can find. You also need to check, as mentioned above, which hospitals have a direct billing arrangement with your insurance company, as this makes the administrative side much simpler. 

It is probably no surprise that if you really want to, or have gold-plated insurance, you can spend an absolute s***load of money having a baby in our fair Emirate. For example, if you are so inclined, you can pay AED104,700 (just under GBP19,500 at current exchange rates) on having your baby delivered by cesarean section at City Hospital if you opt to stay in the Royal Suite. Bear in mind there may well be additional costs if you have a multiple birth, for stem cell collection, and for little luxuries like blood transfusions, medication and other "consumables" as well as neonatal intensive care and treatment of complications. If you are not feeling particularly monarchical, you can opt for the "normal" delivery, if medically viable, which starts from AED 12,500 and still have your own private room. Mediclinic Welcare Garhoud prices are similar, as the hospital is part of the same group. 

At the other end of the scale, there is Belhoul Specialty Hospital, where a straightforward hospital birth on a shared ward will set you back AED 6,000 (GBP 1,115). 

Various other options include the Canadian Specialist Hospital, starting at AED 10,800 for a "normal" birth and a shared room, up to AED 37,000 for a cesarean delivery and accommodation in the royal suite, and the American Hospital - starting from AED 11,950 for a normal delivery, Saudi German Hospital starts from AED 9,000.  

So far, so not as bad as it could be, you may be thinking, particularly when you compare it to the USA, for example, which can be pretty horrendous when it comes to childbirth costs according to this article.

Well, it is not quite as simple as that, as you also need to bear in mind the cost of all your antenatal care. Most hospitals offer a prenatal package which starts at either 12 weeks or around 25 weeks, and includes scans and various tests such as the dreaded glucose tolerance test (GTT) which detects gestational diabetes. They typically range from around AED 3,000-5,000 and more. But, you need to keep in mind that if your pregnancy is deemed in any way "complicated" there will likely be additional costs for treatment and extra tests on top of that. I never sat down and calculated how much my various tests and extra appointments for high blood pressure and blood sugar costs me, and frankly, I don't want to.

The potential for financial trickiness does not end once the baby has been delivered. One way new parents quickly get into financial strife in the UAE is if their baby is unexpectedly born prematurely. I have a friend whose baby was born seven weeks early, and she and her husband were presented with a bill for AED 40,000 for the cost of her son's stay in the neonatal intensive care unit. Her health insurance company charmingly decided that premature birth was classified as a "birth defect" and initially refused to cough up, saying they don't cover birth defects. This is, of course, exactly what you want when your infant child's health is hanging in the balance - a battle over health insurance. After a lot of back and forth, the insurer eventually saw the error of their ways and agreed to cover 70 per cent of the costs. 

If there is any chance at all that your baby may be born prematurely (and I am fully aware of the fact that in the majority of cases, there is no way of knowing whether this will happen) you really need to do your homework as to how you are going to cover the cost of your child's care. First, is neonatal intensive care covered by your insurer? Ask them, then ask again, as I have often found I got different answers depending on who I spoke to at the provider. If it isn't, you need a backup plan, as stories like this one crop up all too regularly in the UAE press - families caught out by huge medical bills when their offspring unexpectedly arrive early, needing intensive care, and without adequate health insurance. If you're not insured and you haven't got a friend or relative who can bail you out, or, a sympathetic employer or bank to lend you the money, your only option is to rely on the kindness of strangers.

Finally, one thing that has really struck me about not just having a baby but healthcare in general in the UAE, is that people tend to set a lot of store by selecting their care by the individual doctor, rather than the hospital, although, being Dubai, things like valet parking and presidential suites are likely high on the agenda for many. 

For what it's worth, from my experience, aside from small hands, slim fingers and short fingernails (I don't need to go into details of reasons behind those particular requirements) a good ob/gyn needs to be able understand you and your cultural background when it comes to childbirth. Believe me, there are some wildly differing ideas out there about what women will want and expect from childbirth. 

Born in the UAE

I swore to myself before Desert Baby was born that I would not become one of those irritating people who thinks they have been there, done it all, just because they have managed to squeeze out a child, and starts dispensing advice to all and sundry. But having a baby in Dubai is one of those experiences about which you find yourself looking back thinking: "If only I had known X, I would have done Y" particularly when it comes to matters concerning health insurance, so I now can't help myself from delivering nuggets of childbirth chat to anyone I think might conceivably conceive.

If I can get the one key bit advice out of the way before I thrill you with my "born in the UAE" experience, it is this: To anyone embarking on the "magical journey" to parenthood in Dubai (apart from never use that phrase "magical journey" again, seriously, have a word with yourself): Shop around, find the right doctor to whom you feel happy and confident talking about your unmentionables, because you're going to have to talk about them - a lot. If this means spending more money than you would like, you are just going to have to loosen your purse strings and go for it, as you don't want to have a flounce and change healthcare providers at 35 weeks when you lose confidence in your ob/gyn, like I did.

So it was that my baby girl was delivered by a Maltese doctor who trained in the UK, and was the second of three doctors I saw during my pregnancy. I had previously ruled him out because the cost of the hospital he works for was above what my health insurance budget would allow (see above). In the end though, the training in the UK was key for me because I find doctors who have experience of the system in dear old Blighty tend to get where I am coming from. Ie, as a patient who has grown up with the NHS - I won't expect and don't want interventions, screenings, tests etc to happen unless necessary, and I don't expect to be handed five different types of antibiotics and hospital grade painkillers at every routine appointment - I just want to turn up, get checked and if everything is fine, be sent on my way.

I switched doctors relatively late on as at 26 weeks, my previous doctor had started making sinister mutterings about wanting to deliver via c section a few weeks early, because of the alleged gargantuan size of my baby according to scan measurements. When I suggested to her that large baby is not a reason in itself to deliver by c section, further sinister mutterings, this time about gestational diabetes emerged, and then inducing before my due date was floated as an idea, and then a random glucose test of my urine revealed a dodgy result, so I was summoned to hospital to have my blood sugar tested on Christmas Day, told no sweets and few carbs throughout the festive season, and sent to an endocrinologist for assessment. I dutifully attended the endocrinologist appointment, and found he could not have been less interested in my very slightly raised blood sugar levels if he tried, and at that point, I sensed a falling out was about to occur with my ob/gyn doctor.

This was all made doubly irksome by the fact that none of this was covered by my health insurance. Despite having the best level of cover available on the scheme provided by him indoors' company, as with most providers, there is a financial limit when it comes to maternity coverage, which in our case did not even cover the whole of the cost of the delivery, so all antenatal and postnatal costs came out of our own pockets.

The even more frustrating factor in this for me was that this desert-born baby of mine is a fairly average size for a baby born in Europe, maybe on the large side, but by no means excessive. She was just under 8lbs 4oz (3.74kg) and 52cm tall when she was born, admittedly a week early, but the fuss that was made about her size during my pregnancy was such that I half expected her to be born 3ft tall, in school uniform with scabby knees and a satchel slung over her shoulder, offering me her first tooth to put under her pillow. Or, possibly wearing a gown and mortarboard ready for her university graduation while engaging me in a debate on Middle Eastern politics.

No amount of my gesturing to my own substantial nearly 5ft 8ins frame, and mentions of the fact that him indoors is just under 6ft, that my brother, dad and two uncles are all well over 6ft, that I have an aunt who is nearly 6ft for God's sake, that I was over 4kg when I was born, and my brother over 4.5kg, would stem the level of concern about Desert Baby's projected size. The tide of whispered tales of the behemoth child that I was carrying seemed to echo through hospital corridors as I waddled to my various appointments.

To be fair, the fact is, if you will excuse the crude generalisation, the majority of babies born in the UAE tend not to be that big, for reasons to do with ethnic backgrounds and other factors. So, the prospect of delivering a large child probably frightens the heck out of a lot of doctors here, as they may not have that much experience of it. Maltese Doc seemed to realise that I had quite enough of people banging on about the size of my baby, and while he admitted he wasn't overly delighted about the prospect of delivering a baby weighing over 4kg, he didn't harp on about it in the way my previous doctor had. But, by the time I saw him at around 34 weeks, he ended up diagnosing me with gestational hypertension. I suspect this was at least partly brought on by various people prior to him speculating about the vastness of my bump, how big the baby was, and how I should definitely have a c section for my own good to avoid being split in half by the birth of the burgeoning beast growing within me.

The thing those thinking about getting knocked up need to realise is, and I expect this applies everywhere, not just the UAE, is that when you get pregnant, random people who don't really know you from Adam will start to advise you on how/when you should give birth, and this is vital piece of advice number 2: Ignore people who start telling you that you should have a c section, unless you have come to that decision yourself for whatever reason, or unless they're a medical professional and have valid medical reasons for doing so. The reason for this is they're not the ones who have to be sliced open, and more importantly, heal from being sliced open, of which more later. However, if you decide to have a c section for whatever reason, good on you. You're clearly much more decisive than I was during my pregnancy. Personally, I hated the idea of turning up on an allotted day to be sliced open as if I was having my tonsils out.

Gestational hypertension, hospital induced or not, meant that I needed extra monitoring, so I found myself attending a routine CTG (cardiotocography) appointment on 5th February, to monitor Desert Baby's heartbeat to make sure the hypertension, her alleged prodigious size and my slightly raised blood sugar had not had a negative impact on her. For those of you who haven't experienced this, you lie on a hospital bed with large bands strapped around your bump, making you look like Humpty Dumpty's internally injured cousin.

I had dropped him indoors off at work and arrived early at the hospital, obediently sitting in the cafe sipping green tea in an attempt to remain calm to try to avoid yet another high blood pressure reading. As I sat there, I started to notice what could be very early stage contractions. "Good," I thought, "this could be the early stages of labour which could mean she is going to arrive of her own accord so medical types can stop dangling the threat of induction/c section over my head."

I wasn't noticing a whole lot of movement from Desert Baby at this point, but this wasn't unusual, as she often seemed to sleep for significant periods of time, particularly during the day when I was out and about. However, after the CTG, when I took the results to  Maltese Doc, his usually deadpan brow furrowed slightly, because the baby should have been showing more movement than she was, so I was sent back for another session. At this stage, I thought nothing of it, as I had grown used to being sent for repeat blood pressure checks to see if initially alarming results were in fact a problem, and they invariably weren't.

I must confess I was probably naive to be so certain that everything was fine and it was just medical types being over cautious, in the way medical types are meant to be. Now I look back, there was something of a serious mood in the consultation room as I blithely got up and set off for the labour ward once more.

So there I was again, half egg, half woman, marooned like a harpooned whale on the deck of a ship, being CTG-ed to my heart's content, alone in the labour room. Part way through the test, an alarm sounded, and a nurse came into the room. My memory of what happened starts to get sketchy at that point, but I seem to remember telling the nurse: "An alarm just went off, and I am not feeling much movement," at which point she put an oxygen mask on my face and told me to breathe deeply.

A person less stubbornly determined that everything was absofloggin'lutely fine and all a bit of a fuss about nothing, would probably have already been properly frightened by this point, but it was the oxygen mask that finally did it for me. It was at this point, when most people would probably think: "Oh no, please save my baby", or, "Oh no, I must call him indoors", or, "Oh no, something terrible has happened," whereas for me: The cold pressure of the oxygen mask on my flabby, pregnant face really made me think: "Oh, b*ll**ks".

Buttons were pressed, more alarms sounded, and various other medical types came into the room, including a staff nurse, who told me to change positions, which got Desert Baby's heart rate moving again, as it turned out the reason for the alarm sounding was a dramatic dip in heart rate. Then a doctor arrived, who announced, when a second major dip in the heart rate occurred, that we were going for an emergency c section under general anesthetic.

I realise now that most people would have called their partners when sent for a second CTG in one day but all kinds of boring factors like not wanting to waste him indoors' leave and not second guessing there actually being something wrong had prevented me from doing so. So, then began part one of a somewhat farcical preparation for an emergency operation. Nurses dragged my tent-like dress over my head and ripped off my underwear and threw a surgical gown over me while I was muttering into my phone: "They want to do an emergency c section now because the baby's heart rate keeps dropping, they want to do it now, you have to come now.... Come now." Luckily his place of work is five minutes from the hospital, so he was there before Desert Baby was born and sat with her while she was being treated and I was still having my innards sewn up and posted back in.

The bit before the operation was all a bit Middle Eastern Holby City as they pushed my bed towards the operating theatre with the doctor shouting into the phone about what I had eaten for breakfast. This would have all been terrifying, but luckily the theatre staff lightened the mood for me by quickly descending the situation into pure comedy farce as we waited for Maltese doc to arrive to commence the slicing.***

"How much do you weigh? 70kg?" asked the anesthetist

I had already had a pre-med at this point so was dozy enough that I failed to give the snort of derision that those who know me well would have expected at this vast underestimation of my bloated eight and three quarter month pregnant carcass. I am fairly sure I uttered something along the lines of "70kg? You're having a laugh ain'tchya? Try 100kg."

I lay there, pondering silently to myself whether there are people vain enough to vastly understate their weight for the sake of not repeating the true horror of the actual figure in front of a team of medical professionals, thus risking getting less anesthetic than they need, and, horror of horrors, waking up mid slice. I am personally pretty vain, I thought, but not that friggin' vain.

The hilarity continued when when what they call the "sign in" was started, where the medical types read aloud various things like allergies etc, when I heard the anesthetist state: "This lady is not allergic to any medication".

For most people this would not be a worry. For me, this was a point where I think I went from a bit worried and mildly confused due to a pre-med drugged state to downright arsey. The reason for that, dear reader, is that I am allergic to a medication. The medication I am allergic to is in fact an anesthetic, moreover an anesthetic commonly used in c sections.

I tried once to tell the anesthetist, but no one seemed to hear me, so I tried again: "I am allergic to medication, it's an anesthetic, it's in my file," I burbled through my oxygen mask and drug induced haze to which the anesthetist responded: "Oh, what's it called?"

I was pretty bloomin' confused by this point, but I huffed something along the lines of: "I don't ruddy know, it's in my file, I can't pronounce it because it's got about 12 syllables. There's a card in my wallet that tells you all about it."

Perhaps unsurprisingly, none of the highly trained medical professionals in the operating theatre felt inclined to run back to the labour room and start rooting through my abandoned personal possessions, so I muttered something random about "Scoline" (the reaction that I would have if given the drug to which I am allergic is called Scoline Apnoea) and had begun to feel somewhat agitated, before thankfully, Maltese doc appeared like a Mediterranean Doctor Kildare (very ancient TV reference for those not in the know) and knew all about my allergy to Suxamethonium (I told you it was tricky to say, particularly when on drugs) and all seemed to be well. At least, I can only assume it was, because the last thing I remember was a nurse saying she was going to poke me in the throat when they administered the anesthetic and being poked in the stomach before slicing commenced. I then heard the words: "She has a beautiful baby girl" as I came round.

"Beautiful. Alright?!" I thought to myself. "Not massive or freakishly huge. So there," before collapsing into another drug-induced haze followed by four somewhat blurry days in hospital.

Now two weeks and five days old, and nestled on my lap as I write this, Desert Baby could not be more fine, she eats like a horse, sleeps reasonably well at night for one of her age, so I'm told, and has gained around 20 per cent in body weight since she was born.

The reason she suffered acute fetal distress was a thinner than average umbilical cord, which was under pressure as she reached her full term size and basically gave up the ghost and led to her her heart rate fluctuating dramatically and her to fill her amniotic fluid with meconium which can cause babies to "have a problem" according to the pediatrician. Her prodigious appetite and weight gain suggest to me that Desert Baby seems to have recovered with no long-lasting effects. OK, I will admit she is large. But she is now only as large as my brother was when he was born, damnit, leave her alone. Are you trying to make her have an eating disorder?

So, I ended up with the c section that I had resisted all along, but I am reconciled to it, mainly because there does not seem to be a way of diagnosing the particular issue that Desert Baby suffered during gestation, and if she hadn't been delivered as soon as her problematic heart rate was discovered,the outcome could have been very serious indeed.

A key reason I had resisted a c section was cost. I know it's daft to factor in the cost when it comes to healthcare, but this is, alas, one of the more unpleasant side effects of private medicine. Much of the cost can end up being borne by the patient, particularly when it comes to maternity coverage, so you have to think seriously about what you do and don't need in terms of procedures - c sections can easily double the cost of giving birth in UAE.

Another factor was extra time in hospital. I don't like being fussed over, no matter how well meaning and competent medical professionals are, and I hate not sleeping in my own bed unless on holiday. I don't know about you, but I also try to avoid being sliced open under general anesthetic unless strictly necessary. Something that sealed it for me was this article, published in the run up to Desert Baby's birth, and sure enough, I had identified the signs of being pressured into an unnecessary procedure by my previous doctor, and that made me more resistant to the idea than ever. I should add that at no point did I feel under pressure to undergo procedures from Maltese Doc. He was great all the way through and I would recommend him to anyone.

But seriously, habibtis ,we need to talk about c section being considered, the "easy option" that some people seem to think it is, usually those who have not had one, I suspect. Admittedly, you don't have all the pushing, shoving and pain of "natural" childbirth and yes, a c section is over within minutes if you're lucky, as opposed to what can be days of pain for the alternative. Perhaps if you have an elective operation and your surgeon has all the time in the world, the pain is less than that which I experienced, but two days after, I could just about stand in the shower on my own, but doing so made me feel like I was having my abdomen ripped open with rusty blunt daggers.

Five days after, I could just about manage a walk of about 600m, but I stopped on the way back, 100m short of our front door to tell him indoors that I could not make it because the pain was so horrible. After standing around looking pathetic for a bit, I did make it back, but for at least another week, the discomfort would cause me to regularly break out in a sweat if I walked too far or lifted anything heavier than Desert Baby. Yes, alright, she's a big girl, no need to bang on about it. *Sigh*

A c section of this type, for me at least, meant not being able to lift my baby up for at least two and a half days after she was born, and the only way I could feed her was lying on my side in bed. I think I only properly looked at her face on day three, as apart from feeding her, everything else, nappy changes, burping and walking up and down the hospital room to stop her crying all had to be done by him indoors because I was in no fit state. A friend tells me that her c section was fine and she felt OK the next day, so it's obviously not as bad for everybody, but please do me a favour and give anyone who tells you that it's "the easy option" a good kicking.

When all is said and done, I feel extremely fortunate to have made the decision I did to switch to the new doctor. He managed the right amount of monitoring to pick up on Desert Baby's distress without making me feel like he was ordering tests just for the sake of it to squeeze income out of my insurance company or my pocket, which is how I felt with my previous doctor.

Speaking honestly, if my previous doctor had told me I needed an emergency cesarean, I don't know whether I would have believed her, and there, my best beloveds, is the rub. If you don't feel confident in what they are telling you when it comes to matters of life and death, which childbirth is, let's not forget, then you are well and truly screwed. The moral of this particular story is: Think very hard before going for the cheaper option when choosing who is going to deliver your baby. You may think, like I did, that back up from friends' experience and info from Doctor Google is enough, but it isn't.

***NB, dramatic licence may have been used at this point due to memory impaired by drugs and fear.

An immigration story

Oh my best beloved readers, the tale I am about to tell you is probably the very definition of a "First World problem". But, for those of you who are expats in the UAE, you need to know this should you have any foolish ideas about not following instructions regarding documentation required to travel to the letter, as should you do what I did, bureaucracy will make a beautiful mess of your travel plans.

The tale begins with a missing expired passport. The expired passport belonged to me and I have literally no idea where it is. Normally I am quite sensible about keeping these things in safe places, but I haven't really been with it this past few months due to the industrial quantities of pregnancy-related puking I have been doing. I discovered it was missing a few days before we were due to travel to Iceland for a week's holiday, and then on to the UK for a week's familial stomach patting and commenting about the relative giant size of my pregnancy bump.

I panicked a bit, knowing that the UAE authorities prefer you to keep expired passports if they still have your current visa in them. But a fairly comprehensive search proved it was not to be found. Who knows where it is? Possibly stuck down the back of a chest of drawers or piece of furniture, possibly thrown away accidentally, possibly taken by one of those naughty jinns that I so love to read about in the UAE news.

Nothing to be done with three days left to travel, I thought, as I had to work, and surely, as a holder of a current and valid British passport, there was nothing they could do to stop me travelling was there, right?

WRONG. With a capital WRRRRRRRR.

We turned up at Terminal 1 full of boundless optimism about escaping to a cold climate, munching on rotting shark (no we didn't do that, as I would have puked on the spot) communing with Vikings and bathing in geothermal spas. We cleared check-in then got to immigration. The UAE authorities had no record of me having entered the country as I did not have the passport with the entry stamp in it so they would not let me leave. I therefore had to visit immigration in Jafiliyah, then Dubai Courts, then Dubai Police to report the loss of the missing expired passport and visa before they would let me leave. "But I'm a British citizen," I protested, "This passport entitles me to travel without constraint or intervention (or whatever it is her Britannic Majesty requests on the passport)," No dice. The fact that him indoors and I may have muttered something about "it doesn't matter that your computer system has no record, this passport is valid and we're allowed to travel" probably antagonised them further so we were forced to miss the flight and dash round three different government entities.

So, we left our luggage checked in, knowing full we would miss the flight but if you don't show up the at gate they offload it anyway, so no worries there, and dashed off in an attempt to miraculously get everything finished in time. It was never going to happen. An airport policeman was initially quite helpful, as him indoors has a reasonable relationship with them through his work, but confirmed it was three different offices that we must visit. We climbed into a succession of taxis to start the dash because it was Thursday, and not getting it finished by the end of working hours that day would mean at least another two day delay over the weekend. And having not had a proper holiday since July 2013 (see, I told you, First World problem) there was no way that was happening.

Off we went in our clothes chosen for landing in Iceland, (ie trousers, long sleeves, sturdy boots, carrying coats) in temperatures in the late 30s, me, more than five months pregnant and already experiencing hormonal-related steaming hot flushes, him, already in a state of nervous anxiety due to his general lack of enthusiasm for getting on planes. First, home to pick up multiple paper copies of our documents. Then, on to Immigration, which was irksome, I was dispatched to the woman only section where I got to speak to the most sensible one on duty, who seemed to still not really have any idea what I needed, but AED 120 was taken from me, documents stamped. Meanwhile, her colleagues sat at their desks chatting and ignoring various other fraught looking women who clutched immigration documents, choosing instead to chat on their phones and show each pictures of their various kids.

The deed was done with only a little sobbing on my part, with sandwiches and pastries and juice consumed on taxi rides to ward off bouts of stress and pregnancy-related puking, as we sped off to the court, and then to the police station, which are thankfully next to each other, where I received two more stamps for my trouble. The great thing about getting stamps in the UAE, which one is always assured are COMPLETELY NECESSARY and IN NO WAY ARBITRARY, is that the people who bestow the stamps barely glance at your documents before bestowing the required stamp and biro squiggle.

Off to the airport we charged, by now smelling like some kind of disease infested swamp bog due to the dashing round in winter clothes in the heat, and we rocked up to show the friendly airport policeman our stamped documents. Yes, we can travel, he agreed, but after some discussion with a airline ticket sales dude, it became obvious we were not going to get a flight that day, so we motored home once more in taxi number seven or eight (I had lost count by now) to try to rearrange the flights ourselves.

We could get from Dubai to London the next day easy enough, but as the flight on to Iceland was with a different airline, that was a no go, as only business class seats were available. So, while it was only a matter of paying airline charges (AED 250 each) to change the London flight, we had to buy a business class seat each to Iceland at vast expense in order to complete the trip. Either that or wait a week. Well, that wasn't happening for reasons previously mentioned. (It was the second time in my life I have gone business class, and we ended up on a flight with Iceland's president. I didn't notice though, as when it came to it, I collapsed in a state of exhaustion waking only to demand a blanket and put my stinking boots as far away from myself as possible without gassing the banker in the seat in front of me).

Prior to this, after a few hours sleep in Dubai, we got up at dawn's arse crack to catch the only available flight to London that day. We cleared check-in once more, with the check-in man thoroughly bemused at my combined state of rage and hypertension, persistently telling me to smile. He even finished with a little speech about how "piece of mind is expensive" when we explained a little of what had happened the previous day. "Yes, especially in Dubai," I grunted, to which he gave a nervous laugh as I charged off towards immigration.

"So we can go, then," I forcefully told the immigration desk dude, waving my stamped bits of paper. No, we couldn't, go and speak to the immigration office again, we were told, and then told that we still had to cancel my visa at the airport immigration office in Terminal 3.

How we managed not to descend into hysteria at this point, I am not exactly sure. But we ran off to the other terminal, catching an airport shuttle to speed us along the way, still wearing our winter clothes, and me preventing him indoors from punching a well-meaning men who told us we had plenty of time to catch our flight.

We surged into the airport immigration office, which is mercifully, open 24 hours. By now, him indoors had gone into some kind of catatonic state, so I explained our request to the somewhat irate man behind the desk, paid some more money into a bank to get something typed out and received more stamps on various documents to have my visa cancelled.

It all looked like it was going to be OK. The documents stamped, the money paid, the "hlases" stated in clear and certain terms with him indoors sitting silently planning our escape to a remote beach shack in a Northern Emirate to complete a retreat from society should anything go wrong.

After all that, after I had gone around on a bureaucratic nightmare, done the explaining, not lost it, not descended into a quivering wreck, not wept and retreated to my bed, not complained that, "you know, is this really that necessary for a five months pregnant woman in late 30s heat?"

After all that, as I held out my hand for my passport, the man behind the desk handed MY PASSPORT back to him indoors.

I can only assume that for people who are less patient than I (and I am told there are such people in the world) there are souvenir pictures and evidence of faces and national dress covered in official stamps - the handiwork of those less patient people who at such provocation, have grabbed the official stamp and beaten the official to death with it.

Honestly.

I ask you.

I didn't do it. There was no "my Dubai prison hell" story to tell on this occasion, because I kept my cool, and yes, we ran back to Terminal 1, because no shuttle was in sight, shoved the final bits of paper in the face of the immigration official, and dashed as fast my now blistered feet would carry us to the departure gate. And we were gone. Away from the heat and away from national dress wearing stamp waving officials for two weeks, and with one mere slight incident of me giving a hefty shove to a woman who would not get out of my way fast enough for me to get to my seat.

So, the moral of this story is, don't assume like I did that as a British citizen, you are untouchable as long as you have a valid passport. I think I knew in the back of my head that I would need to report the passport missing at some point, but it did not in a month of Sundays occur to me that it would prevent me from travelling. Now, I am in the unenviable position of needing a new visa, which is not so bad as it was due to expire in February anyway, but will mean once again surrendering my passport while it is processed. Again, it is no biggie as I am two weeks away from my third trimester when travelling is not such a hot idea anyway, but after several months being bound to the UAE earlier this year by the debacle in the British passport office, it is not a prospect that fills me with joy.

Long-term residents of the UAE will not be in the least surprised by the sheaf of paperwork required to resolve this situation, but, be warned, my best beloved readers - this experience is not for the fainthearted. If your visa is in your old passport, you WILL need it to travel, and if you haven't got it, you need at least a couple of days free to get the situation resolved, so plan ahead. We are back now after the much-needed break, him with a cold, and me with only slight residual stress-related nausea, but cowed by our immigration experience. You may think you're a free passport-holding British citizen entitled to leave the UAE whenever you please, but should you not have the right back up documents, you are not. So, think on.

Here endeth the lesson.



 

Habibtis, we need to talk about "morning" sickness

For those of you I haven't told yet, and those among my acquaintances who haven't guessed what the hell's been wrong with me for the past nine weeks and three days, I've been puking my guts up with "morning" sickness.***

First of all, can I just say "morning" sickness. A ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

Whoever came up with that misnomer for it needs a good sound slap round the chops. It should really be called "24/7 overwhelming feeling of nauseous dread that you are about to blow chunks across the room, no matter what you do, eat, or smell, punctuated by frequent episodes of violent retching and projectile vomiting".

I may have been somewhat naive but I really did not expect this. I expected to feel some nausea from time to time and throw up from time to time, but, that I would largely be able to go about my work and my usual day-to-day activities as normal. Those among you who have also suffered badly with this charming affliction are probably laughing hollowly at this, but I can honestly say that none of the people I know who have had kids have mentioned to me that it could be this bad, but a tiny Google of the phrase "help I am dying of morning sickness" will show you just how many people suffer hideously for several long months.

Perhaps it's one of those secrets that mothers keep, along with the true horrors of what childbirth is really like - only once you're safely through it is it admitted to you the full extent of just how sick you can be in the first months of pregnancy.

In case you're wondering, no, it's not very much fun experiencing this when the temperature is between 40 and 50 degrees, in fact that's probably one of the reasons I've felt so horrendous - I can't go outside at all for fresh air because heat makes me feel sick. Not to mention the fact that any smells or odours lingering are worsened by heat, and are, of course, heightened by my hormonally enhanced super-charged sense of smell.

In the past couple of weeks, I have had reasonably OK days of only a small amount of chucking up and an hour or a two at a time when I don't feel sick, but that will retreat back into impressions of the child in The Exorcist fairly shortly if I try to do anything like eat anything with any flavour or go outside in the heat. I'm now 15 weeks, three days up the spout, and I'm still pretty much a useless ornament if required to do anything but sit, type on the computer, or consume plain food. Luckily today is a positive day though so I do see light at the end of the tunnel. On not-so-positive days, I assume I will be puking solidly until Sand Baby makes an appearance in February 2015.

In some ways, I feel incredibly foolish for not anticipating the fact that having morning sickness in the Dubai summer heat would be a hellish form of torture, but, on the other hand, I have a very understanding boss who let me work from home for a few of the worst weeks because summer is an incredibly quiet time in most offices in this city. I think, had I been this sick during the busy winter period, particularly on the back of my long leave of absence to be in the UK with my Mum, there was a strong possibility that I would have ended up getting fired.

In case, for some bizarre reason, you're interested, there's a list below of things that have made me puke, followed by things that have been suggested as cures and how effective they were. It's largely useless if you're suffering the same thing as everyone is different - one pregnant lady's cure is another's barf trigger, but, you never know, you might be entertained, or find a handy tip.

Things that have made me sick

1. Standing up or any kind of physical exercise, no matter how gentle, including walking round the flat.
2. The smell of cooking.
3. The smell produced by the oven when switched on.
4. The thought of the smell produced by the oven when switched on.
5. Assorted cooking smells coming in through air vents from neighbouring flats.
6. The thought of said cooking smells, including a particularly noxious stale oily garlicky smell.
7. Cleaning my teeth.
8. Hot showers.
9. Warm showers.
10. Cold showers.
11. Heat.
12. Any food with flavour, exempting nursery food such as plain pasta, tinned soup, baked beans, yoghurts designed for children, and jacket potatoes.
13. Sudden loud noises.
14. The sound of a colleague doing that horrible snorting sniffing thing so beloved of men from the sub-continent.
15. The smell of a garlicky lunch being eaten by a colleague sitting 10ft away.
16. Being in a car.
17. Being in a taxi.
18. A taxi driver's body odour.
19. The thought of a taxi driver's body odour.
20. The scent of one of those horrible pine tree air fresheners that hang in taxis.
21. Ice cream.
22. The thought of puking again.
23. The smell of brewed coffee.
24. Drinking water that isn't ice cold.
25. Tea *weeps*.
26. The lingering after taste of cucumber.
27. The smell of eco-friendly cleaning fluid.
28. The smell of aftershave or perfume.
29. The smell of assorted personal hygiene products including shampoo, face wash and shower gel.
30. Bananas.

Things suggested as morning sickness cures and their efficacy

1. Eating every two hours. Sounds fun but when your diet is restricted to that of a nutritionally challenged five year old, gets old pretty quickly. Efficacy level - 6/10.

2. Eating dry crackers. For anyone suggesting this, go away, eat some dry crackers, decide how enjoyable that is, then report back to me. Efficacy, 1/10.

3. Ginger, in its many curs-ed forms. Tried eating raw ginger? Thought not. It's a bit sharp and will probably trigger vomiting. Real ginger beer? Ditto raw ginger. Schweppes ginger ale - probably contains no natural ginger but has a subtle sour flavour which is less barf-inducing than some sweeter fizzy drinks. Ginger tea - it's a strong flavour and will therefore make me barf. OK, WILL YOU JUST GET LOST WITH THE GINGER???!!! Efficacy - 2/10.

4. Wearing sea sickness bands. Fecked if I know if they make any  difference. It doesn't involve stuffing something down my throat and bringing it up again so I may as well persist. Efficacy - hard to say as I've barfed with and without them. 4/10.

5. Plain cheese sandwiches. Reassuringly plain, though avoid mature cheddar or any strong cheese, the smell may make you hurl. Efficacy - 7/10.

6. Plain bread. Interesting one, the difficulty of forcing this down may have the effect of making you hurl, useful if you've been feeling awful for a while and just want a big healthy vomit to give you an hour or so before you start feeling like death again. Efficacy - 6/10.

7. Drink plenty of water. See plain bread. It might be OK if ice cold.

8. Assorted caffeine free or herbal teas - Lipton make a lemon tea called Lemon Melissa. I don't know who this Melissa was and why she puts up with being ground up and made into tea, but this does make me feel better so I don't care. Efficacy - 9/10.

9. Getting plenty of rest by taking naps. Fine if you can wake yourself up in time to eat every two hours, if not, you wake up feeling worse than ever for a big messy vomiting session. Efficacy 4/10.

10. Go to the doctor. I was prescribed Navidoxine which made me feel slightly worse, then horribly drowsy and I would then wake up with what felt like a hideous hangover with the inability to work or function in any useful way. Apparently it works for some people, but for me, 3/10. My doctor then suggested Pregnaplan MS, a specialist vitamin for morning sickness, containing, you guessed it, effing ginger. What happened? Well, when I threw up, it was just really lovely and gingery. At that point, I changed doctor and was put on something called Premosan which helped get me through the worst of it. Efficacy, 6/10, because I stopped taking the new drug because it also made me somewhat zombified and I realised I would have no idea if I was actually getting better or not.

11. Plain crisps - pretty depressing after a while because they're so bland. Salt and vinegar have always been a favourite with me, and for some reason, they seem to help, possibly because they're comforting as a favourite, and possibly because this particular sharp flavour helps cut through the weird taste that one gets in one's mouth, which is caused by over-active hormones. Efficacy - 7/10.

12. Eat before you get up and late at night before you sleep. You need a pretty patient partner if you've been as immobilised by sickness as I have to do this. I've found a glass of milk and a slice of milk before bed helps, and the one thing that doesn't routinely bring about barfing first thing is plain oats with sultanas soaked in milk like a breakfast cereal. The hard oats have been best for me, the soft ones develop a texture which is like slime and brings about chunk blowing. You need to eat it 20 minutes before getting out of bed, so you're best beloved has to prepare it and bring it to you. Then before you actually get up, sit on the bed for five minutes to prepare your system for the shock of the day's first standing up while full of baby-growing hormones. If you still feel ill while getting ready for work, stop and sit still for two minutes when you need to, this can put off vomiting until, oooh I don't know, at least 10am to allow you time to get to work without soaking yourself, fellow public transport passengers, your car or a taxi driver, in puke. Efficacy - 7/10.

***I am actually happy about being pregnant, but, I have had to put that on hold until a later date when I'm not spending most of my time feeling sick or conversing on the great, white telephone.

The next fascinating installment will most likely be my adventures with maternity cover on health insurance. I bet you're waiting with bated breath.

There's humour in everything... And I mean everything...

I haven't felt much like writing for a long time because I have spent a substantial part of this year learning what it's like losing a parent to cancer while living as an expat.

Sorry to those of you who I know well but haven't told, but it's not something I felt like shouting from the rooftops. Not because I'm ashamed, or anything like that, but, unusually for me, I simply didn't know what to say.

My mum died of Multiple Myeloma on May 30th. She was 65, not exactly youthful but still too young to die. She had been ill for four and a half years. Like most things in life, she handled her illness head on, determined to carry on with as close an approximation of what she always wanted to do during her retirement as possible. If anyone stuck two fingers up to cancer, it was my Mum. If there was anyone entitled to self-pity, it was her, as there is no cure for MM, your number is basically up, and from the day of your diagnosis, all you can do is get treated and try to live with as best you can. But, she very rarely felt sorry for herself, and when she did, it was not because of the illness itself, but usually because it was stopping her doing what she wanted. To put it simply, my Mum had balls. She was far braver than me or anyone else I know would have been in her circumstances.

Compared to many expats in my situation, I am pretty lucky. I was able to take six weeks off to go and be with her in her last few weeks and for her funeral. When I initially went, I expected it to be for a short visit, then to come back again and return within a month. When I arrived, I knew I would not be able to say goodbye to her knowing that it could be the last time I would see her, so I stayed. Fortunately for me, I have an employer who was understanding about that.

While I was there, I thought a lot about people who have families who depend on them for financial support in Dubai and who simply don't have the luxury of doing what I did. I know of at least one person who didn't make it home before his own mother died. And, then, of course there's the thousands of low-paid workers here who rarely get to see their families during key life events - births, marriages and deaths go on without them as they're working away to pay for the trappings.

I promised myself I would keep this post reasonably short to avoid getting maudlin, so I will. The "humour in everything" I am referring to in the title is about an email I received from a well-meaning colleague who I had to tell when Mum passed away.

"My her sole rest in peace", she wrote.

As comedy English as a second language errors go, it's not up there with "tragically located" or "comfortable and non-violent lodgings" (non-violent should have said peaceful) but it certainly lifted the corners of my mouth on what was probably the most difficult day of my life. And for that, I am extremely grateful.