This happened just over five years ago, but it crossed my mind again today.
My pregnancy with my daughter was as unexpected as it was life-changing. At the time, my husband and I were both 25 and had been told by our doctor that we were medically infertile—he had a low sperm count, and I had PCOS. We were given fertility medication as a first step, with the understanding that further procedures wouldn’t be considered until we’d exhausted these options. Our doctor also mentioned it would likely take about five years to make real progress.
Well, surprise! We got pregnant during the first month of taking the medication.
While the pregnancy was unplanned, it was deeply wanted, and we were thrilled. The only problem? My husband was unemployed, and I was working as a high school teacher in a challenging environment. On top of that, my pregnancy was rough. I experienced constant spotting, dizzy spells, and hyperemesis gravidarum (extreme morning sickness) from week 8 until delivery. I threw up around ten times a day, was hospitalized for dehydration five times, and lost 18 kilograms over the course of my pregnancy. It was brutal.
At work, my department consisted of four other teachers: three “Karens” (yes, the stereotype applies here) and Pete, who was a kind-hearted boomer. The Karens were exactly what you might picture in an Australian public school—gossipy, rigid, and not-so-subtly bigoted. My frequent sick days due to the pregnancy didn’t sit well with them. Even though I never left my work for them to handle, they constantly made nasty comments to my face and behind my back, spreading rumors to other departments. It took a toll on me, both professionally and emotionally. Many times, I considered quitting, though financially it wasn’t a viable option.
The Meeting From Hell
The Karens insisted on having weekly after-school departmental meetings that dragged on for hours, often accomplishing no more than what could fit on a post-it note. Because of my condition, I had missed several, which irked the alpha Karen enough to demand I attend the next one.
Reluctantly, I showed up. We sat in a stuffy room as they gossiped about the latest episode of Home and Away. Midway through, I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. I stood and excused myself, but alpha Karen moved to block the door. “You can hold it for a minute,” she snapped, insisting we resolve a minor detail in a planning document. I looked to Pete for help and asked him to pass me the bin at his feet.
What happened next is seared into my memory.
I projectile vomited.
Blood.
Thanks to the constant vomiting, my throat was raw and irritated, bleeding every time I got sick. My doctor knew about it and assured me it wasn’t as dangerous as it looked. But to anyone else? It looked like something out of a horror film. The Karens froze, their faces pale with shock. Pete let out a piercing scream and yelled for someone to call an ambulance. Meanwhile, I waved them off, saying, “This happens all the time.”
As the dry heaving subsided, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, smearing blood everywhere. Then, with as much calm as I could muster, I turned to the Karens and asked, “Do you still need help with that document?”
They were speechless. I gathered my things and left.
The Aftermath
From that day forward, the Karens never bullied me again. Instead, they spoke to me in the softest, most cautious tones, as if I were a porcelain doll on the verge of shattering. For the rest of the year, their behavior transformed entirely.
It was, in hindsight, glorious.