The rough transformation

In stories, we often hear how a single incident changes a life for better or worse. We think such exciting things only happen to other people—which is what makes their tales worth telling. As a child, I devoured those tall tales and dreamed of being swept away from the mundane by something world-altering.

In July 2013, that happened to me. I was ten weeks pregnant. No one at work knew yet—my doctor had advised waiting until the end of the first trimester to ensure no complications. So I sat at my work laptop, tapping away through back-to-back meetings, hiding the nausea, the exhaustion, the whole mess. At my side, a big bowl of oatmeal and a foul glass of prune juice waited patiently—they were all my first-trimester body could handle. Tasteless porridge. Foul fruit drink. By midday, I had knocked out a significant chunk of work. But with a constant tumbling sensation in my stomach threatening to hurl bile every two hours, I barely slept. I lived in a drowsy twilight zone of my own.

But the upside of waking at odd hours was that I could work while the rest of the world slept. I answered emails at 4 AM, sent updates at midnight, knocked out presentations when the house was silent. To my boss, I was always available—which meant he never questioned my productivity. The downside, of course, was that I was never truly rested. My body was a fragile machine running on fumes and prune juice.

I woke at odd hours and fell asleep mid-task. I had cravings so specific that my body rejected the food until it appeared exactly as imagined—a total mess. I pinched my nose and drained the prune juice, then forced down a big spoonful of oatmeal before my tongue could revolt. I waited, held my breath, and swallowed the rest. By the time lunch passed, I still had meetings and work to wrap up.

I hummed absently as I searched for flights. My parents were thrilled but tied to work; my mother-in-law, who didn't work, offered six months. "I'll be there for all of it," she said. "If your mother can't come, I will." She smiled through the pixelated screen. "After all, you're like a daughter to me."

I forced a smile. Why couldn't my mother say that?

My mother, on the other hand, told me I'd enjoy the second trimester. "You won't want extra wheels on cart," she said. I wanted to believe her. But between the 4 AM emails and the prune juice, "enjoy" felt like a foreign language.

Finally, we agreed: my mother-in-law would cover the end of the second trimester, the entire third, and the postpartum period. My parents would arrive later. All of this weighed on me as I stared at the flight options, secretly praying my parents would change their plans and swoop in instead.

I was hovering between drowsiness, work, and thoughts of another trip to the bathroom when I heard the front door open. I waddled out of bed and saw my husband. 2:00 PM. "Did you bring Jack's sandwiches?" I teased.

His face was pale. Bad-news pale.

"What happened?" I asked. "Experiment fail?"

"Sit down, darling." His voice was weak. He set his bag on the floor.

"You're scaring me. What happened? Stop joking!"

"Your dad died," he said flatly.

My head spun. The words didn't make sense. Sunlight outside the window dimmed—or maybe a cloud had passed.

I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. "What kind of dumb joke starts like that?"

"He just... Your sister called a few minutes ago. He died." He pressed his palm to his forehead.

"What are you talking about?" The floor dissolved under my feet. My stomach rumbled harder. The urge to vomit surged.

My computer dinged. A message from my boss.

I stared at it, unseeing. Dead? How was that possible?

"Do you mean my grandfather?" I couldn't believe my ears. I had just spoken with my parents yesterday. We were going to finalize their tickets over the long weekend. In two more weeks, I'd learn the gender of their first grandchild. And our last call—I had shouted at him, hung up while he pleaded with me to calm down. I never apologized. Never made up. How could he be dead? He had no health problems.

The computer dinged again. My phone rang. It was my boss.

Of course it was. I had trained him to expect this—late-night updates, early-morning replies. He had no idea I was running on fumes and grief. I forced my brain to switch gears.

"Trouble with the VPN. Give me five. Can you load the deck and model from the drive until I'm in?"

"Join soon. This is a huge deal—no one knows it like you."

He hung up. I screamed into my pillow. My heart shattered. My stomach, a mind of its own, grumbled and growled harder. I raced to the toilet—not a minute too soon. Out came the prune juice and oatmeal in a slushy maroon mess.

I wiped myself clean, checked my face in the mirror, washed it, and dragged myself back to the meeting.

I dialed in with a cheery voice and forced down the bile rising in my throat as the meeting proceeded. My boss beamed. He had no idea I was flying on autopilot, my world shattered around me.

My husband sat beside me, squeezing my hand.

After the meeting, I messaged my boss: something urgent had come up, I needed the rest of the day offline. Still riding the high of success, he happily agreed.

I slammed the computer shut and broke down in heaving sobs. I didn't know it yet, but that was the last ordinary day of my life.