I suppose I should feel guilty about neglecting my blog for the last few months, but I don’t – not really. I felt so rubbish at the beginning of this pregnancy that I didn’t feel like doing anything except lying on the couch moaning about how sick I felt. And I was sick. Not quite as bad as with #2; I only vomited once a day this time, and usually just first thing in the morning. I wasn’t throwing up my meals. But I felt sick. I’m-about-to-throw-up-any-second-now sick, all day, all night. I felt okay for about 20 minutes after eating. 30 minutes after taking anti-nausea medication (the kind they prescribe for chemotherapy patients). It cost $3.70 something for a tablet that offered 30 minutes of relief. And I could only take 3 a day!
It was worse if I missed out on sleep or got up too quickly. I gagged every time I opened the fridge. Early morning starts when my husband had uni and couldn’t get the kids up were the worst. Missing a sleep-in, and then dragging myself out of bed into the cold dreary morning to fix a bottle with milk that *had* to come out of the refrigerator – though so many times I was tempted to open a bottle of long-life milk from the pantry so I wouldn’t have to deal with the stomach-churning cold food smells. Which invariably led to me leaning over the sink vomiting mucus and bile while Darcy tugged on my pj pants saying “Oh mum! Are you ‘kay? Are you ‘kay, mum?”
If I rushed to the bathroom and forgot to lock the door I’d be telling Darcy I was okay in between heaving my guts out and ordering the baby to GET AWAY FROM THE TOILET.
And sure I felt like hurling every time I thought about capsicum and couldn’t eat chicken, and the smell of toast – TOAST – made me feel ill, and I don’t think my family knows how close they came to being strangled every time they made a toasted cheese sandwich. And I couldn’t ever really relax or enjoy myself, not with nausea looming in the background every minute of every day. And sometimes I went to bed and cried because I was sick of being sick. And I wrote a blog post at 10 weeks which was so hormonally rage-filled and intensely bitchy that it will never see the light of day.
But we survived. It’s gone. I can open the fridge without being bothered. I’m forcing myself to wake up earlier – and by that I mean 9:30am, because my sleep cycles are so screwed I’m used to sleeping in until 11am – and I can do that without throwing up. I can eat a regular sized meal. And I can satisfy the intense nesting urge that’s been boiling away for the last few weeks and going unfulfilled. I still hate first trimesters, and hate the fact that my morning sickness lasts so long. 16 weeks with #1, 18 with #2, looks like 17 with #3. Absolutely hate it. Partly because it’s horrendous and partly because I can’t enjoy being pregnant or feel grateful for my healthy babies and really ridiculous fertility levels. I want to be grateful. Especially when I think of how many women want to have babies and can’t. But I don’t think anyone can feel grateful while they’re that ill.
But it goes away. Nothing lasts forever. Even if I had MS the entire 40 weeks of my pregnancy, it still wouldn’t last forever. And I can be grateful now. So, so grateful. At this moment, I’m thoroughly exhausted after spending all afternoon stripping and peeling paint off one of our kitchen windows and I have a headache from grinding my teeth, and I know I won’t be able to find a comfortable position to sleep in because of whatever the heck is wrong with my left hip. And I don’t care. I no longer feel sick, and that is the greatest blessing. The clouds have lifted on 4 months of misery.