Tuesday, July 5, 2011

The excuses continue, with a bullet.

I bring you Excuse #2: Violent, ongoing, and (without medication) incapacitating morning sicknesss. There is this fascinating little thing about morning sickness that seemingly everyone knows, but no one really talks about. See, it doesn't just happen in the morning. It happens all the time. Twenty-four hours a day. Non-stop. It has been an unstoppable onslaught of unrelenting horror abated only by excruciatingly careful eating habits, anal-retentive food selection, seemingly a fair amount of chance, and ultimately (to my disappointment) prescription drugs. 

Disclaimer: This is not going to be a link-heavy post because nothing but facts about vomiting, images of hurling, references to puking, discussion boards about upchucking, or blogs exploring booting just made me nauseous. Yay! Everybody wins!

In the beginning, I was basically fine on some days: I would wake up, feel a little nauseous, eat something, then snack regularly throughout the day, only occasionally noticing that I'm not quite comfortable. Other days, I basically wanted to curl up in a corner and die from the minute I woke up (at some point usually close to two A.M., my stomach doing such angry backflips that falling back asleep is a nearly impossible challenge) to the minute I managed to doze off, usually having kept down as little as one small meal's worth of food over the course of my waking hours.

It went downhill from there. The last two weeks of the school year trudged by in a haze of semi-conscious attempts to meaningfully teach and frantic scrambles to the bathroom. The week after school ended was...well, I probably should have gone to the hospital for IV fluids at some point, but I honestly felt so crappy that I didn't even consider that as a possibility. All I could think about was getting down some saltines or Cream of Wheat and praying that they stayed put. I started watching copious amounts of Anthony Bourdain in hopes that his pornographically beautiful culinary explorations would stimulate my appetite, a tactic that actually kind of worked...sort of...

Midway through that week, I figured that what with getting married the next weekend, constant vomiting was not really practical anymore. It was going to be pretty tricky to, oh, say, go through with a wedding ceremony when all I could really do was lie on my left side and occasionally dry-heave. I called my midwives, and after trying a few home remedies (ginger in many forms, lemon in many forms, small snacks, B vitamins, sleep medications, attempted bargains with demons and angels alike, small sips of caffeinated beverages, anti-seasickness wristbands, ritual sacrifice, anti-nausea hard candies, salt and vinegar potato chips, etc...), they decided that I needed to be on prescription drugs so that I (and consequently you, Batman) didn't get dehydrated. I guess they also didn't want us to be hideously malnourished, so aces to that, even though I feel like my body is thumbing its nose (my nose? our nose?) at my desire to make it through this process with as little medical intervention as possible.

Other than a few blips where I either forgot my pills at home (which ended in tragedy) or when our insurance decided not to refill my prescription because they are buttholes (which almost ended in tragedy, but then got fixed because my midwives are apparently paperwork ninjas), I've been more or less okay for a few weeks. Things are still iffy, and certain foods and food groups have been basically off-limits to me, per my stomach's directives. Suffice to say, my energy level has been a bit off. Some days are okay, but other days I find myself struggling to make it through more than a few hours of activity, even when that activity is pretty low-key.

This is, I know, kind of the same old story told by uncountable other women the world over. I'm not a beautiful and unique snowflake this time, and that's cool, but like so many others, I kind of have to wallow in my suffering as a way of getting through it. This whole retelling looks so hyperbolic when I re-read it, but it's 100% accurate. I'm mostly ranting now because it's more or less under control, and I can at least try to be kind of funny about it. Batman, don't let this be a guilt trip. I'm so happy that you're there to cause me to potentially ralph up everything I eat, and I couldn't be more grateful for the fact that dairy products are nothing but a menacing memory (don't worry, I'm still getting plenty of calcium). It means that you're growing, and while only a sadist would pitch this as a truly good thing, that possibility really does give me comfort.

Coming soon to a browser window near you is excuse number three, which I promise to be both the best and most enjoyable excuse of all.

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