You see, for the first
12 weeks of my pregnancy I suffered, without the blessing of the almighty
nausea relief medicine that is Zofran. As I sobbed giant pregnant tears into
the phone to a nurse at my gynecologist’s office while begging her for anything
that could help she curtly said, “I don’t know what to tell you sweetheart,
you’re pregnant.” So I picked myself up, started a new job and puked
spaghettio’s all over my new zebra print shoes after excusing myself from a
meeting.
It’s normal, you know,
morning sickness. Practically every woman gets it, but as I talked to my
girlfriend who explained how her morning sickness consisted of feeling queasy
while brushing her teeth and then it went away, I knew I had it bad. But back
then there wasn't Princess Kate teaching the world about the perils of morning
sickness. And there was a girl at work who was hospitalized for hers, so I
mean, it wasn't that bad, right?
But it was.
I met my obstetrician
who immediately prescribed me the meds that made life manageable. Except
insurance wouldn't cover more than a pill or two a day, when you need at least
six. So I would pick and choose the best times to feel better, and we scraped
our pennies to get me any extra pills I needed.
I survived to tell
the tale and got a beautiful baby girl in the end. Then that magical hormone that erases your memory of all the horrors of
pregnancy and makes you want to get pregnant again as you hold your two-month-old, kicked in. Big time.
I told myself that it
wouldn’t be nearly as bad this time because I’d have medicine to nip it in the bud. I could totally handle it.
Once we knew we were
trying I had that prescription made out, which was a good thing because it took
us a month to get insurance to finally cover ALL of it. Turns out all they
needed was a little doctor’s note saying it’s cool if I might get a heart erythema.
Then week six hit and
the shit hit the fan. Sure Zofran took the edge off, has kept me from puking and
has allowed me to live a somewhat normal life. But my god these past
three months have been a complete pitiful haze. If I wasn’t gagging over lord
knows what scent, I was stealing cat naps as my husband did his best to make
dinner with a two year old buzzing around the house. I may or may not have
sworn off any future children unless they’re by adoption and wanted to document
it to ensure I wouldn’t be all flighty and forget the minute I’m holding my
newborn.
Week
13 came and went and I paid no attention, as I prepared myself for months of
misery. Then I noticed I had more energy and wasn’t as desperate to take Zofran
every four hours. The next thing you know, I’m running around the house
actively playing with Gwen instead of avoiding her. My floors are mopped, my
laundry done, shower scrubbed and toilets cleaned. Things that haven’t happened
in our house since six weeks after I read that pregnancy test.
Could
it be that second trimester honeymoon stage I only got to read about with my first pregnancy? Oh how I hope it is, because it’s no fun to realize that your toddler
has missed her mommy. Ever since I began feeling more like myself she has
been attached to my hip, starved for the attention her mother hasn't been giving her. And oh, how I’ve missed her too. And don't get me started on that wonderful husband of mine, who's been plugging along picking up my slack.
It’s nice to be back guys, it’s nice to be back.
It’s nice to be back guys, it’s nice to be back.