Pregnancy Diaries: In the Beginning
For some reason every time I think about the fact that I’m pregnant I recall Bridget Jones in the pharmacy in Austria, trying to order a pregnancy test in her very limited German and resorting to just shouting “MIT BEBE”, and miming a very round tummy (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GTCKAy3buxo). To be honest, I find myself wanting to do the same, on a fairly regular basis, when there is the slightest chance that someone might fail to notice (there’s no need to mime the tummy, at month 7). This is not because I’m showing off, or because I want extra attention. It’s because I feel the need to explain why I am rather cross a lot of the time, or prone to tears, particularly when you steal my parking space or shove past me in the milk aisle. Or why I am pounding Snickers bars at an alarming rate in my car so as to finish them before I get home to Callum’s disapproving look. Or why I just threw up in my mouth a little from the indigestion that never goes away, and had to frantically swallow so as not to get regurgitated Snickers on you.
Don’t get me wrong – I am so, so excited that I am pregnant. I still can’t believe that we got this lucky. But fucking hell, it’s not easy.
Before I go on, a quick and respectful acknowledgement to the many, MANY women who have it a lot harder than I do. I fall onto a spectrum of pregnancy experiences that cannot even be imagined, it’s so broad. I have been unlucky in some ways, but mostly extremely fortunate in others. The main reason for writing this is so that I have an outlet other than my poor long-suffering husband, and also to give out a few (hopefully useful) heads ups which I wasn’t given before I embarked on this journey.
The Beginning…
Given my history of ovarian cysts and endometriosis, I didn’t think we would get pregnant easily. In fact, I pretty much used that as the bulk of my persuasive arsenal when talking to Callum about trying for a baby. When he agreed, heavily under the influence of Christmas whisky, neither he nor I imagined that it would happen within 3 months. I don’t think he’s quite forgiven me for that…bottom line is, though, it proves that despite the ways in which your body may have ‘failed’ you previously, there really is no hard and fast rule which governs your ability to conceive. I have met so many women with cysts and varying degrees of endometriosis: many of them already think they won’t be able to conceive – or worse, they have been told by their doctors before they’ve even turned 20 that they’d better try ASAP because it’s so unlikely to happen. Yes, these are serious reproductive conditions that may complicate matters in a number of ways. But please don’t give up on your incredible body and its capabilities just yet.
I found out I was pregnant while I was in England, away from Callum. I hadn’t been feeling quite right, and one night I got excruciating cramp in my right calf and after hobbling to the loo I promptly passed out onto the bathroom floor. I was only a couple of days late, but I took the test and it presented me with a very faint line that Mum and I peered at for quite a long time before agreeing to wait a few days and try again. Once that second test confirmed it, all I had to do was wait a bit longer to tell Callum. Then the strange reality of it all began.
In the very early stages, you’re faced with the enormity of what has happened, but you keep it pretty quiet, which is very strange. We told close family, and friends we see on a regular basis (mostly because they would immediately notice I wasn’t drinking). This was ok for a week or two, as it was still only just sinking in for us and it felt quite special to have this little bundle of cells as our wonderful secret. Then, quite suddenly, the little bundle of cells decided things were far too peaceful. To be completely honest, thanks to the body’s amazing ability to block out horrendous symptoms once they’ve passed, I can’t remember when I first started to feel sick. All I knew was, I felt sick…all the time.
“Morning sickness”? I’m calling utter bullshit on that. All-day-and-sometimes-night-sickness is more appropriate, with the occasional moment of blissful reprieve to remind you what normal feels like. I was not vomiting, but I had a terrible upset stomach, which would come on without warning. For a while I really couldn’t leave my bed, and would croak at Callum for plain pasta or toast with marmite if I could stomach it. I had to keep crackers by the side of the bed to shove down my throat when I woke up at 2am overcome by nausea. Callum said it was like sleeping next to a squirrel. I had to leave a birthday party after only 20 minutes because my stomach suddenly turned and I knew I couldn’t face being responsible for turning their one bathroom into a warzone. I once walked into the meat section at the supermarket and had to flee immediately.
The nausea wasn’t actually the thing that hit me hardest. I was prepared for all of that, because everyone had warned me about it. Ok, I didn’t really understand how awful it would be, but it wasn’t a surprise. What got me was the exhaustion, both physical and emotional. On the one hand, I’d zone out mid-conversation, find myself slipping away while sitting at the table, and pass out for hours in the middle of the day. I didn’t have the energy to see anyone, and couldn’t even bring myself to sit around the fire listening to others talking and laughing around me.
On the other hand, I was becoming more and more freaked out by what was happening to my body. I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognise myself. I didn’t fit into any of my clothes, but had no discernible baby bump yet, so just felt fat and wobbly. Having been fairly flat chested my whole life, my boobs were now growing by the day and it was so excruciating that I had to sleep in a sports bra, and would wake up in agony whenever I rolled over. I didn’t know this body; I didn’t know this person. It completely terrified me. I would cry in the bath, not understanding what was happening and then feel immensely guilty for not being overjoyed by the miracle that was growing inside me. Witnessing me curled in the foetal position, crippled by nausea and blinding headaches, miserable for no apparent reason, Callum would keep saying “it’s all going to be worth it,” and I would reply bleakly, “is it?” in utter desperation. He worried about my diet – I was just eating pasta, bread and crackers with the occasional handful of sweets thrown in every now and then – but I couldn’t face eating anything remotely healthy, and I certainly didn’t feel like cooking.
I HATED being so exhausted and sad. I’d wanted this for so long, had imagined how it would be. It was so far from the blissful picture of glowing skin and radiant happiness that if I hadn’t been feeling so dreadful I would have laughed about my naivety. It took quite a few reminders from kind friends/husband/lady in the queue at Pick and Pay of the following point to shake me out of my self-loathing:
I WAS GROWING A HUMAN BEING.
Despite the fact that it’s all you can think about, it’s very easy to forget this point. I read somewhere that a pregnant woman uses up the same amount of energy just lying down as a fully grown, healthy man would during an intense gym workout. That put things into perspective a bit. I started to pay more attention to my symptoms – when I felt suddenly like I might pass out, I thought “ok, maybe I’m growing a bit of brain right now.” Or when I nearly threw up after a sip of orange juice, I thought “well maybe the baby just doubled in size.” Although I still felt like shit, I also started to feel a teeny tiny bit powerful. It was still terrifying when I caught sight of my ballooning body in the mirror, and it still hurt like hell whenever someone hugged me too tight. But my body was doing this insane new thing, and that was pretty fucking cool.
