I was nervous about him leaving. I have no reason to be worried about anything specific at this point in my pregnancy. Every scan has been fine, my self-prescribed kick counts have been reassuring, I have been feeling good. In the past week I've noticed Braxton-Hicks contractions, but nothing uncomfortable, frequent, or disconcerting. Still, Eliza's 24-week ultrasound was picture-perfect. I had no reason to worry about her, either. So that thought has been nagging at me.
And I just couldn't shake the feeling that as soon as David left and I was home alone, that something bad would happen.
I decided that I'd go to my parents' house for the weekend. There was lots of stuff going on--a fish fry at the Catholic church on Friday, a pancake breakfast my dad was working on Saturday morning, and I made plans to visit a friend and to see my Nana. So my plan was to load up the dogs and leave Friday immediately after work, and come home Monday morning (since it was my spring break).
Thursday was a rough day for me, and I just thought I was just in a foul mood. My students pissed me off because not a single one of them had done the assigned reading, so ten minutes into class, I told them that class was over for the day but they could look forward to having a quiz everyday after spring break and then I stomped out of the room.
The rest of the day wasn't much better. I felt emotional and teary about David leaving even though it was only for three nights. I drove him to the airport and then went to yoga, which normally leaves me feeling much better. Even yoga couldn't fix my tired and cranky, though. I just felt off through the whole class. My balance was nonexistent. I had a hard time getting work worries/annoyances and pregnancy anxieties out of my mind.
I did not sleep well that night, and I got out of bed to get Tums from the medicine cabinet, thinking that would settle my stomach.
No such luck.
At 6am on Friday morning, I was puking my guts out in the bathroom.
Although needles still top my list of WORST things ever, puking is a VERY close second. I rarely puke, and every time I do, it makes me cry. Plus, I had to give two exams, finish packing my bags, and make a four-and-a-half-hour drive to my parents'. I was home alone, and I felt absolutely miserable.
Also, the last time I barfed was when I was in labor with Eliza, so hello PTSD. Barfing = Dead Baby. Wonderful association.
So I collapsed back in bed, and it quickly became evident that this was not a puke-and-rally situation. When I realized that there was no way I was going to feel good enough to drive to work, I called the dean of academics, my OB, and my mom to let everyone know that I was puking and it was terrible PLEASE HALP ME.
The dean assured me my exams would be taken care of, my mom offered me lots of sympathy, and the nurse I spoke with at my OB's office was super nice and understanding and told me to come in to the hospital if I couldn't keep down liquids for 24 hours, or if the baby quit moving, and then added that I should come on in if I just got scared and wanted to be checked out.
The Deuce was moving like crazy after my puke session, which was both reassuring and totally nauseating. Honestly, feeling sick to your stomach and being repeatedly KICKED in said stomach is no more pleasant when the kicking occurs on the inside of your body than it would be if it occurred on the outside. But I was so scared that all I wanted was for the baby to keep kicking so it was a weird kind of catch 22.
I managed to fall back asleep for most of the morning, but woke up around lunch time, freezing cold and aching all over. The body ache was almost worst than the nausea. I didn't have the energy to read or watch TV, so I knew it was bad. The mere idea of getting out of bed and walking to the kitchen to get a 7Up felt totally daunting. If David had been at work, I would have begged him to take a half a day and come home.
I was scared to be there by myself, I was scared the baby's movements would make me barf again, I was more scared that the baby would stop moving, I was scared that my fever would spike and I'd have to drive myself to the hospital, light-headed and feverish and nauseated. Plus we had no saltine crackers or ginger ale in the house, and the nurse had told me to drink Gatorade or Pedialyte (neither of which we had on hand).
I mustered up the energy to text a friend (and neighbor) who promised to bring me crackers and soup and ginger ale and Gatorade when she got off work. I also talked to David and told him my sob story ("I knew something bad would happen when you left!"). My mom said that she'd come up after work if I needed her to. I hated for her to have to make the drive by herself (my dad couldn't get out of the pancake breakfast) and so I thought I'd try to take another nap and see how I felt after that, but I think David was as worried as I was, because he called and talked to her, and she texted me a little before two to tell me that she was just leaving town and was heading to St. Louis. Honestly, it was the biggest relief ever and I was so happy to know that she was on her way. Sometimes you just need your mom, you know?
So she drove all the way here to take care of me, and thankfully, things improved after Friday. That was the most miserable day EVER. It took everything I had to put on pants and move from my bed to the couch so that I could answer the door when my friend showed up with groceries. I was still on the couch, half-heartedly watching a PBS documentary on the Amish when my mom arrived. (Weirdly, there was one Amish kid in the documentary who looked EXACTLY like my brother--even my mom agreed).
By Saturday morning, the terrible ache in every part of my body had subsided and although I still had no appetite (and I'd eaten nothing but a few crackers), I no longer felt like my guts were actively revolting against me. I had absolutely no energy, though, and my mom and I did NOTHING all weekend long (super weird for us--I don't think we've ever spent a weekend here and just stayed at home). It was definitely not the most fun we've ever had, but I am SO glad that she drove up to stay with me. The combination of feeling physically ill and feeling so anxious about how it might be affecting the baby was absolutely horrible, and it would have been intolerable to be all by myself.
Nothing else dramatic happened over the weekend, unless you count Cooper charging the mailman and leaping full-force at the screen door while barking his head off.
I still feel pretty depleted today, but definitely more human. I picked up David from the airport and I've been laying low today, doing some reading and watching basketball (my Nana will be very disappointed in Baylor; my husband is very pleased with Kansas; I've been pissed off about the whole thing since Mizzou lost).
I have a lot that I want to get done this week, so I am counting on being on the up and up. Right now, I'm pleased to say that I think my appetite is returning, and I'm really happy that the Deuce keeps kicking away. And I'm so grateful that Eliza and the Deuce have such an awesome grandma. Thanks for taking such good care of us, Mom!
|Cheers to my mom! |
(Note: This picture was NOT taken over the weekend; it was taken on our vacation to Canada last summer)