Here we go then. This is not a chipper blog I’m afraid. Come back once there is a new baby here and I am crackers once again with sleep deprivation if that’s what you’re after. This is just me being honest, which is what I always set out to do with this blog, and attempting to rewire a little of this mind of mine which has unravelled somewhat of late.
I am 13 weeks pregnant. And losing weight. Let me add a caveat now, I’m not writing this blog with the intention of having a moan. I know I am lucky. We have one beautiful child and we are 13 weeks in to the journey to have another. That is very precious. But I also have to try and make some sense of these past few weeks because they have been hard.
Hyperemesis Gravidarum. Property of the Duchess of Cambridge, a small proportion of pregnant women and now me.
What can I tell you about HG? Only my experience, which may be unlike anyone else’s, but has been raw and tested me to my very limits and continues to do so.
HG is utterly, shockingly debilitating.
Rolling nausea that reduces me frequently to a foetal like creature on the sofa, in bed or in the worst cases flat on the floor, trying desperately to breathe through it in some ironic parody of labour itself. I cannot function, at times I cannot even walk.
Sickness, even when there is nothing left to give back. Snorting, coughing, gurgling like some kind of half-human Gollum-esque creature, forever carrying a bowl around. James’ grim face and worried eyes. Battling anxiety at Doctor and Midwife appointments that there is nowhere close enough to me to be sick if needs be.
Utter exhaustion, that type that brings me to my knees and sends me crawling for the nearest quasi-comfortable surface where I will be out cold for minutes or hours.
The total contraction of my world. Unable to look after Blake in any way beyond switching on the TV. Bored but without the ability to focus on anything. Lonely, stuck in this limbo state where the only contact with my family and friends is through my phone when I am not so nauseous that I cannot look at the screen. And with nothing to say to my husband when he returns from work and cracks on with all the chores and parenting I am unable to do beyond thank you, and I’m sorry. Life lived in my bed, the bathroom, the sofa.
Thirsty. Achy. A failure. Signed off work with no idea when a respite will come. It could be next week. It could last the entire pregnancy.
On the scale, my HG is mild. I know people who have suffered far worse, read the horror stories of people sick 50 times a day, hospitalised through dehydration. I have found the points in the day when I can manage a little food and drink, and I have been incredibly lucky to have enough friends and family around me to look after Blake. Support groups online. And two Doctors who were kind (kind enough to make me weep with relief), who took me seriously and are working with me to find medication that will help me survive however long I need to survive.
And yesterday a little ray of hope. My 12 week scan. Making it to the appointment after some violent sickness in the morning and seeing as if in a dream a tiny person on screen, kicking and bopping for all it’s worth, so like its big brother at the same stage. A small slice of perspective to cut through these long debilitating hours and recognise that somewhere down the line it will be OK, and life will be different and chaotic and wonderful. X