Let me get something straight. I don't believe you're really in there.
At least, perhaps I can't let myself.
There have been numerous times over the past 10 weeks that I have wondered if I am, in fact, pregnant. Despite having symptoms showering themselves upon me in gay abandon - sore, aching and rapidly expanding breasts, constant sickness, a 'thickening' of the waist (as so many articles and books delicately put it), exhaustion, and an emotional instability like a 30ft high badly constructed giant Jenga. There has always been that wondering, that doubt.
Now, I am fairly convinced I am. Finally. But trying to equate pregnancy to the growth of a foetus, you, is just something I am struggling to join up the wayward dots to (they'd rather conclude with a badly constructed image of just a hormonal, irrational, bloated and poorly WebStress - end of).
This week, you are the size of a lipstick case, with the ability to kick, swallow and move. I have been reading about your growth constantly, but I am struggling to equate it to my own rapid changes.
I have been thinking about writing to you for some time. I don't think about you much, which is a funny thing to say. But I don't. I think about being pregnant. I think about the sickness, the exhaustion, the inability to multitask, or even singletask, effectively.
It is strange that I should feel so lonely, with another whole person growing within me. Someone experiencing everything I think, say, feel or do. Someone who was there in the night when I couldn't sleep, someone who has felt my tears, who has already met some of my dearest loved ones. You have already been with me across the country. You have already had Newf nuzzling up to you (and slobbering on the material just inches away from where you are stretching your cells and multiplying your size).
My sister told me that one of her friends became incredibly introspective, in a joyous way. She rose above issues and problems, everything passing under her without consequence. The only thing that mattered was her growing child within her.
I am two weeks away from the end of my first trimester. You will double in size over the next few weeks.
I am protecting myself, I know. I am terrified that I will lose you, this tiny thing that I don't even believe I have. It is like belief, I have no other proof, I have not seen or felt your physical existence, apart from your repercussions on my body. But, unlike a normal belief, I am terrified of believing too much. Just in case.
I have my scan, hopefully, in two weeks. Then I should see you - then belief may become a solid, tangible thing. I desperately want to believe in you, to indulge in you.
I protect you, fiercely. You would have thought it funny to see me the other day out walking with your father, and I turned away from a group of lads playing football, just in case a ball were to hit me, you. You are so fragile, so delicate, yet seemingly so impossible to please and so all-consuming.
Your father is working for you in London at the moment. Father is a word for books, for literature really, dad sounding somewhat childish oddly in a novel.
Your dad I should say, for I can't imagine you ever calling him father unless you absorb some sort of misplaced public school education throughout your early childhood. He adores you. He has visions of you, a genderless image, but his, all his, holding his hand so tightly, splashing in the sea, in the bath, you will be a water baby in every sense of the word (and at your birth, perhaps...?). You will adore him, I know. And he will adore you more than he has ever loved anything, even me.
I understand that, I understand he will be consumed by you. That is a strange feeling. Maybe if I didn't know I was to be too, it would be different. But I have no choice, he has no choice, we will become your slaves.
He told me yesterday he can stay in London until the summer, so that we have enough money for when you arrive, so that I don't have to work. I didn't have the heart to tell him I wouldn't be able to work, but I knew what he meant. I felt a pang of selfishness, as if already you were demanding his love, his time, his attention more than me. As if you were more important, your birth and the time after more important than me, now.
He would be absent for most of my pregnancy. I know that importance does not feature and he is so homesick and aching for me, for our life, but my emotions spike me angrily, a surge of sharp, cutting, isolated attacks that I loathe but that I allow myself to indulge, to weak to rationalise. I face a long six months.
We have not agreed to anything yet, but how can we not. He left his job in November, for us to start a business. We chose to conceive, we had discussed it for such a long time. Were we terribly naive in the assumption that we wouldn't need such a vast injection of cash, that we weren't going to be in the financial stability we would have longed to be in, that both of us working freelance together, your dad himself starting a totally new career, was a gamble that jars icily with your conception, your birth? Or were we presented with an option that would make everything easier, in that holy grail, that distant reward, of The Long Term?
I am not sure it is the long term. He will continue his work, then return, perhaps not until August. Then he will be back in his old career, too dangerous, too unstable to immerse himself in a new one, in the business. And I, I am alone again, freelancing on my own. But we can only choose one path to take. We will both work so hard, we can only both do so much.
Your dad is my rock. He is everything to me. I adore him with my whole heart. I adore him and I will adore you. We will be such a loving family, I promise you.
I hope you consider my outpouring this morning to be something of a good thing, and to not scare you off, not to terrify you of an emotional, unstable, selfish mum who aches for your protection and your health and your happiness more than you will ever know, throughout the rest of your life, and asks only for your love in return.
Tuesday 12 February 2008
Steps to Stardom
"If your dreams seem more bizarre than usual, filled with images of sex, talking animals, and huge, towering buildings, you can put them down to a combination of the progesterone surging through your veins and your excitement and apprehension about pregnancy and motherhood. "Dreams reflect your emotional reality," says sleep expert Mary O'Malley. "Pregnancy brings up positive and negative feelings that you'll digest through your dreams."
Another reason why your dreams may have changed in style is that you are more likely to interrupt a dream-filled cycle of REM sleep by frequent waking during the night to go to the loo, ease a leg cramp, or move to a more comfortable position.
Source: www.babycentre.co.uk
On Sunday night, among other peculiarities, I dreamed that Amy Winehouse was formerly one of the key members of Steps.
She was receiving an award for her musical achievements (obvious references seeping in to my REM) and they presented a brief flash back of her previous pop career. There she was, in a video not quite of anything, with a soundtrack equally as bland and unmemorable, standing next to Faye (if she's the dreadlocked one) doing some sort of choreographed dance routine.
I thought to myself it was surprising I had not noted this previously, but didn't find it all that surprising, drawing comparisons with Robbie Williams' former boy band career in Take That.
On Monday morning, where her gentle soothing airs and graces wafted over the airways in an award winning speech regarding a recent award (ahem), there was brief moment of total belief that her career in Steps had been the springboard to greater talents.
Then, sadly, reality kicked back in and I remembered that no such wholesome career had prececeded her rise to Diva-esque fame.
Another reason why your dreams may have changed in style is that you are more likely to interrupt a dream-filled cycle of REM sleep by frequent waking during the night to go to the loo, ease a leg cramp, or move to a more comfortable position.
Source: www.babycentre.co.uk
On Sunday night, among other peculiarities, I dreamed that Amy Winehouse was formerly one of the key members of Steps.
She was receiving an award for her musical achievements (obvious references seeping in to my REM) and they presented a brief flash back of her previous pop career. There she was, in a video not quite of anything, with a soundtrack equally as bland and unmemorable, standing next to Faye (if she's the dreadlocked one) doing some sort of choreographed dance routine.
I thought to myself it was surprising I had not noted this previously, but didn't find it all that surprising, drawing comparisons with Robbie Williams' former boy band career in Take That.
On Monday morning, where her gentle soothing airs and graces wafted over the airways in an award winning speech regarding a recent award (ahem), there was brief moment of total belief that her career in Steps had been the springboard to greater talents.
Then, sadly, reality kicked back in and I remembered that no such wholesome career had prececeded her rise to Diva-esque fame.
Friday 8 February 2008
Week 9: A good week for crackers, a bad week for Newf digestion
Friday. I feel my whole body breathing a sigh of relief. My partner will be home in just over 12 hours.
Looking back on this week and I see a blur of tears (mine), diahorrea (Newf's), sickness (both of us), exhaustion (mine, Newf sleeps approximately 70% of the day so its difficult to tell whether she is in any way affected by her inner turmoil), loneliness (mine) and wonderful support (family, extended family and exquisite friends, partner).
Throughout all of my dark moments, my loneliness, my exhaustion and my coping strategies crumbling around me (as they usually involve eating and exercise and I have failed to do either with any success), I have felt like there are these invisible hands, from people 20 minutes away to those hundreds of miles away, holding me up, helping me, telling me everything is going to be alright.
As we tell more people, I am beginning to feel less introverted, more supported, more secure. Every time I tell someone I feel some inner strength hold me up, announcing that no, I'm not nuts and miserable and generally about as fun to be around as a really un fun thing (at least well I am, but I have good reason to be).
But there is a dark side of me, a shadow that follows me, haunts me, magnifies every twinge, amplifies aches and discomforts until they overshadow my consciousness and become all I can think of. With every person I tell, it is in my head that there is one more person to tell if and when things go wrong.
The worry, I have noticed, has begun to subside, or at least be eclipsed by time advancing towards the holy grail, that 12 week mark when the chances of miscarriage are supposed to dramatically reduce (some say 16 weeks, but one step at a time). But then often, occasionally but with fierce determination, it forces its way through my conscious and presents itself at the forefront of my brain, proud, assertive, strong. And with every person I tell it is there, knowingly, a smug older sibling elated with experience I can only be humbled by, riddled with statistics to present to me and my newly informed friend.
I cannot live my life through worry. But all the same if I am to forget, I am reminded, complacency will make a fall harder than I could ever knew.
But after nine weeks of carrying a growing life form, I can't imagine how anyone could ever cope with loss and it terrifies me more than I could ever know. I understand a little now about the bond between parent and child. That you would do anything, anything, to see your child healthy and happy, no matter the cost to you.
Sometimes I forget that, constantly to be honest, when my sickness overwhelms me and I beg it to stop. For my sickness to stop now it would mean a loss I can comprehend.
Looking back on this week and I see a blur of tears (mine), diahorrea (Newf's), sickness (both of us), exhaustion (mine, Newf sleeps approximately 70% of the day so its difficult to tell whether she is in any way affected by her inner turmoil), loneliness (mine) and wonderful support (family, extended family and exquisite friends, partner).
Throughout all of my dark moments, my loneliness, my exhaustion and my coping strategies crumbling around me (as they usually involve eating and exercise and I have failed to do either with any success), I have felt like there are these invisible hands, from people 20 minutes away to those hundreds of miles away, holding me up, helping me, telling me everything is going to be alright.
As we tell more people, I am beginning to feel less introverted, more supported, more secure. Every time I tell someone I feel some inner strength hold me up, announcing that no, I'm not nuts and miserable and generally about as fun to be around as a really un fun thing (at least well I am, but I have good reason to be).
But there is a dark side of me, a shadow that follows me, haunts me, magnifies every twinge, amplifies aches and discomforts until they overshadow my consciousness and become all I can think of. With every person I tell, it is in my head that there is one more person to tell if and when things go wrong.
The worry, I have noticed, has begun to subside, or at least be eclipsed by time advancing towards the holy grail, that 12 week mark when the chances of miscarriage are supposed to dramatically reduce (some say 16 weeks, but one step at a time). But then often, occasionally but with fierce determination, it forces its way through my conscious and presents itself at the forefront of my brain, proud, assertive, strong. And with every person I tell it is there, knowingly, a smug older sibling elated with experience I can only be humbled by, riddled with statistics to present to me and my newly informed friend.
I cannot live my life through worry. But all the same if I am to forget, I am reminded, complacency will make a fall harder than I could ever knew.
But after nine weeks of carrying a growing life form, I can't imagine how anyone could ever cope with loss and it terrifies me more than I could ever know. I understand a little now about the bond between parent and child. That you would do anything, anything, to see your child healthy and happy, no matter the cost to you.
Sometimes I forget that, constantly to be honest, when my sickness overwhelms me and I beg it to stop. For my sickness to stop now it would mean a loss I can comprehend.
Wednesday 6 February 2008
And here's one I wish I'd made earlier...
Last night I did my best housewifey bit for Newf and cooked her battered cod, which I then scraped all of the batter off lovingly (with a rather unsettling desire to munch on that and the anaemic looking fish inside, slightly worrying for a strict veggie) and served it with long grain wild american rice (I was unprepared for Newf to be the consumer of such a purchase).
She adored it. I don't think I've ever seen her quite so determined to give herself heartburn by eating so fast.
So last night, I purchased some frozen cod fillets and some less expensive white rice to give her a few tasty meals over the next couple of days.
The only slight issue I am currently facing is the thought of cooking said Newf food this morning.
She is sulking beside me, unsure of what exactly I'm up to, and certainly not impressed with whatever it is as it certainly isn't preparing her breakfast.
I wonder if she'd care for a weetabix with low fat soya milk instead.
She adored it. I don't think I've ever seen her quite so determined to give herself heartburn by eating so fast.
So last night, I purchased some frozen cod fillets and some less expensive white rice to give her a few tasty meals over the next couple of days.
The only slight issue I am currently facing is the thought of cooking said Newf food this morning.
She is sulking beside me, unsure of what exactly I'm up to, and certainly not impressed with whatever it is as it certainly isn't preparing her breakfast.
I wonder if she'd care for a weetabix with low fat soya milk instead.
Tuesday 5 February 2008
Mid-morning moan
My longed for piece of jam on toast was hideously misguided.
To the point I have had to consume a mountain of Swedish crispbread to calm the volatile, angry foetus that obviously wasn't impressed.
I have so far eaten:
1 x bowl of cornflakes with low fat soya milk and a teeth decay inducing volume of sugar
1 x piece of granary toast with olive spread and low sugar jam
5 x dry Swedish cracker breads
It is 11:07. I feel obese. My fat cells are having a party and it seems that everyone's invited.
And I appear to have forgotten how to design. Quite problematic as a web designer or, under my more pretentious alter ego, a digital artist.
Today does not bode well.
To the point I have had to consume a mountain of Swedish crispbread to calm the volatile, angry foetus that obviously wasn't impressed.
I have so far eaten:
1 x bowl of cornflakes with low fat soya milk and a teeth decay inducing volume of sugar
1 x piece of granary toast with olive spread and low sugar jam
5 x dry Swedish cracker breads
It is 11:07. I feel obese. My fat cells are having a party and it seems that everyone's invited.
And I appear to have forgotten how to design. Quite problematic as a web designer or, under my more pretentious alter ego, a digital artist.
Today does not bode well.
Canine Culinary Creations
The lovely vet called me and told me that as long as Newf was excitable and lively not to bring her in. The best thing I could do was not feed her (I didn't mention I had already...) and when I did feed her later to cook her some chicken and rice, or perhaps a little white fish.
Brilliant for the near vegan with morning sickness who's meat cooking abilities, while not totally ignorant, are far from culinary brilliance and who's stomach is about as stable as a fat man on a tightrope.
My SP has just given me chicken cooking instructions for idiots. Let's hope I don't give Newf food poisoning. I don't think that'll help with her constitution.
Brilliant for the near vegan with morning sickness who's meat cooking abilities, while not totally ignorant, are far from culinary brilliance and who's stomach is about as stable as a fat man on a tightrope.
My SP has just given me chicken cooking instructions for idiots. Let's hope I don't give Newf food poisoning. I don't think that'll help with her constitution.
The foetus wants pancakes
I discovered, with a certain amount of hesitation and excitement, that I am actually not seven weeks but nine weeks pregnant.
I hadn't trusted the doctor's assessment that I was further on than I was due to a mumbled discription of the first day of my last period, as he also predicted I was due in early October. The midwife had just looked at my notes and scribbled something down. I just relied on guess work and numerous dodgy online calculator predictor things.
But, apparently, its true. 40 weeks starts from the first day of my last period. I am in my nineth week of pregnancy. Woop woop!
My good friend Yorkshire Lass negotiated a whole heap of public transport to come and visit my messy self on Saturday. She told me repeatedly that I personally didn't have any control over the goings on and had basically been consumed by an alien, who had comandeered my body for its own use. It was to be in control now, of whatever it decreed suitable. Sleep, food, rest, (and, in my case, TV and music, for I have now developed an uncontrollable desire to watch Red Dwarf and listen to Cats).
She was immensely understanding, even through my constant cracker grazing, my whining about my sickness, my troubled, guilt ridden mind and my chocolate cake baking indulgant (one vegan cake later, and after a small piece on Saturday night, I had to pass the majority over to her, the sight or even thought of chocolate making me feel a little bit on the queasy side).
Last night I had a strong urge to make pancakes today with my sister (I won't dwell on this for too long as pancake isn't a food I can negotiate discussion with at this time of the morning). Yorkshire Lass called me to make sure I was still vaguely hinged (after a few slightly worrying emails I had sent to her throughout the course of yesterday) and I informed her of my desire.
She said simply 'the foetus wants pancakes'.
And I thought, yup. Okay. I'm going to go with this one.
Right now, the foetus wants some jam on toast, even post breakfast. I need to seriously adjust my portion size if grazing is going to keep me sane (and from doing and work it seems).
Oddly, I realised after attempting two scales, I have actually lost 4lb since becoming pregnant and weigh now just under eight stone. This was a rather terrifying realisation as my breasts are growing at quite a rate and my stomach is inflating at a similar worrying speed until I realised with terror and horror that all those months of hard work, muscle control and toning are unravelling before my eyes.
My muscle is turning to fat.
Oh bugger it, a piece of toast and jam isn't going to make much of a dent on my unravelling body now (I can hear the voice of weight watchers all over the country screaming that it will be my downfall).
I hadn't trusted the doctor's assessment that I was further on than I was due to a mumbled discription of the first day of my last period, as he also predicted I was due in early October. The midwife had just looked at my notes and scribbled something down. I just relied on guess work and numerous dodgy online calculator predictor things.
But, apparently, its true. 40 weeks starts from the first day of my last period. I am in my nineth week of pregnancy. Woop woop!
My good friend Yorkshire Lass negotiated a whole heap of public transport to come and visit my messy self on Saturday. She told me repeatedly that I personally didn't have any control over the goings on and had basically been consumed by an alien, who had comandeered my body for its own use. It was to be in control now, of whatever it decreed suitable. Sleep, food, rest, (and, in my case, TV and music, for I have now developed an uncontrollable desire to watch Red Dwarf and listen to Cats).
She was immensely understanding, even through my constant cracker grazing, my whining about my sickness, my troubled, guilt ridden mind and my chocolate cake baking indulgant (one vegan cake later, and after a small piece on Saturday night, I had to pass the majority over to her, the sight or even thought of chocolate making me feel a little bit on the queasy side).
Last night I had a strong urge to make pancakes today with my sister (I won't dwell on this for too long as pancake isn't a food I can negotiate discussion with at this time of the morning). Yorkshire Lass called me to make sure I was still vaguely hinged (after a few slightly worrying emails I had sent to her throughout the course of yesterday) and I informed her of my desire.
She said simply 'the foetus wants pancakes'.
And I thought, yup. Okay. I'm going to go with this one.
Right now, the foetus wants some jam on toast, even post breakfast. I need to seriously adjust my portion size if grazing is going to keep me sane (and from doing and work it seems).
Oddly, I realised after attempting two scales, I have actually lost 4lb since becoming pregnant and weigh now just under eight stone. This was a rather terrifying realisation as my breasts are growing at quite a rate and my stomach is inflating at a similar worrying speed until I realised with terror and horror that all those months of hard work, muscle control and toning are unravelling before my eyes.
My muscle is turning to fat.
Oh bugger it, a piece of toast and jam isn't going to make much of a dent on my unravelling body now (I can hear the voice of weight watchers all over the country screaming that it will be my downfall).
What goes around comes around...
Yesterday was, in no uncertain terms, a right off. A complete and utter waste of time. To the point that, after collapsing into my second 'nap' of the day, I had a stern word with myself and decided that the day was deemed a sick day.
True enough, the guilt hounded me throughout the day, nagging me, pestering me, breaking my deep sleep with worry. By the time it was official work 'hometime' and my mum, worried for my sanity, paid me a visit, I had managed to shake the guilt but instead bombarded her with questions as to how she coped with morning sickness and general pregnancy related shenanigans firstly at work with my sister and secondly looking after a toddler when I decided to make an appearance in her womb (I was the one that caused havoc for her unfortunately, my sister it seems, slept gently through her foetal growth while I was already establishing my many food intolerances by forcing them back up my mum's throat to which, thankfully, she does not hold a grudge).
She said it wasn't easy.
My guilt is much to do with my work load, my mounting tasks coupled with their weak, feeble excuses (my tongue forming the words I'm Pregnant over and over silently, my emails and phone calls pathetically stating I've been a bit ill, using up my postpone-already-late-task-with-no-consequences cards left right and centre, not knowing how they'll take it to know that I'm still, well, ill).
But it also is heavily related to all those women enduring the suffering in classrooms, offices and 'real' work environments across the country (I can't even begin to absorb the guilt if I am to think about beyond England's borders right now, I think I might just become the product of consumption by guilt).
If they can do it, if they can struggle through, why am I constantly collapsing?
Luckily, the sickness has subsided to a controllable state. Unfortunately this is resolved by eating little and often.
I'm not sure what the technical term is for 'often' but I'm sure I've blurred the boundaries between that and constantly several times over the past few days.
I did feel, at the end of the weekend, despite my strength and emotions being shattered because of the departure of my partner for the first of 3 months worth of weeks in London, I was going to be okay. I could even eat a variety of foods (accompanied by the ever present constantly necessary carb) and even manage the occasional half cup of tea (on a good day).
But something went horribly wrong yesterday morning.
It wasn't helped by waking up to learn that Newf had screaming diarrhoea.
My partner had dealt with carnage in the lounge on Saturday morning (from what end he wasn't able to ascertain, always a worrying sign). But, even despite brightly coloured excretions, the colour of fluorescent yellow for those interested in the detail, she was perky and bounding around and I thought no more about it.
Yesterday I was woken to my mum gently saying that perhaps Newf needed to go to the Vet. She hadn't touched her breakfast and there were more fluorescent discoveries.
It was 7am. The vet didn't open til 9am and I had a task list that was already starting to make me feel queasy (along with everything else).
This didn't help Week #1 of independence.
So I waited. I let Newf in to see how the patient was about 7:30. She bounded straight towards the cat food, splattering the kitchen with mud and generally causing a large amount of havoc.
So, I tried her with some carrot and apple. Fine.
It occurred to me she was just being fussy. Off her dried food because that's what (she thought, in her Newf brain) had made her poorly.
So I bundled her into the car and drove home where I purchased some wet food for her, which she devoured, and some suspicious looking vague diarrhoea tablets' (which, apparently, relieve the symptoms of diarrhoea, although it doesn't say how, what it does, or what symptoms specifically).
She bounded, tried scaling the fence and was generally her old self.
True enough, I had a few disastrous occurrences on the pavement on two walks, one where I had to trek home to get a bottle of water to dissipate the aftermath (I was not amused), the second time I was prepared (and had my mum to hold Newf).
By the time I went to bed, although Newf was washed out, I was confident that she was going to be okay.
Then, after falling in and out of dream filled snoozes, kept from deep sleep due to my stomach running riot and the foetus complaining unsubtly about the tea I had lovingly created, I thought I smelled something. Something bad.
It crept up my nostrils and lingered for a brief moment, but I dismissed it, thinking I was just worried and over sensitive.
Then it came again. And again.
I knew.
I donned a dressing gown and some trainers and opened the bedroom door.
The smell nearly knocked me sideways.
I trudged down the stairs to where Newf was curled up, awake but dozy, exhausted, in the corner of her area.
Before her lay carnage.
It was up the walls, in her water, all over the floor.
The problem with having a large dog is that what can feasibly be excreted from them is also to the same ratio.
I set to work with kitchen roll, a mop, disinfectant, and shoved a blindfold over my gurgling, active and nosy stomach.
Newf stayed perfectly still as I mopped around her, watching me, eyes of apology or pity or just exhaustion, I couldn't tell.
I finally got to bed at midnight, and drifted into sleep about 2am.
As if to punish myself for yesterday's lack of vet visit and the sleep I indulged my aching, collapsing body into, today I feel like I've been up all night drinking neat gin and feasting on undercooked curry.
I have used up my sickie. I have indulged my body and no remnants remain of that blissful deep slumber I allowed myself to have yesterday, to stop the headache, my tired limbs, my unrelenting stomach activity.
I am not sure whether to take Newf on the hour drive to the vet. She is now proving that she can pass solids and proved so in a slightly mocking way in the park this morning. They open in 20 minutes.
True enough, the guilt hounded me throughout the day, nagging me, pestering me, breaking my deep sleep with worry. By the time it was official work 'hometime' and my mum, worried for my sanity, paid me a visit, I had managed to shake the guilt but instead bombarded her with questions as to how she coped with morning sickness and general pregnancy related shenanigans firstly at work with my sister and secondly looking after a toddler when I decided to make an appearance in her womb (I was the one that caused havoc for her unfortunately, my sister it seems, slept gently through her foetal growth while I was already establishing my many food intolerances by forcing them back up my mum's throat to which, thankfully, she does not hold a grudge).
She said it wasn't easy.
My guilt is much to do with my work load, my mounting tasks coupled with their weak, feeble excuses (my tongue forming the words I'm Pregnant over and over silently, my emails and phone calls pathetically stating I've been a bit ill, using up my postpone-already-late-task-with-no-consequences cards left right and centre, not knowing how they'll take it to know that I'm still, well, ill).
But it also is heavily related to all those women enduring the suffering in classrooms, offices and 'real' work environments across the country (I can't even begin to absorb the guilt if I am to think about beyond England's borders right now, I think I might just become the product of consumption by guilt).
If they can do it, if they can struggle through, why am I constantly collapsing?
Luckily, the sickness has subsided to a controllable state. Unfortunately this is resolved by eating little and often.
I'm not sure what the technical term is for 'often' but I'm sure I've blurred the boundaries between that and constantly several times over the past few days.
I did feel, at the end of the weekend, despite my strength and emotions being shattered because of the departure of my partner for the first of 3 months worth of weeks in London, I was going to be okay. I could even eat a variety of foods (accompanied by the ever present constantly necessary carb) and even manage the occasional half cup of tea (on a good day).
But something went horribly wrong yesterday morning.
It wasn't helped by waking up to learn that Newf had screaming diarrhoea.
My partner had dealt with carnage in the lounge on Saturday morning (from what end he wasn't able to ascertain, always a worrying sign). But, even despite brightly coloured excretions, the colour of fluorescent yellow for those interested in the detail, she was perky and bounding around and I thought no more about it.
Yesterday I was woken to my mum gently saying that perhaps Newf needed to go to the Vet. She hadn't touched her breakfast and there were more fluorescent discoveries.
It was 7am. The vet didn't open til 9am and I had a task list that was already starting to make me feel queasy (along with everything else).
This didn't help Week #1 of independence.
So I waited. I let Newf in to see how the patient was about 7:30. She bounded straight towards the cat food, splattering the kitchen with mud and generally causing a large amount of havoc.
So, I tried her with some carrot and apple. Fine.
It occurred to me she was just being fussy. Off her dried food because that's what (she thought, in her Newf brain) had made her poorly.
So I bundled her into the car and drove home where I purchased some wet food for her, which she devoured, and some suspicious looking vague diarrhoea tablets' (which, apparently, relieve the symptoms of diarrhoea, although it doesn't say how, what it does, or what symptoms specifically).
She bounded, tried scaling the fence and was generally her old self.
True enough, I had a few disastrous occurrences on the pavement on two walks, one where I had to trek home to get a bottle of water to dissipate the aftermath (I was not amused), the second time I was prepared (and had my mum to hold Newf).
By the time I went to bed, although Newf was washed out, I was confident that she was going to be okay.
Then, after falling in and out of dream filled snoozes, kept from deep sleep due to my stomach running riot and the foetus complaining unsubtly about the tea I had lovingly created, I thought I smelled something. Something bad.
It crept up my nostrils and lingered for a brief moment, but I dismissed it, thinking I was just worried and over sensitive.
Then it came again. And again.
I knew.
I donned a dressing gown and some trainers and opened the bedroom door.
The smell nearly knocked me sideways.
I trudged down the stairs to where Newf was curled up, awake but dozy, exhausted, in the corner of her area.
Before her lay carnage.
It was up the walls, in her water, all over the floor.
The problem with having a large dog is that what can feasibly be excreted from them is also to the same ratio.
I set to work with kitchen roll, a mop, disinfectant, and shoved a blindfold over my gurgling, active and nosy stomach.
Newf stayed perfectly still as I mopped around her, watching me, eyes of apology or pity or just exhaustion, I couldn't tell.
I finally got to bed at midnight, and drifted into sleep about 2am.
As if to punish myself for yesterday's lack of vet visit and the sleep I indulged my aching, collapsing body into, today I feel like I've been up all night drinking neat gin and feasting on undercooked curry.
I have used up my sickie. I have indulged my body and no remnants remain of that blissful deep slumber I allowed myself to have yesterday, to stop the headache, my tired limbs, my unrelenting stomach activity.
I am not sure whether to take Newf on the hour drive to the vet. She is now proving that she can pass solids and proved so in a slightly mocking way in the park this morning. They open in 20 minutes.
Friday 1 February 2008
Achievements: 1, Crackers: 4
I did it! I finished a well-overdue research/observation document. I had begun the limp looking document well over a week ago but due to, well, being pregnant and all the fun I've been having alongside that, have barely managed to function with regards to daily workload and academic analysis has all but gone out of the window.
Oh, fabulous - just received an out of office from the recipient til the 5th of February. Harumpf. Must maintain enthusiasm...
Now it is ten to twelve, when I can officially abandon the morning and welcome the afternoon with a marmite and cucumber sandwich. Gone are the carb-free days of yesteryear, where I used to sup on chickpea and spinach soup of a lunchtime, perhaps with a cracker or two mid morning or afternoon, and a few pieces of fruit. Gone are controlled breakfast proportions. Gone is delayed breakfast eating, gone is the distant days of old where I could go until 2:30 before heating my soup (beans on a Friday as a special treat, woop woop!).
The last two weeks have seen me stomach only simple, mostly carb related products, with frightening regularity. On a morning I have to eat breakfast instantly, to settle the wakening demons within my stomach, to appease their unrelenting demands, less I feel sick to the point that I can't think.
This has caused a major shift of my day in terms of food consumption, with hunger pangs now kicking in at an ungodly 10am, my last meal in the early hours of the morning, to the point that by lunch time (if that's what you can just about get away with calling midday, although to my mind 1pm was always a safer bet) I have consumed an unhealthy amount of crackers (I have an assortment) and usually half a pound of dried apricots.
My usual trick of settling my ravenous stomach has been a cup of tea. Not so any more, when I have to psyche myself up for a cup of the once devoured drink. I long to ache for a cup of tea, rather than go 'hmm, I think, if I'm careful and reassess the situation presently, I might have a small cup of tea in about half an hour'. I am miserable.
So I have achieved. This is very exciting. I have many more achievements that really should have been done about 10 days ago, one that is excruciatingly late but involves me making an assessment of a terrifyingly complicated Flash file and giving a predictably poor quote for the development of it, which I shall loathe and dread from start to finish.
Five minutes to go. If I take a steady walk to the kitchen and prepare my sandwich with precision it may be an acceptable time to Consume Those Carbs (I might get that printed on a tee-shirt. That is my life.).
Oh, fabulous - just received an out of office from the recipient til the 5th of February. Harumpf. Must maintain enthusiasm...
Now it is ten to twelve, when I can officially abandon the morning and welcome the afternoon with a marmite and cucumber sandwich. Gone are the carb-free days of yesteryear, where I used to sup on chickpea and spinach soup of a lunchtime, perhaps with a cracker or two mid morning or afternoon, and a few pieces of fruit. Gone are controlled breakfast proportions. Gone is delayed breakfast eating, gone is the distant days of old where I could go until 2:30 before heating my soup (beans on a Friday as a special treat, woop woop!).
The last two weeks have seen me stomach only simple, mostly carb related products, with frightening regularity. On a morning I have to eat breakfast instantly, to settle the wakening demons within my stomach, to appease their unrelenting demands, less I feel sick to the point that I can't think.
This has caused a major shift of my day in terms of food consumption, with hunger pangs now kicking in at an ungodly 10am, my last meal in the early hours of the morning, to the point that by lunch time (if that's what you can just about get away with calling midday, although to my mind 1pm was always a safer bet) I have consumed an unhealthy amount of crackers (I have an assortment) and usually half a pound of dried apricots.
My usual trick of settling my ravenous stomach has been a cup of tea. Not so any more, when I have to psyche myself up for a cup of the once devoured drink. I long to ache for a cup of tea, rather than go 'hmm, I think, if I'm careful and reassess the situation presently, I might have a small cup of tea in about half an hour'. I am miserable.
So I have achieved. This is very exciting. I have many more achievements that really should have been done about 10 days ago, one that is excruciatingly late but involves me making an assessment of a terrifyingly complicated Flash file and giving a predictably poor quote for the development of it, which I shall loathe and dread from start to finish.
Five minutes to go. If I take a steady walk to the kitchen and prepare my sandwich with precision it may be an acceptable time to Consume Those Carbs (I might get that printed on a tee-shirt. That is my life.).
XX or XY?
Apparently the sex of my bean/foetus/collection of cells/baby* (*delete as appropriate) will be distinguishable by ultrasound in week 18 - 22 by ultrasound. Then I will be able to decide if I want to know or not.
Of the increasing number of people who now know I am up the duff, most people are of the assumption I am having a boy. Now, I am not aware or supersticious or other worldly so anything I presume will merely be guess work, and I am imagining so of my other friends - my SP was so convinced her sister's baby was going to be a girl that when we received a voicemail in the middle of the night on an overnight stay in Birmingham that she had given birth to a healthy baby boy, she just harumpfed into her pillow and went back to sleep, so I'm not entirely sure I'm going to rest with her (usually more accurate and trustworthy) judgement this time around. My partner, bless him, has said he doesn't care what it is other than it is healthy and happy.
Before I became pregnant, my partner and I often daydreamed about our children as babies, toddlers, children, teenagers...thinking through their lives in a conversation at terrifying speed. Now realisation is settling in I see my beautiful little baby girl storming up to her bedroom, telling me she is pregnant aged 14, or running away with a 'youth', and my handsome little baby boy snorting coke in his bedroom, staying out all night, refusing to acknowledge his downtrodden mother in the street when he passes me with his friends.
At the moment, the thought of my 'condition' turning into an actual baby rests somewhere between unrealistic, laughable and impossible. The fear of miscarriage, of something going wrong, eclipses daydreams and nightmares of motherhood swiftly, leaving me in a dark, cold, lonely place, fearing for the weakness of my body.
There are times, like yesterday, when I cry uncontrollably, overwhelmed and consumed and exhausted. Hating the way I am feeling, hating my body. But the fear of this being over, the fear of this being snatched away from me, of having to try again, back at the beginning, of the intense pain of loss, terrifies me more than I can really feel. I feel like a constant battle is playing out within me, and all I can do is hold on. I have to.
Of the increasing number of people who now know I am up the duff, most people are of the assumption I am having a boy. Now, I am not aware or supersticious or other worldly so anything I presume will merely be guess work, and I am imagining so of my other friends - my SP was so convinced her sister's baby was going to be a girl that when we received a voicemail in the middle of the night on an overnight stay in Birmingham that she had given birth to a healthy baby boy, she just harumpfed into her pillow and went back to sleep, so I'm not entirely sure I'm going to rest with her (usually more accurate and trustworthy) judgement this time around. My partner, bless him, has said he doesn't care what it is other than it is healthy and happy.
Before I became pregnant, my partner and I often daydreamed about our children as babies, toddlers, children, teenagers...thinking through their lives in a conversation at terrifying speed. Now realisation is settling in I see my beautiful little baby girl storming up to her bedroom, telling me she is pregnant aged 14, or running away with a 'youth', and my handsome little baby boy snorting coke in his bedroom, staying out all night, refusing to acknowledge his downtrodden mother in the street when he passes me with his friends.
At the moment, the thought of my 'condition' turning into an actual baby rests somewhere between unrealistic, laughable and impossible. The fear of miscarriage, of something going wrong, eclipses daydreams and nightmares of motherhood swiftly, leaving me in a dark, cold, lonely place, fearing for the weakness of my body.
There are times, like yesterday, when I cry uncontrollably, overwhelmed and consumed and exhausted. Hating the way I am feeling, hating my body. But the fear of this being over, the fear of this being snatched away from me, of having to try again, back at the beginning, of the intense pain of loss, terrifies me more than I can really feel. I feel like a constant battle is playing out within me, and all I can do is hold on. I have to.
Beany Baby
Yesterday I hit 7 weeks. Apparently my baby is now the size and shape of a bean.
This has caused much hilarity with my partner and sister as beans are among my most-consumed food. It has caused me some slight concern in the fact that it perhaps may just be a bean. My partner did highlight that this would be a lot easier to give birth to (obviously being well informed and experienced in the subject matter) because it would just 'fire across the room'. Hmm.
This week I've leveled and troughed. I don't think I got as high as a peak, although the closest thing was probably seeing that my boyfriend had put up blinds in the kitchen so I didn't have to look at Dead Guy's House (currently up for sale), who's derelict kitchen door and grease ridden windows face straight into my kitchen window. Even a 6'7" fence hasn't obscured the view. When I came home from the first 30 minutes of exercise I had managed to haul my hefty, exhausted body to for a good few days and discovered the revelation of my now protected kitchen, I felt tears spring to my eyes.
There have been times this week, low, introverted, lonely times, when I could not see as a person what I am offering anyone at the moment. The loneliness is all consuming, my mind and body constantly goading me, coaxing me into shut down, into turning inwards, into sleep, rest.
The all consuming exhaustion, the constant sickness, becomes overwhelming and I cannot see beyond that. There are times when washing up, tidying clothes, making a drink feel like such an effort. I have watched my partner transform the house these last few weeks as I have moved around a hollow person, a ghost of myself, barely interacting. I feel like I am merely observing life, but I am too all-consumed by my own discomfort, sickness and exhaustion to become involved.
This weekend I have a good friend coming to visit me. She doesn't know yet. I will tell her, I can't not, not with the physical, emotional and mental wreck I am holding together at the moment. I am scared, nervous, as I have been meeting friends, socialising these last few weeks. I summon every ounce of energy, of happiness, of comfort - I find nice-ish clothes, I straighten my otherwise terrifying hair (the ill conceived 'I'm pregnant and depressed, I'm going to get my hair cut' hair cut). But it quickly falls away, abandons me, an hour or two in.
My sister and my family have been an incredible support. Despite my sadness, my lowness, my self absorption and my exhaustion. They listen, they tell me not to be stupid when I am apologising, they offer practical, helpful advice. So much so I am following my sister's advice and plan to have a Chinese dude stick pins in me in order for some relief (or distraction, either being a welcome change) from morning sickness.
There are some women on the forum I am on who haven't experienced any symptoms other than 'feeling a bit tired' and 'having sore boobs'. How I long for such tame, un-consuming symptoms.
I am: A mess. I cry frequently (big, unfeminine tears, accompanied with something similar to the wail of a banshee), I burp constantly, I am like a Tiny Tears baby, except with more bladder control.
My partner leaves for 3 months in London on Sunday, back for less than 48 hours every weekend. I am terrified of myself.
Last night I daydreamed as I was trying to sleep that I was doing a monotonous office job. Stamping endless forms, not thinking, not feeling. A non-caring, non-committal bliss settled over me like a blanket, I processed the days, no emotional output, no nothing. Instead I have a pile of self-generated, emotionally and mentally consuming work to tackle, all whose deadlines have been and gone, through a continuous stream of apologies and postponements.
I wonder if I can stomach a cup of tea before I start.
This has caused much hilarity with my partner and sister as beans are among my most-consumed food. It has caused me some slight concern in the fact that it perhaps may just be a bean. My partner did highlight that this would be a lot easier to give birth to (obviously being well informed and experienced in the subject matter) because it would just 'fire across the room'. Hmm.
This week I've leveled and troughed. I don't think I got as high as a peak, although the closest thing was probably seeing that my boyfriend had put up blinds in the kitchen so I didn't have to look at Dead Guy's House (currently up for sale), who's derelict kitchen door and grease ridden windows face straight into my kitchen window. Even a 6'7" fence hasn't obscured the view. When I came home from the first 30 minutes of exercise I had managed to haul my hefty, exhausted body to for a good few days and discovered the revelation of my now protected kitchen, I felt tears spring to my eyes.
There have been times this week, low, introverted, lonely times, when I could not see as a person what I am offering anyone at the moment. The loneliness is all consuming, my mind and body constantly goading me, coaxing me into shut down, into turning inwards, into sleep, rest.
The all consuming exhaustion, the constant sickness, becomes overwhelming and I cannot see beyond that. There are times when washing up, tidying clothes, making a drink feel like such an effort. I have watched my partner transform the house these last few weeks as I have moved around a hollow person, a ghost of myself, barely interacting. I feel like I am merely observing life, but I am too all-consumed by my own discomfort, sickness and exhaustion to become involved.
This weekend I have a good friend coming to visit me. She doesn't know yet. I will tell her, I can't not, not with the physical, emotional and mental wreck I am holding together at the moment. I am scared, nervous, as I have been meeting friends, socialising these last few weeks. I summon every ounce of energy, of happiness, of comfort - I find nice-ish clothes, I straighten my otherwise terrifying hair (the ill conceived 'I'm pregnant and depressed, I'm going to get my hair cut' hair cut). But it quickly falls away, abandons me, an hour or two in.
My sister and my family have been an incredible support. Despite my sadness, my lowness, my self absorption and my exhaustion. They listen, they tell me not to be stupid when I am apologising, they offer practical, helpful advice. So much so I am following my sister's advice and plan to have a Chinese dude stick pins in me in order for some relief (or distraction, either being a welcome change) from morning sickness.
There are some women on the forum I am on who haven't experienced any symptoms other than 'feeling a bit tired' and 'having sore boobs'. How I long for such tame, un-consuming symptoms.
I am: A mess. I cry frequently (big, unfeminine tears, accompanied with something similar to the wail of a banshee), I burp constantly, I am like a Tiny Tears baby, except with more bladder control.
My partner leaves for 3 months in London on Sunday, back for less than 48 hours every weekend. I am terrified of myself.
Last night I daydreamed as I was trying to sleep that I was doing a monotonous office job. Stamping endless forms, not thinking, not feeling. A non-caring, non-committal bliss settled over me like a blanket, I processed the days, no emotional output, no nothing. Instead I have a pile of self-generated, emotionally and mentally consuming work to tackle, all whose deadlines have been and gone, through a continuous stream of apologies and postponements.
I wonder if I can stomach a cup of tea before I start.
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