In my last post, I mentioned it was okay to eat while reading. This one...not so much. From about 5 and a half weeks into this pregnancy I've ranged from "green around the gills" to "Linda Blair on The Exorcist looks tame by comparison". I sometimes hesitate to use the term Hyperemesis Gravidarum but since that's what's the GP called it when he referred me for my second hospital stay of this pregnancy, I'll go with it.
From what I can work out from my extensive research (*ahem* Google addiction), 50% of pregnant women get some form of morning sickness, 25% get landed with nausea and 3% make it into the HG camp. This leads me to believe that women who don't get anything are practicing witchcraft...just kidding...sort of. I'm a little bitter about being in the minority, and mine is usually quite manageable with medication and IV fluids. I try not to be melodramatic as I'm painfully aware of how lucky I am to have access to top level health care free at the point of delivery.
Although I try to be pragmatic and tell myself that I'm fortunate to know that the baby is thriving, when I've been throwing up for 18 hours I tend to get a little downhearted. I knew that having had HG before, it was likely to occur again. I had a lot of grand plans about a perfectly planned diet of super healthy, frequent small meals, slow energy release foods and lots of ginger that would help me cruise through the first trimester with just a hint of nausea. I also had an emergency supply of Irn Bru and salt & vinegar crisps because that's what helped when I was pregnant with Sam. However, this baby had other plans. When I was six weeks along, I got up at the usual time with Sam, had some porridge and a banana and went for a brisk walk round the local loch so Sam could feed the ducks. Halfway round the (thankfully deserted) loch, I had my first public vomit of this pregnancy. On the plus side, I was able to add to my list of foods that aren't that bad to regurgitate. On the negative side, Sam now thinks it's perfectly reasonable to jump into bushes because he's seen his mummy do it. Also, this baby does not care for Irn Bru or salt & vinegar crisps, although he or she can occasionally be appeased by peanut butter on toast!
It was all downhill from there to week 8 when I had my first trip to the maternity ward for anti-emetic injections (by the way, when they say 'intramuscular' they mean 'a jab in the backside') and re-hydration fluids. That first trip made us aware of the new dynamic of finding someone to look after Sam while poor Euan drove Pukey McPukerson to the hospital. Thankfully, despite giving me the aforementioned renaming, my sister also stepped up for babysitting duties. I'm totally blessed with a first class family of Sam-carers but I'm finding the feeling of not being able to care for him myself sometimes to be one of the harder aspects of the bad days.
I'm also not enjoying the fact that when the medication is stopping me throw up, it's also making me drowsy to the point that I feel like I'm wading through treacle while Hurricane Sam runs rings around me. I've learned the value of picking my battles, rather than panicking about rotting his brain, I've learned to be thankful for the half hour sitting quietly sitting on the couch while Sam indulges his Octonaut or Thomas the Tank obsession. I've also used this as an opportunity to encourage a bit more of his independence, I don't follow his every footstep when he's playing indoors and at the park, as a result he seems to be getting more and more confident in his own abilities.
I think he's going to make a brilliant big brother, while I've been laid low I've been able to appreciate just how good he is at helping out with little tasks and just how gentle he can be to the people around him. Now, if I could just stop gagging when I have to change his nappy during a queasy spell, I would be totally cool about the prospect of being a mummy of two...
From what I can work out from my extensive research (*ahem* Google addiction), 50% of pregnant women get some form of morning sickness, 25% get landed with nausea and 3% make it into the HG camp. This leads me to believe that women who don't get anything are practicing witchcraft...just kidding...sort of. I'm a little bitter about being in the minority, and mine is usually quite manageable with medication and IV fluids. I try not to be melodramatic as I'm painfully aware of how lucky I am to have access to top level health care free at the point of delivery.
Although I try to be pragmatic and tell myself that I'm fortunate to know that the baby is thriving, when I've been throwing up for 18 hours I tend to get a little downhearted. I knew that having had HG before, it was likely to occur again. I had a lot of grand plans about a perfectly planned diet of super healthy, frequent small meals, slow energy release foods and lots of ginger that would help me cruise through the first trimester with just a hint of nausea. I also had an emergency supply of Irn Bru and salt & vinegar crisps because that's what helped when I was pregnant with Sam. However, this baby had other plans. When I was six weeks along, I got up at the usual time with Sam, had some porridge and a banana and went for a brisk walk round the local loch so Sam could feed the ducks. Halfway round the (thankfully deserted) loch, I had my first public vomit of this pregnancy. On the plus side, I was able to add to my list of foods that aren't that bad to regurgitate. On the negative side, Sam now thinks it's perfectly reasonable to jump into bushes because he's seen his mummy do it. Also, this baby does not care for Irn Bru or salt & vinegar crisps, although he or she can occasionally be appeased by peanut butter on toast!
It was all downhill from there to week 8 when I had my first trip to the maternity ward for anti-emetic injections (by the way, when they say 'intramuscular' they mean 'a jab in the backside') and re-hydration fluids. That first trip made us aware of the new dynamic of finding someone to look after Sam while poor Euan drove Pukey McPukerson to the hospital. Thankfully, despite giving me the aforementioned renaming, my sister also stepped up for babysitting duties. I'm totally blessed with a first class family of Sam-carers but I'm finding the feeling of not being able to care for him myself sometimes to be one of the harder aspects of the bad days.
I'm also not enjoying the fact that when the medication is stopping me throw up, it's also making me drowsy to the point that I feel like I'm wading through treacle while Hurricane Sam runs rings around me. I've learned the value of picking my battles, rather than panicking about rotting his brain, I've learned to be thankful for the half hour sitting quietly sitting on the couch while Sam indulges his Octonaut or Thomas the Tank obsession. I've also used this as an opportunity to encourage a bit more of his independence, I don't follow his every footstep when he's playing indoors and at the park, as a result he seems to be getting more and more confident in his own abilities.
I think he's going to make a brilliant big brother, while I've been laid low I've been able to appreciate just how good he is at helping out with little tasks and just how gentle he can be to the people around him. Now, if I could just stop gagging when I have to change his nappy during a queasy spell, I would be totally cool about the prospect of being a mummy of two...
RSS Feed