Regular readers of this blog will be aware that I haven’t had the most easy, nor pleasant pregnancy known to man.  You may also note that entries can be erratic – this is also because some days I’m simply too ill to blog, so I catch up when feeling better.

Anyway, one of the more difficult things for me is dealing with well meaning, and kindly intentioned comments by mostly strangers.  It’s ok from friends, they mean well, and some of them even know what they’re talking about, but when perky hospital/doctors receptionists with blue eyeshadow and lipsticked teeth, or acquaintences of acquaintences who heard your “good news” from such-and-such’s daughter start to give you the same old lines, you begin to slowly but surely turn homocidal.

If you are pregnant, or have been pregnant, you know these already, but here’s a few favourites for those still in blissful ignorance of what you can expect to hear while pregnant, or what you will probably hear coming from your own mouth to someone else who is pregnant.

What people say to me:
Oh, it’s all worth it in the end.
What my response is:
<forced smile> Yes, everyone assures me it is.
What I really want to say:
I’ve been up all night vomiting, I’m about to pass out at your feet, my guts feel like a tractor has run over them, and nothing, no nothing, is worth this crap!  Or alternatively I’d like to just vomit on their shoes.

What people say to me:
Oh, I never had any morning sickness.
What my response is:
<incredibly forced smile>That’s so lucky for you.
What I really want to do/say:
Go away before I kill you.

What people say to me:
Don’t worry, it should only last a few months.
What my response is:
<relieved expression on face as though hearing this amazing piece of information for the first time>Oh gosh, I’m really glad to hear that!
What I really want to do/say:
I don’t care if it only lasts a few days- I want to walk in front of a truck now!

And what really scares me, is that I’ve been told it’s all worth it in the end by new mummies who also had horror pregnancies – so it seems I’ll be one of these do-gooder, advice giving, pregnancy gurus in another nine months or so myself.  However, I think I’ll play it safe and wear full body armour before casting my pearls of wisdom before the swine of expectant mothers experiencing the full joys of pregnancy…

And so it’s hit – the dreaded “baby brains”.  Women who have experienced this will know exactly what I mean.  Women who haven’t will most likely scoff and claim there is no such thing, but I wil educate you now so you won’t be so bewildered when it does happen to you, because it will.

To draw an accurate picture, I’m going to borrow some experiences shared by other women I know:

My sister-in-law Jacqui (who annoyingly never got morning sickness, nor grew any larger than her size 6-8 figure throughout her entire pregnancy, and who recently poured salt in the wounds by saying, “Constipated?  Why are you constipated?” in response to my groans of pain caused by my completely-normal-during-pregnancy colonic suppression) came out with this little gem:  What’s that thing with legs that you sit on?  That’s it – a chair!

Another woman I knew flooded the entire bottom story of her house because she’d forgotten she’d left a tap running.

And just this week my 12 weeks pregnant friend Nina told me in horror how she had gone on an interstate trip with her husband, and left both her front door, and security screen wide open!  Luckily a neighbour sensed all was not well, and phoned one of their friends, who then phoned Nina and husband, who in turn phoned his parents, who (probably not very happily) traipsed across town to make sure their home had not been ransacked by opportunists before locking it tightly.  All was well, so I guess that’s one good thing.

So what makes me think it’s happening to me?  Now, I’m the first to admit I can be pretty ditzy, but even these things are beyond my usual realm of absentmindedness:

1. I phoned my friend Joy for some advice on some particular pregnancy experience (she really is a fountain of medical knowledge).  By the time her husband answered, and passed the phone to her, I’d completely forgotten why I called.  I have never remembered what I phoned for…
2. One evening I cooked a roast meal with steamed corn and peas for friends.  Afterwards I tidied up and washed all the dishes – or so I thought.  Two days later our housemates found a saucepan of cold and curdled corn sitting on a swivel chair in the living area.  Upon asking Dave about it’s origins, he could only stare in bewilderment and say “I have noooo idea…”
3. My sister-in-law called to thank me for the recipe book I loaned her.  I paused a moment, trying to recall if I had indeed loaned her a recipe book.  Finally I remembered – Oh that recipe book!  The one I double wrapped in plastic and trudged to the letter box in the rain to leave out for her to collect later in the evening…  Yeah, I remember now, but that was a hard one!
4. I visited my doctor.  My usual doctor, at the usual address.  I parked my car in the usual spot.  Upon exiting the surgery, I stood for a moment, looking up and down the street in confusion, trying to remember where I’d parked my car.  Next I’ll forgot what colour it is, or if I even have a car!
5. It’s that time of night when the lights have been turned out, you’re not yet asleep, and occasionally one of you will say something to the other.  Dave tells me there’s been a truckers strike, and they’ve circled Mr. Rudd’s office in the city all day in their trucks.  I lie in uncomfortable silence, mentally stretching my mind, desperately seeking the answer before I finally give in and whisper sheepishly, “Who’s Mr. Rudd again?”  He only happens to be our newly elected Prime Minister.
6. I need to phone Dave at work to ask if he can have a few hours off to attend a funeral next week.  I dial his mobile number, but just as it connects, my mobile rings.  Frustrated I hang up the phone and reach for my mobile.  I become even more frustrated as it stops ringing just as I go to pick it up.  Then it dawns on me – I’ve just phoned myself.

I’ve given myself plenty of laughs on a daily basis with the many, many silly things I’ve done, or forgotten, but honestly, I can’t remember even half of them.  And apparently this is just the beginning.  As Joy told me with more than a hint of amusement in her voice, “Oh, you’ll be gone for at least three years!”

I went grocery shopping today.  After 10 days of being confined to the house, too sick to drive, or even venture past the front door, I felt like a seven year old who’s just been told they’re going to Disneyland!  My main priority when I got to the shops was to buy fresh produce.  I’ve been barely able to stomach anything for so long, so I was thrilled when I woke today wanting nothing but fresh vegies and fruit, and for some odd reason, it had to be green.  Beans, snow peas, lettuce, granny smith apples, bok choy, cabbage, broccoli – I wanted it all!  But no tomatoes, carrots, corn or pumpkin – it just wasn’t, well, green.

Feeling slightly nauseated, but too liberated to care, I pulled into the not-very-well drained, open air car park.  One of the first things I noticed when I got out of the car is a pile of muck, sitting in a pool of dirty water by the concrete edge of a nearby garden bed – you know the ones, they’re full of scraggly looking plants, long overdue for a trim, scattered about the similarly derelict looking car park full of discarded shopping trolley sculptures, in a vain attempt to make it aesthetically pleasing.  Anyway, sitting right on top of this pile of muck was one of the freshest, loveliest looking wombok (chinese cabbage) leaves I’ve ever seen.

Usually my thoughts would either skip over the sight entirely, my mind busy with other thoughts.  Or, on a more socially conscious day I might pick the leaf up and pop it into the nearest rubbish bin, or at the very least think what a shame it is that it’s lying there to rot because someone has either carelessly discarded it, or unknowingly lost it while packing their groceries into their car.  But not today, oohhhh no.  Today my mind had much more insane thoughts about such things.  Spotting the beautifully sculpted leaf, it’s dainty green colouring fading from fresh lime green to a gorgeous shade of cream, I incomprehensively thought, “Wow!  That looks so good… I should eat it!”

I just managed to control my actions before I made a public spectacle of myself and scuttled into the supermarket, eternally grateful that nobody else knew just how close I came to eating garbage from a mud puddle.  Maybe I should keep myself locked up for a bit longer?

I know having a baby is a wonderful thing to do with the person you love.  I know it’s a joint effort, and I know Dave is doing everything in his power to be a supportive, caring husband.  I’ve long loved the idea of carrying his child, feeling all warm and gushy at the thought even when I wasn’t ready to start a family yet.  But while I’m feeling so sick, I just want to blame someone, and seeing as Dave has the sperm, that vital and missing ingredient that makes one of my eggs into a baby – he’s it.

I love Dave.  He’s a wonderful husband- loyal and loving, and will be a great Dad, but it’s still his fault!  I know it isn’t really his fault, but no matter how much I tell myself it’s not, somewhere in my head the thought is immovable –  I’m sick, I’m uncomfortable, I’m vomiting and  it’s his fault!  It’s not right there in my full conciousness running through my mind – the blame makes itself known through comments I couldn’t have even forseen.  Dave says something, I retort, and underlying it is that unmistakable vibe, “This is your fault!”  Luckily for both of us, Dave thinks it’s hilarious, so I thought I’d share some snippets of conversation in our home recently:

<I’m happily munching on some dinner.  It’s taken hours to identify what exactly I feel like eating, and required a trip to the supermarket to especially buy my latest whim, and finally I am content>

Dave:  Ok, now what shall I have for dinner?

Me:  You got me pregnant and made me sick, so I don’t care what you have for dinner.

<I’ve craved chicken fillet burgers three days in a row.  The craving hits at 4pm, but can’t be fulfilled until Dave can bring one home with him at 6pm, by which time I’m vomiting acid, mobbing strangers who pull up outside thinking they are Dave returning early, and fighting the urge to catch a taxi to the nearest KFC.  This particular night, I’ve satisfied my craving and am sitting with Dave afterwards, wondering how we can organise for me to get the burger at 4pm when the urge hits, rather than enduring the agonising two hour wait.>

Me:  What are we going to do about this chicken fillet burger craving?

Dave:  Maybe we could limit buying it to twice a week?

<Amused, I sit waiting for him to say, “Ha ha – Just kidding!”  When he doesn’t, the growing horror on my face prompts his next question>

Dave:  What, you don’t like that idea?

Me:  You obviously don’t like having a head!

<And of course, that memorable night we were sitting in hospital – me freezing, unwell, and moaning while draped half across Dave’s lap.>

Dave:  Honey, I want you to know how much I love you, and appreciate what you’re suffering through so that we can have this baby together.

Me:  Well this is the only one we’ll be having!

As I said before, it’s a great thing that Dave has such a wonderful sense of humour, and the strength of character to not take it personally.  It helps us laugh our way through the worst of it, and gives me the ability to face each next hurdle, knowing he’ll be right by my side, even if I’m horrible to him for it.

Thanks Honey for being a better man than I even knew existed, I wouldn’t trade you for the world.

P.S.  I might even consider having another baby if you can endure it.

I’ve never been exactly placid about the stupid things drivers sometimes do on the roads, but I’m rarely tempted to stop them and proceed with physical threats(I’d lose anyway), scream a torrent of abuse out my window, and in most cases (unless the car is sitting stationary at a green light) will not even toot my horn.  I’m usually quite satisfied with quietly -well, ok, loudly – voicing my acidic opinion in the privacy of my own car.  I was therefore completely shocked at my reaction to the poor driving demonstrated by other motorists once I had pregnancy hormones and my motherly instincts began to rear their ugly head.

Example:

A couple of weeks ago, shortly after I’d found out I was pregnant, and shortly before I got too sick to get out of bed, I was driving in the car park of the local Westfield.  At this point I was still (I thought) numb about the idea of pregnancy, and rather ambivalent towards the growing mass of cells within me.   I was approaching a left turn which gave me right of way, and required oncoming cars on my right to stop at a  BIG, RED, HARD-TO-MISS “Stop” sign, complete with THICK, WHITE, line across the road.  As I glanced to my right, I noticed a youth in a hotted up import car (ha ha sucker! You’re going to pay a fortune when that rice-mobile breaks down or crashes – and if you keep up your driving skills, it’s probably already happened) driving way too fast to stop and give me my right of way.

I slowed down as he whizzed past me, and my temper shot way past boiling point and into the dangerous region of “volcanic” as my vision took on a disturbing hue of red.  With what I can only explain as protective rage I realised that had I not slowed for him, he would have crashed right into my driver’s side door, with the brunt of the impact concentrated in my abdominal area.

The desire to be a “normal person” fought with my maternal insanity as I suppressed the urge to follow the young hooligan, cut his nice, shiny car off with ne’er a care to my beat up old carolla (lovingly nicknamed The Grr-Mobile), and force him to endure a pregnant psycho-woman tirade.  I saw it playing in my head.  He would sit in his car, oblivious, as the crazy white lady with that unhinged look in her eye strode menacingly towards his window.  Still unsure what’s going on, he tentatively, and curiously unrolls his window as the irrational woman lets forth. “Did you know you ran a stop sign?!  What the hell were you thinking?  Can’t you read?  Or don’t you think the rules apply to you?!  YOU COULD HAVE KILLED MY BABY!!!”, and then satisfied that I have let him know his error, and he would never, ever do it again, I would return to my car and happily continue on home.

I didn’t do that though.  I calmly indicated to turn, waited until he was clear of the intersection before safely – and legally – following.  He turned left onto the main road.  I turned right.  I seethed at his stupidity all the way home, but was amused at the drastic turn my emotions had taken now that I was going to be a “Mummy” (Uh-Oh, look out any future school yard bullies).

And I do hope that idiot learns to read a Stop sign.  It’s a four letter word – I thought young people knew what ALL four letter words meant…

Occasionally, I must brave the local Westfield to buy more of the medication that is stopping me from wanting to die.  And occasionally again – oh all right, every time – I go to Wendy’s to buy a scoop of ice-cream (don’t worry, it’s not soft serve).  Because ice cream must be eaten slowly to avoid what my adorable friend Linda calls a “slushy tumour”, I’m less likely to throw it up again.  A couple of times, I’ve been served by the same lady, which has prompted me to pen the following letter:

Dear Friendly Adolescent at Wendy’s,

Having been a frequent customer of yours, I’d just like to get a few things straight.

• You obviously enjoy your job (I’ve noticed you’re the only one there who tries to coordinate the exact shade of your pink shirt with your lipstick, and I could never be bothered doing such funky things with my eyeliner unless I was happy to get up in the morning, and so therefore must have liked my job), and you are very helpful, but please don’t look pouty when I politely decline your offer to try the “Strawberry Cheesecake  - it’s the flavour of the month!”  I didn’t tell you to shove your flavour of the month, or anything remotely impolite, I simply said no thank you, it’s a bit sweet for me.  In fact, Strawberry Cheesecake has always been my favourite flavour (I was actually a bit rude once when I’d driven 10km to a Baskin Robbins only to be told that while they advertise they have 33 flavours, their window only fits 32, so one flavour would always be missing, and today it was Strawberry Cheesecake.  Then they dared to tell me they had no waffle cones, but that’s another story) it’s just that right now, strawberry cheesecake is too rich.
• Once we’ve established that I’d rather not try the Strawberry Cheesecake Flavour, please allow me to peruse the flavours without instantly launching into “Do you want something chocolatey?  How about fruity?…”  The flavours are right in front of me.  In a see-through perspex window.  Clearly labelled.  I’m not trying to figure out where they keep the mouse traps in Bunnings – I can plainly see the flavours you have, please let me look.  The truth is, each time I come I have no idea what I want, I need time to look at each flavour in turn, and if my stomach doesn’t heave – that’s the one!
• I understand that a single scoop in a “kiddie cup” is $3.00 and it will only cost me $4.00 for two scoops.  Trust me, every economical bone in my body is aching that I will take the obviously worse deal of a single scoop, but it does make sense.  One scoop means a nausea friendly portion size, eaten slowly and thoroughly enjoyed.  Two scoops means more than my stomach can handle, eaten with increasing speed as the ice cream melts, and consequently $4.00 worth of wasted ice cream being puked down the toilet.
• Please act as though I am normal.  I don’t want to resort to explaining away my oddness by telling you I’m pregnant.  The main reasons are (A) I’m really not sure you’d care, or even know that women act like alien beings once they become impregnated,  (B)  I know I don’t care for everybody to know (gives them time to smile knowingly and say one of the many cliched phrases that makes me want to punch them),  (C) For some reason, when in shopping centres, a woman is not considered pregnant unless she’s waddling uncomfortably under a mu mu while her belly gallantly goes forth one metre ahead of the rest of her, and I don’t look like that yet, so that would make me seem like a liar, and so even stranger in your eyes.

So while I admire your orientation to customer service and think your boss is lucky to have you, try to remember there’s a few crazies out there, and treat us like we’re normal and nothing to be surprised about.  Most importantly, try not to take it so personally when we don’t try the Strawberry Cheesecake Flavour, it’s not your fault.

From the green looking lady who always refuses the Strawberry Cheesecake Flavour.

The Whopper Craving:

If you live in Southern Brisbane, I highly recommend you become acquainted with Algester Hungry Jacks.  They always put waaaay too much sauce on their burgers.  Otherwise, you will need to request extra sauce.  Onions are optional, I prefer none.

1. The burger is purchased and then sealed tightly in the takeaway bag with the fries and left to go soggy for at least 15 minutes (20 if you can hold out that long).  A good idea is to get someone else to get it, and bring it to you once the required time has passed, otherwise you just might not make it.
2. The burger is opened and the fries poured into the wrapper.
3. Burger is eaten sloppily over the fries, allowing excesses of sauce and juices to dribble over the fries, thus making them wet and sodden.
4. Only eat about 1/3 of the burger.  This is really, really hard, but tragic consequences will follow if this is not strictly observed.  (There’s nothing more heartbreaking than watching your much coveted meal disappear down the toilet because you couldn’t stop eating and your stomach hit the emergency eject button.)
5. Similarly, only eat about 10-15 of the soggiest fries.  Mmmmm…sooooggyyyyyyy
6. Offload left overs to the person (I can guarantee there will be one) lingering nearby hoping for some scraps.  (Usually a male, most likely a student.  Honestly, they’re like seagulls.)

*These next cravings are NOT food related.  You should never attempt to eat the following cravings under any circumstances*

The Puppy Craving:

I’ve used the term “puppy”, referring to dogs of 8-16 weeks of age as they tend not to have the typical doggy smell yet.  If there just aren’t any puppies available, make sure you opt for a short haired dog (again, the smell.  Having said that, Poodles and Bichon Friese are usually quite unsmelly).  Chihuahuas can be ideal, however sometimes if their silly owner has pampered them, they can be nippy (unless of course you ARE the silly owner, then you should be fine).  Great Danes are lazy, enormous, love sponges but may not fit on your bed.

1. If you don’t own a suitable puppy, find someone who does.
2. If you do not know the person well enough to ask for a loan of their puppy, steal it.
3. Snuggle into bed with your new found puppy and hug.  For optimum results, at least an hour is recommended, and definitely no less than 30 minutes minimum.  If your puppy is prone to squirming or biting, find another one.
4. Remember, your puppy is a living creature, not a cuddly toy.  Be careful not to manipulate or squash your puppy in ways which may hurt it, and be mindful that it will require food, water, and access to a toilet area if you intent to keep it for extended periods of time.
5. If you have borrowed or stolen your puppy, return to its rightful owner.  If you have purchased your puppy, it is not acceptable to discard it “when done”.  Your puppy will grow into a loving and faithful family member who will serve you well (and may come in handy in subsequent pregnancies – bonus!).  If you are not prepared to put the effort into training and  looking after your puppy, borrow rather than buy.

*Disclaimer:  It is never acceptable to steal – puppies or otherwise, even if you intend to return it.  Comments relating to stealing puppies are intended for comic value only.

Also on a serious note, it has been proven that patients in nursing homes and care facilities experience massive decreases in physical and mental suffering when visited regularly by therapy pets (usually dogs).  Never under-estimate “puppy power”.

The “Weird Al” Yankovic Craving:

When feeling at my absolute lowest, I can find instantaneous relief by listening to some of my favourite Weird Al songs.  If you are not familiar with Al, he is a comic singer, best known for his clever parodies of popular songs and crazy Polka mixes.  Whilst I hugely appreciate the general “cleanness” of his material, occasionally there can be a risque line, or use of an obscene song in a polka mix (although he does use the “radio friendly” versions) which you may wish to censor before mindlessly handing one of his albums over to the kids.  Incidently, if you do happen to come across a “Weird Al” song which is crude, vulgar, or obscene, you will most likely find it is simply one of the many, many copy-cat parodies which have been incorrectly credited to him.  Al himself says he tries to keep his material family friendly and is saddened that his image is damaged by these false creditations.

1. Go to http://www.weirdal.com/ Wait, not yet – you need to read the next few steps…
2. The home page includes links to all sorts of places you can view Weird Al music clips – all Al approved!
3. Select “Links” from the menu bar (the horizontal strip of crazy Al pics)  In this section, you will find links to some Al approved videos that fans have made to his music.
4. If you’re thoroughly getting your kicks, go ahead and search the whole site.  I never get tired of it, always find something new, and always, always have a good laugh.

My personal favourites are “Your Horoscope for Today” (always golden), “White & Nerdy” (So incredibly similar to the original song “Ridin’” by Chamillionaire, and impressive rap skills), and check out the old classic “Smells like Nirvana” featuring some of the original extras from Nirvana’s clip “Smells Like Teen Spirit”.  I genuinely hope I’ve made Al fans of you all!

(Dave says, I like Albuquerque….  Hee hee you shouldn’t let me have access to your blog )

My body and I have had a close relationship for 28 years now, so I thought we knew each other pretty well.  I’d been warned that things would go haywire once I became pregnant, but I still wasn’t prepared for it.  I mean, what do they know?  It’s not like these people have gone through it themselves…Oh, wait.  Well maybe they have.  But I just didn’t think it would be that bad.  It is.

The baby is currently 7.5weeks along.  I must say, I’m really quite offended that my body has ditched our relationship of 28 years and colluded with a 7.5 week old intruder!  But it’s happened, and I’m just an oblivious outsider, waiting to see what they’ll come up with next.  Here’s a few tricks they’ve already sprung on me:

Breasts

• Well, duh, of course I knew they’d get bigger.  I didn’t know they’d change shape!  I’d grown to love the pert little cupcakes that I was sure would never droop to my belly-button in old age, but they’ve now been replaced by these weird, pendulous, cylindrical shaped attachments.  I don’t even know if they’ll be on my chest or in my armpit when I wake up each morning!

Limbs

• I’ve eaten very little for three weeks.  Almost nothing for the past week in fact.  So why…what…HOW can I have red stretch marks streaking down my thighs?

• I’ve always slept on my side.  Knees up, hugging a pillow, on my side.  Suddenly, if I attempt my usual, and habitual sleeping position, I will wake several times a night with pins and needles coursing through my arm!

Libido

• I feel like hell.  I look like hell.  My stomach hurts.  I’m constantly nauseated.  I’ve never felt so bad in my entire life.  Why, oh why, do I suddenly feel like sex???!!!

Senses

• We’re walking past The Cookie Man.  About 20 metres beyond it, is a fruit and vege shop.  Dave says, “Mmmmm…. Smell those cookies!”  I say, “Cookies?  All I can smell is green apples.”

• From about 4 – 5.5 weeks, Vegemite was the most wondrously magical food in the world.  Now I see it and feel sick.

Spelling/Grammar

• Usually an English ace, I can now not remember how to spell the simplest of words.  I constantly rely on a spell checker, and even then miss things.  I can write an entire paragraph and not notice I’ve mixed past and present tense in a catastrophic assault on the English language.

• I can stare at the same sentence for minutes, and still not be able to figure out where I need to put a comma, or the correct use of an apostrophe.  I’m appalled.  Please try to overlook unsightly spelling and grammar errors throughout this blog.

Dreams

• During my earliest weeks of pregnancy, I had a couple of weird dreams.  In these dreams, none other than MacGuyver was my love interest.  MacGyver?! Well sure, he is a bit of a hero, but how can you take him seriously when he doesn’t drink, won’t use a gun, and doesn’t eat animals???  Not that there’s anything wrong with vegetarians (although our good friend Brendan once made the legendary comment:  ”If God didn’t mean for us to eat animals, He wouldn’t have made them out of meat.”), but a hero vegetarian?  It’s just funny.  Well, there could be worse – I mean, plenty of women do have a crush on MacGyver.  I’m positive I remember my own mother swooning over each weekly episode…

• So, we’ve established MacGuyver isn’t so bad, but HOW can you explain my latest – Martin Clunes!!!!????  Even in my dream I questioned how I could be attracted to such an ugly man!  Again, don’t get me wrong.  He’s a superb actor, one of the best, and Doc Martin would have to be one of my favourite shows, but attractive? Love interest?  What is wrong with my brain!?

So all this has got me thinking.  Any other fast growing mass of cells causing such abnormal symptoms would usually be identified as a very aggressive cancer.  We would then wage war upon it.  Blast it.  Zap it.  Hack it out, stomp on it, then incinerate it for good measure.  But instead we go to our ultrasound appointment, green with nausea and desperately clenching our legs together in battle against the natural forces of our full bladder.  Then as we gaze dumbfounded at the blurry images of the grey blob that is supposed to be our baby, all pain and sickness is forgotten as we coo, “Hello little one, I’m you’re Mummy.  I love you!”

Then the disinterested technician dumps a wad of paper towel on your stomach, tells you to wipe up the goo, points out the bathroom, and reminds you to see reception on your way out.

I’m lying in bed.  I’ve been lying in bed for two days.  For the past 48 hours I’ve brought up everything I’ve attempted to eat, and a lot of liquids too.  Usually a neat person, I’m aware of the constant tension I feel resulting from the discarded plates and glasses, half read magazines, food wrappers, and piles of dirty laundry growing with alarming speed around my sick bed.

My mind is racing full steam ahead, desperately seeking interest, or stimulation.  An inability to focus properly means attempting to read is futile and I am dangerously stir crazy.  Our housemates, through no fault of their own are adding to my increasing frustrations by making continuous noise as they go about their daily lives.  I say nothing.  I do nothing.  Everybody has a right to live their life normally, and it would be unreasonable to ask them to stop doing anything.

I’ve reached breaking point.  The tense strings of my nerves pull taut and begin to slowly fray as a housemate comes upstairs and plays the same music they’ve played twice already that day.  I lie silently willing the world to stop as hot tears trickle down my cheeks.  Suddenly, it’s all too much.  With shocking speed, I lash out with my arm as I feel a rush in my brain.  My eyes fall upon the helpless tissue box we keep on the bed head and before it can even utter a whimper, I’m upon it.  With horrifying severity I crush, pummel, and murder the tissue box.  Just as suddenly it’s all over.  I’m sickened by my actions and burst into uncontrollable sobs.

My body shakes and contorts as I bawl thick, burning tears into my pillow.  Eventually exhaustion dictates that the sobs turn into gulps, the tears slow, and shaking eases.  Slowly I open my eyes.  There lies the hapless and innocent tissue box.  Its body is mutilated and mangled.  3-ply eucalyptus scented entrails leak out its torn corners, and it’s once box-like structure now resembles a crushed aluminium can.  The ridiculousness of the situation hits me, and the poor tissue box looks so comical I begin to giggle.  I gently lift the tissue box from it’s bedlinen grave and lovingly replace it on the bed head.  Maybe Dave won’t notice.

As covered in my previous post, I am withdrawing from Aropax, and it is horrendous.  The first day after my last dose, I lay sobbing in bed wishing I could die.  My concerned husband rushed home from work with all sorts of “nausea friendly” nibblies for me to try.  Once I was munching on some cheese and crackers, I felt surprisingly good.  And then I vomited.  And I couldn’t stop.  My stomach was clenching so hard it hurt and I thought I would wet myself.

He bundled me into the car, clutching my “sickie bucket” as we affectionately call it and raced me to a late night GP.  He told me it couldn’t possibly be from the Aropax withdrawal, as I had done it according to doctors directions (a half dose for 7 days, followed by a quarter dose for another 2 days), and it was a safe drug.  He smiled that everything was normal, should only last another 5 weeks – 5 weeks!?  I can’t guarantee I won’t slash my wrists if I don’t feel better NOW – and to drink some lemonade with a pinch of salt.  I sobbed and cried in pain all the way home from combined stomach cramps and constipation.

Seeking advice from my dear friend Joy (the most amazing source of medical knowledge I’ve ever known – well, she is a biological scientist) Dave syringe fed me the lemonade mix and sports drinks a few millilitres at a time until I fitfully went to sleep.  Instead of counting sheep, I was thinking I want to die…I want to die…I want to die…I want to die…

The next day went pretty much as it did before.  Me sobbing in bed, unable to eat, drink, or poo.  Again, Dave rushed home from work early.  We tried to contact my GP, she had finished for the day.  Next I tried my local emergency department.  They informed me they were not set up for any procedures involving unborn infants. Next I called my not-so-local emergency department, after assessing my symptoms, I was advised to make my way to emergency, and if I got any worse, call an ambulance.

Dave drove as safely and efficiently as possible during peak hour traffic while trying not to panic as I puked so much I couldn’t breath.  Eventually we arrived to be greeted by a smiling receptionist who helpfully suggested I try some dry crackers before getting out of bed, and to nibble small amounts of food at a time throughout the day.  I weakly nodded and smiled while I thought “You freaking nut job!  Do you think I’m just here to waste your time?  Do you think I would have left my comfortable bed and come to a crowded emergency department full of potentially contagious people if all I needed was a few dry crackers?  Shut up and fix me!!!!!”

It was sheer relief that we were seen to relatively soon.  I felt pretty self conscious sitting in a crowded waiting room dry retching continuously.  After the nurse assured me she couldn’t find a vein to fit a cannula in because I was so dehydrated, subsequently found one – a big one, which splurted out all over the place – and I almost passed out, I resumed my now “normal” posture of hunched over a sick bag while dry retching.  It became evident how busy they were when I overheard the triage nurse assessing the 71 year old woman experiencing heart attack symptoms in the next cubicle tell her they had no wheel chair available, and that she would have to walk to the ward they were admitting her to.  Cripes!

After telling the nurse treating me about the Aropax withdrawal, and my hideous allergy to maxalon (the drug they would usually give someone for nausea), I was told my blood tests would be back in about an hour, and in the meantime they would start me on IV fluids for re-hydration.  Because there was no bed available, I would need to sit in the hallway (in front of a crash cart, so if they needed it, I had to jump up quickly).  Oh goody! Oh, another thing, also because they have no beds available, they won’t give me anything for the nausea in case I have a bad reaction like I do with maxalon.  I want to dieeeeeee.

I soon met with an amazing, gentle, and compassionate doctor who examined me in a side room before taking me back to my hallway perch.  He explained that Aropax is notorious for being difficult to withdraw from Oh Joy! and that they felt I had “discontinuation syndrome” (different to withdrawal syndrome) or basically, horrible side effects, starting straight after the last dose taken, which would last for about two weeks.  I want to die.

Hours pass.  I haven’t peed since lunch, it’s now 9pm.  I’m on my second litre of fluids, still have no desire to pee and am soooo thirsty.  Dave gives me little sips of water from a cup, which I promptly throw up into my trusty sick bag.  Occasionally, very occasionally, my doctor comes to tell me my bloods STILL aren’t back.  A nurse finally notices that I’m rigid and shaking with cold and wraps me in a blanket.  I love that nurse.  Another hour passes and my doctor apologetically informs me the blood machines are four hours behind.  I’ve since been informed by someone “in the know” that this means some idiot forgot to label my bloods as emergency.

I’ve been here five hours.  The woman whining in the chair beside me that she needs a bed because she’s in so much pain, is now feeling better, has been to the toilet, and then gone home.  Whinger! Another pregnant woman has been shown a bed as she is “spotting”.  I’m next to the nurses station, and overhear her nurse tell another that there is no sign of blood.  Princess! I watch as obese people who are as much to blame for their condition as anything else are wheeled in from ambulances, then taken to wards.  I cringe through the misbehaviour of a small child up past bed time and fed lollies and candies while her older sister suffers an allergic reaction to seafood.  I want to die… And I want to take that annoying child with me!

I’ve sucked two IV bags dry and I’m still thirsty.  My doctor appears right on cue to tell me my bloods are fine, so I can go home.  I stare at him and beg, “Is there anything you can give me for the vomiting?”  He says he’ll check.  He comes back with a syringe of clear liquid.  I love the syringe of clear liquid!

He explains that it is used for chemotherapy patients.  It is untested on pregnant women, but after consulting with other specialists, they believe it to be safe.  I don’t care.  At this point I wish I would miscarry so I could feel better.  I tell him to shoot me up.  He injects it into my IV line, explains it will take 10 minutes to make its way into my system, and another 20 before it fully kicks in.  He’ll come back in 30 minutes.  And then the heartburn starts.

A searing pain is burning its way up my chest and throat.  I’m almost sobbing with exhaustion, cold, and illness when my doctor happens to walk past.  I tell him my problem and he says triumphantly “That I CAN fix!”  He returns with a small yellow pill, some water, and a disposable cup containing the very same toxic sludge from the sewers in Ghost Busters II.  On his instructions, I swallow the pill with water, chug the liquid  It is, it is, it is toxic sludge! which numbs my throat and makes me gag, then rinse with more water.

Pretty soon, I start to feel almost ok.  I’m still dizzy, but I’m more upright, and can actually talk with Dave rather than giving monosyllabic moans in response to his attempts to talk to me.  My doctor says I can leave, I ask if I can eat.  He says absolutely!  There’s an all-night McDonalds nearby.  I order a happy meal.  I’m so excited to be well enough to eat.  I know I shouldn’t but I scoff the lot.  We make it home at midnight, and I promptly throw up…