That’s not exactly the best way to encourage people to read this post is it?  Unfortunately, this won’t be an amusing one, but I felt it was important to put in here.  I’ve always been pretty open and honest in this blog, and I also use it as a bit of a diary for myself.  It’s been pretty hard to write, and taken a few months, but here it is:

I think we all knew that I was at high risk of developing postnatal depression (PND) but I had hoped that I would somehow miraculously escape.  I had become a bit concerned when during ante-natal classes we were given an information pamphlet and I ticked most of the high risk boxes, but still I was optimistic.  I became even more relaxed after Lincoln’s birth when I felt amazingly well.  I was in high spirits, and despite feeling quite detached from him during pregnancy, I was liking the little fella.  He was red and scrawny with an overly large head.  His eyes were puffy from spending nine months growing in fluid, his little arms were comically long and gangly and his legs were folded up like a battery hen just released from its cage.  All in all, he looked like a miniature ET with hair.  But I liked him.

The problems seemed to settle in when it became too painful to continue breast feeding him.  After formula upset his tummy, I made the decision to express breast milk for a couple of days to allow my nipples to recuperate before trying again.  And for a few days this worked.  Once I got home I settled into a state of constant low level anxiety.  I shifted furniture, sterilized, dusted, and cleaned, then spent an entire day stuck to the couch in constant pain from my stitches and birth injuries.  Thankfully my mother in law was visiting, and loved looking after Lincoln.  By the next day, Lincoln was six days old and I was really starting to feel a sense of growing fear.  Of what, I don’t know, I was just feeling afraid.   I swallowed it down and decided I was ready to reintroduce Lincoln to breast feeding.  Lincoln had other ideas.  Used to the constant and easy flow of feeding from a bottle, he pulled his knees up, struck me with his tiny little fists, screwed his face up and bellowed as he fought against me with all his might.  I’m not sure what happened exactly, but at his display of rejection, something shut down in me, and I physically and emotionally pushed him away.  I couldn’t bear to look at him and handed him to Dave for a bottle feed.  Logically I knew he didn’t know what he was doing.  I knew it wasn’t personal.  But I just couldn’t change how I felt.

My mind was in a constant whirl.  I tried praying for peace, deep breathing, having a cuppa, nothing would ease the fear and anxiety pounding through my brain.  I jumped at any excuse to leave the house, and Lincoln in Dave’s care.  I told myself over and over that he was not rejecting me.  I knew I was doing the best thing by expressing breast milk for him.  There was nothing wrong with him not breast feeding.  I even tried to tell myself that I was lucky to have a baby that would accept a bottle.  But every time I saw him feeding from a bottle I felt an overwhelming resentment that my baby would bond with a piece of plastic, but refused me.  It just seemed ludicrous.  I had milk – plenty.  And he was hungry.  Why couldn’t he just breastfeed?  In hindsight I can see this was just a surface issue, and the problems lay much deeper, but the physical culmination of all of my emotions were focused on his refusal to feed.  The hardest thing of all was the complete inability to stop the jittering nerves that wracked my mind and emotions.  Suddenly a cold chill of terror ran down my spine and into the pit of my stomach as I thought “I don’t want a baby” and once I acknowleged the thought, it continued rolling about relentlessly in my mind  The overwhelming fear grew worse until I was having regular panic attacks.  I was looking up breast feeding consultants, calling the Nursing Mothers Association, and all the friends I could think of to try and relax and regain the control I was quickly losing.  I called the psychologist I’d been seeing during my pregnancy, but still felt that I was fast falling into hysteria.   I felt a deep sadness engulf me like a smothering blanket.  I made up my mind to see my doctor the next day and beg to go back onto anti-depressants, and crawled into bed.

I lay in the darkness, my husband thinking I was asleep, as damaged ideas scrambled my mind.  I didn’t want my baby.  I didn’t know what to do.  I couldn’t just put him on the street.  There was no escape.  I had no intention of hurting him, I just wanted him to not exist.  And there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.  I knew Dave would never agree to give him up, so I concluded that to escape from Lincoln, I would lose my marriage and the most important person in the world to me.  I didn’t know what to do.  I needed to run.  I had nowhere to run to.  Despite my plans to find help the next day I rapidly dropped to extreme low of wanting to take my life in order to stop the pain and fear inside.  Dave thought I was asleep, and so left me to rest as I lay in bed willing my life to end.  Thoughts of how to end it all crowded my thoughts along with the anguish of the pain it would cause Dave.  I  couldn’t physically act to hurt him, so I lay in the darkness of my mind, deciding instead to just not eat, and not drink, and not move until I just stopped breathing.  Suddenly something snapped, I knew I needed help, I needed it now, and I had to make one last ditch attempt to get it. I didn’t want to hurt Dave and I wanted to love Lincoln.  I got out of bed and picked up the phone.

I used to have all these naive ideas that when a baby was born, Mum and Dad sat back, basking in blissful happiness, sipping tea while friends and family dropped by bearing gifts and congratulations.  I was half right.  We did have lots of lovely friends and family visit.  Lincoln was showered with gifts.  But blissfully happy?  Relaxed?  Not likely.  After giving birth, and being sewn back together, “Better than before!” as my obstetrician cheerfully announced, I spent the next two days shuffling painfully about in adult diapers while nurses, doctors, paediatricians, cleaners, and catering staff flew in and out of the doors all day and night.    At least once a day someone would ask to peer at areas I’d never put on public display before, and I was regularly asked if I was experiencing much pain from the stitches.  Stitches?  Are there stitches?  It’s the hemorrhoids that were killing me! Irritatingly I only discovered the “Do Not Disturb” sign the day I left.

The other naive idea I had was that breastfeeding was natural, easy, and most of all – painless.  I don’t care who tries to tell me it doesn’t hurt so long as the baby is attached properly, it hurts!  In fact, I’ve come up with a few suggestions for other mums-to-be on preparing their unsuspecting nipples from the onslaught of soon to arrive piranha.  My first suggestion is to scrub your nipples vigorously with steel wool  until bleeding.  Secondly, you could try poking them repeatedly with a sewing needle.  And just to get them really primed, pop the nozzle of the vacuum cleaner over them and turn it on for 20 minutes.  Once you can handle this without screaming in pain,  you’re ready!  But I’m beginning to wonder if I just have really sensitive nipples.  Of every nurse, midwife and breastfeeding consultant who checked on me, not one could find a problem with how Lincoln was feeding, and I had no signs of injury to myself.  In the end, I expressed and bottle fed Lincoln while my poor, abused mammeries recovered.  And another thing – no matter how much your breasts have been handled prior to giving birth, I don’t think anything can prepare you for a cranky infant, arms and fists flailing with one bruised and rapidly purpling nipple grasped tightly in his grip!  Every different midwife gave different advice, and being told “No, you’re not holding him right!” after being told “You’re a natural” by someone else seriously begins to erode any shred of self confidence you may harbour.

My other naive error?  I’d hoped for a little rest while I was in hospital so I had some energy reserved for home time.  Wrong again.  Aside from the aforementioned constant visiting of staff, there was just the sheer bewilderment of having a whole new life to take care of.  For starters, I really didn’t know what to do.  How do I know he’s hungry?  What if just as I go to sleep, he wakes up?  I had hoped that having Dave stay with us would afford me a bit of time to rest, but Dave slept for one third of the time, complained about being tired for one third of the time, and was out running errands for the rest of the time.  If he’d complained about how tired he was one more time I think he would have copped a dirty nappy in his face!  Dads, when you’re wife’s been up all night in labour, and unable to sleep for more than 10 minutes in the three days following, whatever you do, don’t complain about how tired you are.  On my last night in hospital, Dave stayed home and Lincoln went to the nursery so I could get just one precious night’s sleep.  At 7pm a new mum and baby were admitted next door, the latter of which cried all night. Actually, if she’s anything like me, the former probably cried all night too, but no-one could hear her over the baby. By the next morning, I’d had enough.  And then my milk came in.  Ever seen those novelty aprons with the enormous pair of plastic breasts?  That’s how I looked, only any ounce of amusement was lost in the painful throbbing it induced.  My chest had sprouted melons made of concrete, I could not lie down in any comfortable position, nor put my arms by my sides.  Any attempts to lessen the pressure by breastfeeding ended up  in tears for Lincoln and I.  After making some emergency calls to family to purchase me a breast pump,  I begged to go home (and for some pain killers).  A few hours passed by as we waited, and waited for Lincoln’s final health checks, and then finally we made our escape!  At last we were headed for home – unfinished room, incomplete nursery, unwashed laundry, far too many family members, but home.  And definitely better than hospital.

Yet again, it’s been a while.  Between finally moving into our new home, organising wedding and function flowers, trying to set up a nursery, and pack bags for hospital, I’ve barely had time to even think about my poor, neglected blog.  The interim has however given me time to amass a few amusing stories, the first of which I will now relate:

So after staying with friends and house-sitting for 9 weeks, we finally arrived at our newly renovated room, suitcases, paperwork, and pet parrot in tow.  As we pulled into the yard we were met by my father’s, “Erm…  We’ll have to put you up in hotel for two more days…”.  In the end we stayed on a mattress on the floor under my brother’s house for four nights.  BUT, our room was completed…ish.  On first inspection, it’s beautiful!  On closer inspection, there’s no architraves around a couple of door frames, and the front door has only its undercoat, the flooring in the nursery/office area is painted concrete, and there’s no  edging on the bedroom area carpet, the custom installed air-con doesn’t work, and there’s a massive hole going through from our bedroom to my little bro’s that is covered with cardboard until the mythical time it will be repaired – but it’s livable.  It’s clean, it’s private, and it’s ours!  And for such a fair rental price, I absolutely cannot complain.

Immediately, my relief at having a home was replaced by panic that I was having a baby – soon – and I absolutely needed to get this room set up for a new baby.  On our first day we had an assortment of  bed frame pieces, office desk, computer equipment, and ready to assemble baby furniture all covered with sheets and waiting for some long suffering fool to put it all together.  An amusing aspect to the office and nursery area of our room is that  it used to be a patio and designed to allow water drainage, so the floor is on a slope.  This resulted in Dad and Dave (haha, yes, Dad ‘n’ Dave), assembling furniture, and trialing a growing collection of different sized wood offcuts under each leg of furniture, and measuring painstakingly with a spirit level before declaring each piece “close enough to level”.  If the furniture isn’t levelled, filing cabinets, and bookshelves lean on crazy angles to the walls, which makes you feel as though you’ve wandered into some kind of drunken parallel universe.   It also means that if you sit on an office chair on one side of the room, then lift your feet off the ground, you quickly build up speed before crashing into the computer desk/wall/other furniture on the opposite side.  Wheeeeeeeee!!!!  Not so fun if you’re attempting to push yourself back from the computer desk against the unhelpful effects of gravity.  But really the only thing I’ve found difficult, and truly whinge-worthy is that I’m so cumbersome, and so hot, and so tired, I’m completely useless at getting much done at all.

I’m a do-er.  And when something needs doing, I just want it done.  Now.  This is only exacerbated by a baby being due to arrive pretty much any time he pleases from now on.  We’d been here two days.  I had just spent two days of prep work before delivering wedding bouquets and setting up wedding flowers in the city, before helping – well spectating – while Dad and Dave hauled a solid wood wardrobe from our storage unit.  I had then dusted and bleached said wardrobe.  I should have been, and was exhausted.  But still that inner compulsion propelled me to want to achieve more towards setting up our living quarters.  My feet said otherwise.  It was at this point I made two major misjudgements.  The first – the structural soundness of a chipboard and veneer, two tiered, self assembled bookshelf purchased for $15 from Pick ‘n’ Pay.  The second – the ability to be light and dainty at 37 weeks pregnant.  Still wearing the beautiful – and borrowed – maternity dress I’d worn due to its utter prettiness to my wedding delivery, I took a break by sitting on said bookshelf, as Dave and my brother were discussing “important technological jargon” nearby.  A few minutes later, with no warning whatsoever there was a loud crack as the top shelf of the bookshelf, and I – feet pointing skywards -  collapsed.  Then came one milliseconds reprieve as we both landed on the next shelf down before it too collapsed into the base of the bookshelf, a horrible shredding sound accompanying us all the way down.

Two pairs of horrified eyes turned my way as I sat disoriented upon  chipboard debris, while the legs of the bookshelf remained upright on either side of me, eight screws pointed horizontally inwards, forming a weird kind of macabre throne.  Horror after horror assailed me.  Firstly, how embarrassing!  Secondly, I now had four male arms reaching to pull me upright as I suddenly realised the shredding noise was the once beautiful dress being torn from hem to armpit as I made my way downwards, thus exposing my underwear.  But on top of this, I just didn’t know what was worse – destroying the bookshelf, or destroying the dress.  Finally, the tears that were threatening started to prick my eyes as I wailed, “I broke the booksheeeeelf!”.  Clinging to the ripped edges of the dress, and my modesty, I allowed the guys to help me up, and Dave escorted me to the bathroom where I begged him to leave me while I cleaned up.  By this time cuts and scratches from the screws had begun to bleed, and I sobbed as I looked at the torn remnants of the dress, now splattered with blood as well.  All hope of repairing the garment was lost as I studied the torn black lace which had been embroidered onto the white cotton panels.  I burst into a fresh round of tears, this time crying, “I broke the dreeeess!”.  Dave returned with some fresh clothes for me, and to fret and poke disinfectant onto my wounds, all the while with me sobbing over the torn dress.

Eventually, I was patched up, cleaned up, and feeling much better.  A sore neck and bump on the back of the head told me I had also bumped it on the cot as I had fallen, but nothing really hurt too much – just my pride.  I went back to our room where I found Dave happily taking photographs of the bookshelf carcass.  I began to laugh, a little at first, then hysterically as I realised how funny the whole thing was.  ”I should blog this.”, I said.  Dave’s reply:  ”That’s what the photos are for.”

Two weeks later, what had been some impressive bruises are still faintly visible, and the only real scar is from a nasty little hole behind my knee.  And in case you’re wondering, I phoned the kind friend who’d loaned me the dress to apologise.  She was not concerned about the dress, and actually much more concerned for my well-being.  I’ve resolved to keep my eye out for something similar, so I can at least try to replace it!

Well recently I’ve been experiencing the increasingly “wonderful” sensations of our rapidly growing baby’s movements.  At 18 weeks, I felt a sickening, slithering sensation inside which gave me mental images of eels sliding through silty mud.  By about 25 weeks this had given way to amusing bumps and thumps – my favourite being the time I was lying on my side, and experienced what I can only describe as a heavy thud.  Again, it prompted a mental image – this time it was of a pro wrestler leaping from the guard rails to body slam his prostrate opponent.  Other interesting sensations have been experienced too – such as sharp jabbing pains in unmentionable areas, and the feeling that my bladder is being poked at from the inside (because it is), thus causing an urgent feeling of panic as I put my pelvic floor muscles to work whilst anxiously scanning my surroundings for the nearest bathroom.  This isn’t good when driving on the freeway as happened to me one day that junior was having a seriously great time exploring the walls of my bladder – repeatedly.

We are now almost at week 33 and the not-so- little guy’s movements are now encroaching into the “seriously uncomfortable” zone.  My last OB appointment revealed, that like a good little fellow, he’s already head down, blissfully unaware that this will make his crushing and bewildering entry into a bright, cold world a little easier.  This also means his feet are merrily kicking away in the upper section of my abdomen, looming ever closer to my rib cage.  I’ve been informed by many, many mothers that what really hurts is when they gouge their little feet and toes under the rib cage.  Ludicrously, they also speak of it with a look of pure joy on their faces.  Having never had a baby before, I still am bewildered by the sheer number of women talking of pain, vaginal tears, stitches, hemorrhoids, marathon labours, and emergency cesareans with a grin on their face, before finishing with words to the effect of “it’s a wonderful experience”.  Perhaps it’s the drugs.

But anyways, as I was saying – feet, close to ribs…  Even though he’s not quite big enough yet to get under my ribs, there are still times that a stray foot causes incredible pain.  There I’ll be, walking through a shopping centre, minding my own business when suddenly, without warning, I’ll let out an involuntarily gasp as a sharp, stabbing pain shoots through my abdomen.  I’ll instinctively grasp at the area, only to feel a tiny, seemingly innocent body part jutting outwards.  I may mutter words such as “Horrible, little beastie!”, but actually, all is forgiven.  There’s something “cute” about it.  And if Dave’s around, I’ll hurry him over to feel it too.  And hiccups.  Sometimes this creature inside will have up to three bouts of hiccups in a day, once again prompting me to get an indulgent Dave to “come and feel this”. Again.  For the third time today…

Dave must have got tired of all this sitting about “feeling the belly” because the other day, as I once again ushered him over to “feel this”, instead of cupping one hand over my now swollen abdomen, he cupped both hands into a crude megaphone against my stomach, before leaning over and shouting, “HELLOOOO!!!”.  Once I recovered from my surprise, I laughed and said, “You know, he can hear us talking by now.”  To which Dave replied “Oh, can he?”.  I pondered upon this before answering, “Well, not anymore…”

Just a quick note to let you all know, as Dave and I knew all along, and the doctors just had to wait and find out – it’s a boy.  A rather definite one.  If anyone’s ever looked at a scan and wondered how the heck the operator can say “…and there’s baby’s kidney…” when all you can see is a grey and black blob, I’m with you.  However, on the day of our 20 week (actually, it was 19) scan, even I could tell what that bit was.

I must say, I’ve had rather ambivalent feelings towards the creature within me, but it was quite cute to see little feet, and tiny hands which covered the baby’s face every time the nurse tried to get a look at it.  Dave held my hand and looked on amazed while limbs and bones were measured and recorded, but his true feelings were finally shared on the car trip home.  ”Well, I feel very manly,” he says.  When I looked at him, puzzled, he explained “Well it’s a boy, and he’s well endowed!”

Never mind that he’s healthy, well formed, and has the correct number of fingers and toes – the most important thing is, he’s well endowed.

Most mornings (at approximately 2am) will find me lying awake, cursing the growing creature in my womb as I grimace and groan with whatever malady has awoken me.  Some nights it’s nausea, some nights it’s gas pain, or a backache, or sore kidneys, or I could just need to pop to the loo.  Usually I manage to fall asleep again by 3:30am, but if I’m lucky it’ll be one of those nights where I’m feeling a combination of several of the above.  If I’m really lucky, it will be all of them, culminating in the final showdown of a gut spasming, breath stopping vomiting crescendo.  You know the type – where you huddle over the toilet, covered in sweat while tears stream from your red, swollen eyes and tendrils of mucous hang from your nose and lips as you desperately try to gulp air down to your lungs while stomach acids and bile fight with equal strength in the opposite direction.  Yeah, I think we’ve all experienced a violent stomach bug before.

Well it was one of these nights (about an hour before “the climax”) when Dave, awakened by my discomfort got up to use the bathroom.  My irises contracted painfully as he flicked on the ensuite light.  Then just as suddenly it flicked off and they relaxed.  And then it came on again.  And off.  Thoroughly bemused I asked Dave as soon as he got back to bed, “Why did you keep turning the light on and off?”  Dave answered, “I wake up too much if I turn the light on, then I can’t get back to sleep.”  By now I’m really confused and ask, “So why did you keep turning it on?”  His answer:  ”To make sure I was aiming straight.”

Momentarily distracted from my misery, I couldn’t help giggling.  At least I’m not the only one with nocturnal issues.

When I first discovered I was pregnant, I was overwhelmed with the desire and determination to be the best pregnant Mummy in the world.  No unhealthy craving was going to get the better of me, oohh no, I would be eating the freshest and most nutritious salads and fruits, nourishing my growing baby with a well-balanced and scientifically applauded diet.  And no matter how much I wanted chips, chocolate, or ice cream, I would stick to my guns and remember what was best for the baby.  I was a stupid know-nothing.

Fast forward eight weeks and my best laid plans have been obliterated.  First, I couldn’t eat anything, but now the only things I want to eat, and indeed can eat without violently ejecting it again, are the very things that made me turn up my nose in snobbish disgust.  Think Coke and McDonald’s.  Every day will find me lined up in the McDonald’s drive through, patiently awaiting my turn at the speaker box so I can rattle off my order – “A McFeast Deluxe with no onions, and a small coke please…. No, not the value meal, just the burger and coke thanks”.  I wouldn’t be surprised if every staff member in the place is now just as familiar with my order as I am and say, “It’s the McFeast lady again.”  And I’ve become familiar with the staff too.  I can pretty much catagorise all their staff into different “personality groups”.

First, there’s a few emaciated-in-that-trendy-way teenage girls with facial piercings and hair they must have spent at least three hours straightening.  These girls are quite efficient at taking your order, not because they are concientious about their job, but because they just want to get rid of you as fast as possible.  The look of bored disinterest on their face confirms the irritated tone in their voice as they take your money and direct you to the next window, clearly infuriated that there’s yet another annoying customer to deal with in the car behind you.  Alternatively you could get a friendly and well padded Maori or Islander girl who’s super pleasant and calls you “mate”.  I haven’t had a guy take my order yet.

Then in the kitchen there’s the burger maker who does his/her job as quickly and uncarefully as possible.  A sliver of tomato and a few shreds of lettuce top the piece of cheese which dangles precariously out the side of the burger.  The whole meal is held together – barely – by a trickle of sauce and mayo.  Or on the other extreme, there’s the overzealous and very enthusiatic trainee.  These burgers are great!  Cheese is placed centrally on the meat pattie, creating a perfect coverage of even flavour.  This is topped with at least two (sometimes three!) thick slices of tomato and a mountain of lettuce.  The only time this burger sux is when they forgot you asked for no onions.  It can also be a bit difficult to eat one while driving as the masses of mayonaise and sauce cause all the pieces to slide around like lubricated discs while mayo drenched lettuce manages to fall beyond the borders of the napkins placed in your lap and create suspicious looking stains on your pants leg.  I always relish these burgers as I’m terrified that by tomorrow, the guy/gal who makes them will have been seriously reprimanded – or fired! – for their uneconomical wastage of salads and sauces.

And finally, the staff who pass you your order through the final window.  I have a theory that these people are far more pleasant than the one who took the order because they are also serving walk-in customers.  When I was in customer service we had a big, scary woman who sternly overlooked all check-out operaters, frowning at us menacingly while lifting the corners of her lips with her fingers into a frightening grimace and mouthing “SMILE!” at us.  Maccas probably isn’t that strict, but I imagine they are trained to be pleasant, and when you think about it, this would be pretty hard considering some of the crap I’ve seen them put up with.  I secretly suspect they all take mood enhancing drugs, and therefore can’t be unpleasant, even if they tried.

And all this makes me think.  When I used to serve complete strangers, I could catagorise them too… “The Monthlies Lady” for example would come through my supermarket checkout with three items – feminine hygeine products, pain killers, and chocolate.  So turning the tables, what would Maccas staff think of me?  Obsessive Compulsive?  Habitual User?  Snobby Cow Who Judges Everyone?  I’d love to know.

After plaguing me day and night for weeks, my “morning sickness” seems to have settled into a basic routine:  Morning time lulls me into a false sense of security.  I awaken feeling not too bad – that is, aside from the sore stomach, neck ache, and constipation.  I stagger out of bed and into what used to look like a bathroom, but now actually bears a closer resemblance to a pharmaceutical laboratory.  I gulp down my “pregnant lady” vitamins, followed by a liquid dose of vitamin C, Vitamin B complex, and an extra folic acid tablet (my chiropractor told me these three vitamins/minerals are water soluble so cannot be overdosed on, and if taken three times a day would keep sufficient levels in my system, thus allowing the leech-like embryo to suck them out of me, but still leave me enough to function.  I’ve heard many a remedy for morning sickness, and tried them all – sometimes in feverish desperation.  This one-amazingly-has worked!).

I am then able to handle a small bowl of All Bran – a basic necessity, and my morning “cuppa” of Metamucil.  Around midday, I get the “freezies” (odd sense of being cold, even if it isn’t) so it’s back to the lab for more vitamins, then it’s nap time, and I sleep for a good two-three hours before waking hot and irritable.  At about 4:00pm I start to feel quite icky, and painfully aware that my bowels have been doing whatever they want (which is usually nothing) for the past few weeks, so it’s time for a light snack, and some more Metamucil.  I then dry retch pretty much until bed time, whereupon another trip to my bathroom laboratory sees me dosed up for the long night ahead.  At 3:00am my body will find something to wake me with – whether it’s a sore tummy, aching kidney, or agonisingly full bladder, I will wake.  Eventually I will fall asleep, and the cycle begins again.

Today was no different.  4:00pm found me eating a snack of green apple slices.  At 5:00pm I was standing in the kitchen chugging a mega-jumbo sized glass of Metamucil.  I’m mid-gulp after drinking almost the whole glass of my concoction of colonic relief when Dave wanders in and casually comments,  ”Do sausages still make you feel sick, because…”

Before the word “sausages” has barely passed Dave’s lips, a projectile vomit hurtles it’s way up my oesophagus with startling speed.  My reflexes jump into action and I am able to reach the kitchen sink (which is mercifully close) just in time for the pre-digested river to burst forth.  In round-eyed astonishment we watch the sink fill with grated apple and orange flavoured Metamucil.  The torrent slows, the sink is cleaned and sterilised, and an apologetic explanation is given to our housemates for the sad demise of their dish brush, which just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

15 minutes later I’m showered, dressed in my pyjamas, and feeling marginally better.  Dave, choosing his words very carefully says,  ”I’m going to make my dinner.  I don’t think you’ll like what it is, so you best stay here for a while…”

Don’t get me started on how I loathe the show “Friends”.  I’ve tried to watch it, and I’ve tried to like it, but I just can’t.  All I see is a pack of overly good-looking people bed-hopping with each other and making the same inane, shallow and unfunny jokes each episode.  And don’t write to me about how wrong I am – I don’t care.  The point of this post is to point out that while I hate the show, and it’s overly done theme song, it keeps springing to the foremost of my mind when I think how we’ve been blessed with our own amazing friends.  It could also be because our housemates watch the show obsessively – but I don’t think so.

Since I’ve been sick, I’ve had no idea what Dave’s been eating, if he’s been eating, or if what he’s been eating is even safe.  One morning I ventured a peek into his lunch bag (a plastic carry bag from the supermarket) and was deeply disturbed to see a handful of beans, a celery stick, a small tin of tuna, 2 arrowroot biscuits, and 2 vitaweets all swimming together in the bottom.  Tears welled in my eyes for my poor husband and I hastily prepared some sandwiches for him, wrapped his biscuits up, popped in some vegetable soup and wrapped his vegies in clingfilm all the while scolding him on correct hygeine of fresh food.  Poor darling.  But it’s not very often I find the energy to check on his lunch, so it’s with the deepest gratitude and utmost thanks that I praise the generousity of our good friends.

Firstly, there’s Dave and Sandee, who found the time to make a roast dinner for us, and pack in two mini lasagnes as well.  The vegetables were one of the first things I’d eaten in days, and the roast chicken fed Dave for a good few meals.  It was particularly touching as Sandee’s very sick father was living with them and in the final stages of his illness at the time.

Then Dave’s Dad and Step-Mum, Chris brought around some home made vegetable soup – again something I could stomach, and which gave Dave another few meals.  I was feeling my worst when they came, and barely able to raise my head from the pillow, but they insisted on cheering me up, and wishing me all their love.

This was followed by Mark and Ruth, who brought over a beautiful tuna pasta bake, and some chocolate macaroons.  While hesitant at first, the tuna bake actually stayed down, and the macaroons were easily digested thanks to their melt-in-the-mouth consistency.  Again, we lived most comfortably for a couple of days.

And of course, there’s Scott and Jo.  From the moment Jo read my blog and heard how sick I was, she started cooking up a storm.  I can’t describe the surprise I got when soups, casseroles, and even pork ribs were delivered to our door!  So far I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the vegetable soup, but am a little frightened of trying some of the “heavier” dishes.  (Buttered toast can be heavy at the moment!)  Again, I am just so grateful that even if I can’t eat some of them myself, my poor, emaciated husband is getting some hearty, nutritional meals into his belly.  And he needs his strength – who else is going to fetch me sliced apples at 3am?

But seriously guys, thank you so much for being the most generous, amazing friends I could imagine.  I’ve had offers to do my laundry and other household chores, and even an offer to take time off work to look after me.  If there’s one thing feeling miserably ill has taught me, it’s that you really aren’t as alone as you thought.  And I hereby publicly promise to never forget your kindness.  And you can put me on your cooking roster if you ever need the favour returned.

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…