Better

My mother is a process person. An artist and a brilliant seamstress, she gets a charge not only out of the finished product, but out of the actual niggling bits and pieces of developing whatever it is she’s working on.

I am not a process person. I’m impatient, easily irritated and frustrated when things don’t go right the first time. This is why there are endless half-finished sweaters, beading kits and evidence of other abandoned hobbies in our office downstairs. I do heartily enjoy many finished products, however. Like furniture! And sweaters! Apples! Scarves! Babies!

Oh yes, babies!

I’m not enjoying pregnancy, save for a few moments of pleasure when I think about the baby and remember the excitement of the last ultrasound. I know no one likes to hear this, and I know how lucky I am, and that many would give their right arm to be in my position. Believe me, I feel plenty guilty about it. But then I think, shit, I’m not sure how or why I could enjoy this, frankly, given that I still, at nearly 15 weeks, have not stopped throwing up and/or feeling nauseated more than 90 percent of the time. I’ve had moments — one whole week, in fact — when I wasn’t sick, when I thought I’d turned a corner, only to be dragged back into the vomit-fest that is my pregnancy experience. The fact is, however, that during that week, I was on the brink of puking nearly every minute, and woke up almost every night swimming with nausea. I mistook not throwing up with actually feeling better.

I’m not really getting any work done, save for the bare minimum. I’m not spending any quality time with Adam, and I feel … I feel downright awful about it. About all of it.

When I’m not nauseated, which is rare, I’m gripped by mood swings that make being around me almost impossible, and I’m including myself in that category. I’d like to leave myself behind some days, and go spend time with the person I used to be. She was nice, and on occasion she could even be fun, and I never — not once! — saw the contents of her stomach! I miss her, and I’m pretty sure Adam and Sunny do, too. They deserve better. They really do.

I cry sometimes, because I just want to feel better for FIVE MINUTES. FIVE MINUTES. I want to enjoy this, and have fun with my husband and take my dog on a walk that lasts more than a hurried poop and pee while I desperately holler, “GO POTTY! GO POTTY!” because someone is barbecuing and I can’t handle the smell of the chicken they’ve got on that thing (OMG RAW CHICKEN).

I normally have a relatively high tolerance for advice, but I … well, I’ve tried everything, so please don’t name it, for the mere suggestion of many solutions make me throw up. Ginger, saltines, pretzels, cookies, Preggo Pops … pretty much anything but pie, apples and the occasional glass of milk sends me retching. And I know that the baby needs nutrients beyond sugar, fat and calcium, but unfortunately, s/he gets it via Flintstones with the blessing of my OB/GYN, for I’ve thrown up every brand of prenatal vitamin I’ve had the pleasure of attempting. I haven’t landed in the ER yet, but I’ve come close — once because I couldn’t keep water down for a scary amount of time, and another time because I truly thought I’d torn my esophagus right off from throwing up so hard. My chest burned so badly that even Tums were like flames licking my insides like an ice cream cone, and I’d irritated it to the point that it was bleeding.

I’m on drugs. What started as an occasional habit at the suggestion of a few people (including my doctors), has quickly turned into a necessity, and I take jury-rigged Diclectin, a mixture of Unisom and B6, and it does help, but hot damn, it makes me sleepy (HA HA, it’s UNISOM). I’m not thrilled about taking pills, as I can’t imagine anyone else would be, but risks vs. benefits, yada yada yada. Without it, I’m not sure I’d be eating at all. My insurance won’t cover most of the heavy-hitters (Zofran! Reglan! Zuma! Nesta! Rock!), even in small amounts, and I’m not up for a $500/month pill habit at a time when I’d rather be saving than spending, and the makeshift Diclectin works well enough. I bought out my drugstore’s Unisom supply today — five boxes — after discovering that one was out of the tabs and only had the melts/gels (which is a different, non-helpful medicine). I’m pretty sure they’ve contacted the police, assuming I’m on a suicide mission. (Near impossible — Unisom tabs are a mild, very safe antihistamine, just FYI. I’d be like OD’ing on Benadryl.)

I have better days than this. I really do. And I’m not depressed or anxious or any of the other things that it might appear to be — I’ve been there, know the signs and this isn’t it. It’s just that I throw up all the damn time and it’s CRAZYMAKING. I feel lousy and a little like a failure, because MAN, if ever a person failed at pregnancy, it was me. I can’t even feed the kid properly when he’s in my own body, and how hard can that be?

(Side note: I casually mentioned that I felt a little better during that week of non-vomiting, and how have my neighbors celebrated? With fried chicken. In the FryDaddy – this time with added burning and smoke alarms! They did this even though I’d already told them the FryDaddy made me sick. Tonight, it was deep-fried jalapeno poppers, plus smoke alarms. I filled the house with inoffensive candles — THREE! — and yet the odor persisted. I cried and puked, cried and puked. I don’t mean to sound callous, but perhaps one of them can get a cholesterol test and be ordered on a low-fat diet? Is that too much to ask?)

Anyway! That’s where I am. I’m hopeful, as I am every day, that tomorrow will be better. Sometimes I’m even right! And of course, things could be so much worse. I could be sick from something horrible instead of something wonderful — don’t think I don’t know this, believe me, I’m grateful for it, and sometimes the guilt of being bothered by it brings me to sobby hysterics, because THINGS COULD BE SO MUCH WORSE. STOP CRYING OVER SPILLED BILE, YOU FOOL. (Hi! I’m defensive today! And crazy! I AM SORRY.)

By the way I got busted with my third pie in four days — a peach one. I’d hid it behind the microwave so as to avoid getting any shit, but alas, my peachy secret has been discovered and partially devoured, much like the apple one I picked up over the weekend. I’d just like to make it clear that I OWN ANY AND ALL PIE THAT ENTERS THIS HOUSE.

At any rate, I hope y’all have a happy Wednesday. I plan to give it a good whirl myself. They can’t make fried food EVERY day, can they?

Don’t answer that.

*Regina Spektor

63 comments September 9th, 2008