I just realised I promised you a rundown of what I have had happen so far in the past 12 weeks, that has made me write this blog.
We’d been trying for a second for a couple of months, so much so that to find out what the hell my body was doing, I downloaded the fertilityfriend app onto my iPhone and decided to start taking my temperature every day to see what it was up to.
The result was, that I was fairly sure I was pregnant on the Friday before my cousin’s wedding, so broke out the ClearBlue Digital test… and got told in words (yes, so even the thick/disbelieving can understand it!) that I was Not Pregnant. Harrumph. Drove to Birmingham for the wedding, got pissed at it, whilst dealing with a toddler with a raging temperature. Nice. Husband drove home.
Spent a pleasant weekend at The Parents In Law (The PIL) and came home on the Sunday with a new roll of carpet for the Boychild’s bedroom (recycled from the PIL’s dining room, the finest Belgian wool carpet known to man, FIL decided to put a screw through a central heating pipe and had a massive insurance payout because of the quality of the carpet, which we took a room-sized remnant of for a couple of our bedrooms). At bedtime on Sunday he was most distressed about being left in his cot, and tried exiting it head first over the edge. First time ever. Turns out the poor mite had tonsilitis.
Monday I went out and bought a roll of underlay. Laid that, bought gripper rods, laid those, and half way through laying the carpet, thought I felt a bit knackered. So I went and peed on an Asda cheapy test. And lo and behold, up came the image that you see on the banner of this blog.
I laid the rest of the carpet (badly) and told the Husband the good news when he got home. Child slept on a mattress on the floor that night. Much better. Less chance of a head injury!
Then I got tonsilitis as well, and my Mum came to get me, and took me, plus toddler plus dog back to hers because I wasn’t well enough to look after the Boy and the dog and myself on my own. So there we remained until the weekend. I had to tell her that I was pregnant as well because she kept trying to force me to take ibuprofen. Gah.
After I had tonsilitis and had got over that, I felt a bit queasy for a while, and then, something that never happened last time happened. For 2 glorious weeks, I had no symptoms, no sickness, and you know what? I actually enjoyed being pregnant.
Then, kuh-blam! I felt sick, had horrible tastes in my mouth, was dry-retching at the thought of food, and within a week, I was being sick, with alarming regularity.
I thought of how hideous the sickness was from my previous pregnancy, and thought how I’d had a full-time job, and that this would be no different.
I couldn’t care for my son properly, I couldn’t eat, do laundry, clean up anything remotely icky, and nappy changes were only done with two Olbas inhalers shoved up each nostril, and tied there with a scarf. I kid you not.
I tried bravely soldiering on – boring the arse of anyone who would listen, including my GP, who prescribed me buccastem, which didn’t work. Then he prescribed me Metoclopramide, which worked for 24 hours, then stopped working. Then Cyclizine, which again, worked for 24 hours, then stopped.
The day before Christmas Eve, I ended up doing what every sane and rational, grown woman would do in that situation. I called my Mummy. She (amid much tutting and sighing) came down to help me (I’m a freelance seamstress and had things I needed to get done before Christmas, and get delivered, my Mum is also a whizz with a sewing machine). I also called the Husband to come home from work.
The last thing was posted Special Delivery on the way to the GP that day. She took me in, the GP dipped my urine, and then started writing a serious looking letter to the people at the hospital, phoned ahead, and told them that he had a lady here who was very poorly with Hyperemesis and that he would be sending me there directly.
Hearing that one word was a relief. Its full name is Hyperemesis Gravidarum (hyper – excessive, emesis – sickness, Gravidarum – of/relating to pregnancy). I always heard of people on forums I frequent having the dreaded HG- and I pitied them, and gave them my sympathy. It was finally permission for me to give myself some.
I sat with my Mum in the waiting room (I knew what was coming due to having followed some people on the forum with it) with my overnight bag. After an hour of waiting, I told her to go home to her dogs as she had driven 75 miles to get here, and they’d be getting hungry. Another 45 or so minutes later, and I was called to go through to be assessed. I tried setting off at the same pace as the midwife, and after about 5 paces, realised I couldn’t keep up. And I cried.
Ria the midwife was amazingly kind and gave me a hug. She carried my bag, asked me for another sample (At least they just ask you to use a plastic cup as opposed to the GPs where the sample pots were clearly designed by men), and then set about trying to get a cannula into me. Which failed because my vein collapsed.
So Ria went and got the senior midwife in charge to come and do it. And that one collapsed too. So Carol the senior midwife went and got Rebecca the SHO to do it. I was so dehydrated that they had to use the second smallest size of cannula because my veins had shrunk so much from being so dehydrated. Finally, I had a cannula in me, and they took a load of blood as well whilst they were at it.
I had the presence of mind to change into my PJ top at this point, before I was hooked up to all the wires. Good move. Got hooked up to a drip to rehydrate me, and got taken upstairs in a wheelchair to a bed on a side ward. I was tucked up there for the night.
3 bags of fluid later, 3 shots in the arse of cyclizine and one of stemetil and I was feeling much improved. Not very impressed with the NHS breakfast (cold, stale toast anyone?) or lunch (soggy chips and more batter than fish, no vegetables). Thank God I was discharged on Christmas Eve so I didn’t have to endure an NHS Christmas dinner.
Since then I have pretty much moved out of home for most of the week. I go to my Mum’s on a Sunday night, and I come back home on a Friday night.
It means that my Mum can help look after (well, to be honest, mostly look after) the Boy, and the Buddy (who doesn’t mind staying at Mum’s one bit as his sisters live there). And the Husband can have a better quality of life knowing that I am being looked after rather than having to set out for work at 6.45am, arrive home at 8pm, and then cook dinner, wash up, feed/bath child and only get to sit down at 10pm. As much as he misses me, I know it’s best for him. And us. But that doesn’t stop me feeling like I have run out on my marriage, albeit temporarily.
The Husband always says “In sickness and in health” whenever I bring up this subject, but I still feel like I have almost betrayed him somehow.
I think the only (and I mean only) positive that has come out of this is that the crippling sciatica and PGP that I had last time round hasn’t reared its ugly head yet, because I’m unable to do pretty much anything apart from sit on my arse.
So, I’m still being sick at irregular intervals, despite being on Stemetil 3 x a day. But I am managing to drink water (can’t stand tap water, mineral water only dahhhhling), eat ice lollies, and various other things when I can convince my stomach not to revolt.
I have ketostix on order so I can dip my own urine when I’m feeling particularly rough.
I always sign off with “keep breathing” because it’s about the only thing you can do when you’ve got hyperemesis and you’re having a rough time. You can’t bring yourself to smile, eat, stay happy or any other amount of cheesiness. Sometimes breathing can be a bit of a job without throwing up if there’s something particularly foul-smelling nearby.
I’ll stop wittering now.