Pregnancy Diary Week 11: Sickness
I need to open with an important disclaimer: if you are feeling particularly nauseous, constitutionally fragile or emotionally sensitive then we have an awful lot in common, and perhaps this week’s post may not be for you right now. If you are keen to plough on regardless, then please do feel free to settle in with a mug of ginger tea and a suitable receptacle, just to be on the safe side. Going in? OK, my apologies in advance. Things that have made me want to be sick this week (literally not metaphorically): the mere mention of curry; any reference to a burrito (sideways or otherwise), or any food item similar to a burrito — basically all Mexican food; the smell of cigarette smoke from a passer-by on the street; the sight of my husband’s shaving residue in the bathroom sink; an advert for verruca treatment; walking past a tin of spam in the tinned goods aisle at the supermarket; taking change from a check-out lady with dirty fingernails in the very same supermarket (no judgement, just a visceral response); overripe bananas; spotting an unidentified, very long, very dark, (very not mine) hair on my coat; licking a stamp; working three 14 hour days straight. This last one is literal and metaphorical and possibly a result of exhaustion rather than explicable or inexplicable disgust but it has caused untold puking nonetheless. My nausea has gone into total overdrive this week and I am really struggling to function. As we haven’t yet told anyone about our news, pausing to yak in one’s handbag mid meeting during discussions about the possibilities for statistical analyses of non-parametric data (I’ve never been big on maths) is, a) a bit rude, and, b) a bit of a giveaway. In addition to several horrendous deadlines at work, we have also been battling with a sick toddler unable to go to nursery, so this week has been a bit of a shit storm (again, literally and metaphorically). One of his prize excretions made me simultaneously vomit and sob, so overwhelming were my sensations that there was no other way for me to process the experience. The cause of this was a tiny and seemingly innocent raisin sized pebble resting pungently in his nappy, presumably the now dislodged guardian of some kind of gateway to hell. OK, so poo may be a challenge even for non-pregnant, emotionally stable people, but I am usually quite robust about it. Even the squelchiest, peanut butter textured, fingernail invading nappy filler doesn’t bother me that much ordinarily. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not shit’s biggest fan, but particularly as a parent, it is something you kinda have to deal with, so I am usually able to block it out and crack on with my day. But for me this single, putrid, nugget prompted a torrent of nausea and emotion, like nothing I have experienced before. The vomiting somewhat unusually accompanied by an uncontrollable leaking of the eyes and an overpowering feeling of futility, only explainable by the stench in the air, or perhaps by my soul dying a little bit as a result. My poor son was quite bewildered at this and his reaction was so innocent: “Sausage! Sausage, Mummy! Mummy?” His current word for poos. That one was most definitely not a sausage, my little sausage, but bless you for the rather favourable analogy. What with my toddler’s spectacular bottom and the raging pregnancy hormones from his minute brother or sister, all I could do was hug him and wonder if there will be such impressive tag-teaming when our little one comes into the world. I suspect this is just the start. Good luck me.