A numbness had settled in as the weeks droned on. I felt like I was reduced to just heaving myself through the day. I was unmotivated. I wanted to do nothing and what was worse, I was in a mental ditch that felt more like a canyon and I was trapped between the mountains on either side. I was tired and I just didn’t care.
I was pregnant. It was my third child and as lazy as I felt, my husband felt the same for frustration towards me. I wasn’t completely milking the situation. Every other day I really did feel like I couldn’t move without feeling a wave of severe nausea. It’s been a cruel nine weeks. I have been given the nose of a dog, yet, ironically, certain odors make me vomit. I’ve been cursed with a severe increase of hunger that I am unable to satiate because of that on-going nausea.
It doesn’t take more than a week before I realized I was playing a numbers game. Four out of five food attempts will cause me to vomit regardless of what my choices will be. After the cabbage, pickles, cereal, and ice cream, the peanut butter sandwich is bound to come back and haunt me.
To make matters worse, my loving husband has anointed himself official coach over my nausea and diet.
"You know you can’t eat that! It’s acidic!"
"Last time you ate vegetables you threw them up!"
"You know you can’t eat that stuff!"
Occasionally, I use the last bit of my remaining strength to lift my head out of the toilet and glare at him with my evil eye in hopes that he’ll gain the hint and abandon me at my post in peace.
But it never fails. Shortly after my stomach has found a moment’s peace, I’ve retired to the couch to regain my strength. It wouldn’t be complete without my retch referee reprimanding me about my lack of motivation and poor eating habits.
"I told you not to eat that stuff!"
"You’re bringing this on yourself."
"Maybe next time you’ll listen to me."
I can’t believe I have allowed myself to forget this from the first two rounds of pregancy.
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