I was lucky for the first 6 weeks of my pregnancy. I felt terrible for the girls who were running to the bathroom or were stuck on the couch thanks to their nausea. But the most I got was a 5 second wave of it once or twice a day. Which, honestly, I didn’t consider morning sickness. Sure I got some pretty decent heartburn, but I’ve been dealing with that all year. Apparently, 25 is the year for acid reflux. Or so my body thinks.
Then week 7 hit, and with it came the nausea. I am in that 25% of women who get morning sickness – nausea – without the actual sickness part. Just a whole day of feeling like I’m about to loose my lunch. Or what little lunch I was able to force down. Now, there have been a few trips to the bathroom floor, armed with the double edged sword of disgust + hope. Disgust that I felt so sick, and hope that maybe, just maybe, if I could vomit, I would feel better for the rest of the day. So far, nothing.
It now takes me 45 minutes to eat my egg in the morning. It is not uncommon for me to sneeze, then run to the bathroom, thinking something might come up. Even Calvin has gotten into the morning sickness routine. As soon as he hears me coughing, he runs to the bathroom and sits on the counter to watch over me and make sure I’m okay.
As you may or may not now, when I was a child, I went through about 10 years of being sick. We were never able to name it, but basically, every 2-3 months, I would get a fever, headache, and vomit for 3 days straight. I was glued to the couch with a bucket next to my head. It was not fun, and I can only imagine how hard it was for my parents to watch me go through this. One day, it miraculously stopped. I had my last “episode” as we called them, and I never revisited. And in fact, I’ve only thrown up ONCE since then – and that was with a nasty bout of the flu.
Being sick now brings back those old feelings. My current comfort zone – on the couch watching Sex & the City or The Office – reminds me a lot of that couch in the house on Virgil Street. The feeling in my stomach reverts me back to those childhood days and I can’t eat. I can not eat anything. Nothing sounds, smells, looks good. And I live with an amazing chef. It takes me 20 minutes just to choke back some toast.
Part of me can’t wait for this first trimester to end. To hopefully find a little light at the end of the toilet. To have an appetite again. But most of me feels guilty. Guilty about complaining. Complaining about something I want so badly. Something not everyone gets to have. Because, I know, as long as I am sick in the mornings (and throughout the days) my baby is growing. My little Raspberry is quickly growing to be the size of a grape. Those little webbed fingers and toes are getting longer and more agile. The muscles are developing and Baby is moving around. A heart, lungs, brain, a little spinal chord are all forming rapidly. And so how can I complain about that?
I suppose guilt is something all parents deal with. I just never imagined it would happen before my baby is even considered a fetus.