Sometimes you hear stories about people whose dignity and joy in living remain intact during enormous trials like chronic illness, sudden disability, or even the time of dying. Their loved ones carry that inspiring vision with them even in their sorrow; sometimes, they're so inspired that they write books. Movies of the Week are filmed. Sappy yet moving songs are recorded by pop stars. The whole world is a better place, we think, because such a person lived, and died, in such a way.
I will never be the subject of such a book.
The first time I was pregnant, I greeted the joyous news by sticking my head into the toilet and heaving up everything I'd eaten since the first grade. Without hyperbole I tell you that my first trimester was like having food poisoning for ten weeks. I was relieved during my second trimester by the administration of a very expensive anti-nausea drug originally developed for chemotherapy patients. It took about six weeks for my prescription benefits, capped at $5000 for the year, to run out, and without the drug, the nausea came back with a vengeance. This will tell you how pathetically I trumpeted my sorrows far and wide: a friendly acquaintance who was dying of cancer at the time felt so sorry for me, she offered to send me her leftover pills.
During my first pregnancy, I had bouts of vomiting that lasted longer, were more painful, and took longer to recover from than the delivery of my son.
It was with these happy memories fresh in my mind that I launched fearlessly into a second pregnany this summer. Before it was even possible to take a pregnancy test, I began to feel queasy. But queasy only. Nine weeks in, I'm having to do some careful stomach-maintanance, eating every two hours, pushing proteins and complex carbohydrates for blood-sugar stability, and responding slavishly to my body's every whim. But nothing worse.
You'd think I'd be delirious with joy. You'd think I'd be dancing around the house all day doing a happy little "not vomiting" dance. Not vomiting! Look at me, everybody! I'm Not Vomiting!
Well, I was. For the first couple of weeks. Then I realized that even without the nausea and vomiting, the queasiness and fatigue of the first trimester take their toll. Hot days leave me completely enervated. If I don't get a mid-afternoon nap, I'm exhausted and discouraged by evening, alternately cranky and weepy. Usually an active and energetic person, I'm good for about three hours work a day, and that is most emphatically not in addition to the time I spend caring for my two-year-old. I'm currently behind in my job (teaching English on-line) and behind around the house, too. The only thing I'm accomplishing is a complete re-reading of the Horatio Hornblower novels, which I'm using to pass the time during the many hours each day when I cannot sleep but am too tired to do anything requiring more effort than reading a set of books so familiar I don't even have to look at the text anymore; I just turn a page every 45 seconds or so and let the story run in my head, from memory.
After awhile, "It could be worse" is cold comfort indeed, and despite an early resolution not to complain--after all, I knew what I was risking this time, I knew what I was getting into--I have degenerated into my usual irksome sicky self. I complain to all and sundry. I demand extravagent favors from friends, like dear Adrianne who drove an hour each way today to take my son around the corner to the park so I could sleep a little in the afternoon. I whine about how little I'm getting done, and rather than being grateful to David for doing all the work I'm not doing and fetching me food and beverages on demand at all hours, I suspect him of dawdling at the grocery store. I worry about my job--I'm due smack-dab in the middle of the spring semester--and as a result, I worry about money. I expect David, despite his naturally sanguine and optimistic temperament, to worry right along with me. When he does not, I accuse him of dismissing my concerns and not caring about my feelings, and of being the engine of our inevitable financial ruin.
The first time, I thought it was all the vomiting I was doing in inappropriate places like parking lots and living rooms that completely destroyed my dignity. But now I see that I have no dignity, and never have. I am weak, and whiny, and fretful, and vexatious. Want to make a movie of the week? The rights are still available. Cheap.
Posted by Su Penn at September 10, 2003 08:40 PM | TrackBack