hyperemesis

posted on January 25, 2015 by elizabeth

The End is Nigh

With Baby McGivern number two making an appearance later this week I thought I would use some of my limited free time to do a quick recap of the last nine months.

It’s clearly no secret that I don’t enjoy this whole pregnancy malarkey but, as usual, if I sit down and really think about it I did realise there were parts that weren’t horrendous – I’m looking at you second trimester.

The Parts I Hated:

An obvious one to kick us off: sickness (and all that comes with it).
Although I was determined to stay out of hospital this time around, the baby had other plans. No matter what combination of liquid I tried it was not for staying down. I finally admitted defeat and was admitted for some fasting and IV fluids.
It’s always a joy.
Again, this sickness lasted from weeks 9-18.
Although this was pretty similar to the first time round, I got a lovely surprise in the third trimester with another bout of dehydration – meaning more fasting and IV fluids.
Thanks for keeping things fresh, body.

The whole hyperemesis debacle was bad enough but throw in looking after a toddler at the same time and you’ve entered a whole new circle of hell.
I will forever be grateful to ‘Despicable Me’ (1&2) for helping to put Bear into a zombie-like trance for 90 minutes so I could lie perfectly still on the sofa – for fear of any movement resulting in a fresh wave of nausea.

Ah who am I kidding? Even when I was feeling better Despicable Me came to my rescue. I may be able to quote every line from that movie but it granted me freedom during the day and I’m not remotely sorry about it.

Connected to the sickness was guilt.
Guilt that I had to keep saying ‘no’ to Bear when he wanted to play and having to rely on Conor to be the main entertainer of the household. He got to be the fun one and I was a miserable lump who lifted her head off the pillow from time to time.

That brings me nicely on to the next part I hated: My husband.

I hated everything about him. His smell (not in a gross bodily order way, just his general aroma), the way he breathed, if he whistled – ESPECIALLY WHEN HE WHISTLED, the fact that he could be the fun one and carry on relatively unaffected and the most cardinal sin of all: when he said ‘we’ were pregnant.
This is a major pet peeve of mine, I could probably write a sizable blog rant about this but I’ll not bore you with it.
To sum it up: no, we are not pregnant I am pregnant. You are just lucky I don’t smother you in your sleep*

*something I may have thought about it from time to time when he was breathing on me.

Next up: The Clicky Noise
I haven’t come across anyone else complaining about this during their gestation period but it’s still driving me crazy.
Every night, without fail, I’m woken up by a clicky noise – yes that’s the medical name…
I don’t know what the hell it is, it just happens when I’m trying to breathe when sleeping.
Every breath in *click*, every breath out *click* (you get the idea).
And it’s because of this noise I end up spending the rest of the night awake.
After failing to get back to sleep I traipse downstairs and sit on the sofa watching trash tv at 3am; just me and the clicky noise.
Sometimes Mum’s cat keeps me company, which I don’t mind as she’s a good listener – she doesn’t know what the clicky noise is either.

And lastly: Bleugh
I do not look good pregnant. All these glowing ladies that have tiny bumps and energy completely baffle me.
They’re like mythical creatures. I hate them.
I don’t glow, I eat clinically worrying amounts of chocolate and if I didn’t have legitimate reasons to get up in the morning I would spend nine months in bed.
Despite Conor’s best attempts, I rebuke any type of compliment and suspiciously eye him up if he tries to tell me I look beautiful.
I’m a delight to live with during this time, I swear.

There are positive points to this time, no really.

The Parts I Loved:

First Up: Getting to be completely unreasonable
Not that I would ever admit that I was being unreasonable, but I have found that every whim is granted.
I don’t let the power go to my head (tempting as it is) but I have been making the most of requesting all types of food at any time.
Yes, I’m a walking cliché and I don’t care.
Conor has mostly been sent for fried chicken and chocolate late at night, and God help him if he dares come back with something that was not on the list.
The list is sacred, there is no room for improvisation; I believe he went to four different shops in search of a particular brand of lemonade because he was too scared to return home without it.
If he tried to convince me that I didn’t really need the cheesy toast at 2am, he was swiftly told: “I’m
creating life.”
Poor guy. I love it.

Secondly: Being Looked After
I think I’m a great patient, I suspect others will disagree.
I love nothing more than being told I can go rest because ‘it’s good for the baby’ and then I’m brought toast in bed.
I’m easily pleased.
As we’ve been living in Mum’s while our house is getting work done, the opportunity to rest is even more frequent.
There’s nothing like coming home and being looked after by your Mum.
I get washing and cooking done for me, it’s wonderful. She also leaves a duvet out for me for when I inevitably have to get up and lie on the sofa in the middle of the night.

This swiftly brings me on to the next part I loved: My Husband.
See? I’m not all that bad.
The late night food runs, holding my hair back while I got sick, the late night conversations when he tries to get me to calm down about the clicky noise, his excitement at the thought of having another baby and telling me I look beautiful every single day – even the days when I literally look grey and

feel like I’m the size of a house.
He’s been pretty damn great, despite being up against a raving lunatic.

And finally: Kicks.
There is nothing more amazing in this world that being punched and kicked constantly by an overactive bump.
Compared to Bear, this baby has been ridiculously active at any given time.
I think it’s his way of keeping my worry levels down to a minimum.
There’s been noticeably less dashes to the assessment unit because he’s always ‘there’.
Even when I complain about the constant nudging preventing me from getting a decent night’s sleep, I live for these movements.

All being well, I will finally get to meet this new baby in four days time. Four days, Christ.
I’d better make the most of the food runs and daytime naps before I have to be held accountable for my diet and sleeping schedule.

How rubbish.

posted on November 11, 2014 by elizabeth

Baby Brain is Real – and Dangerous

‘Baby Brain’ is a phrase that’s thrown around a lot when a woman is pregnant.
Unfortunately, over the last few months (well, weeks to be fair) I’ve done very little to dispel this stereotype.
In my defense, I’ve always been pretty clumsy.
One of your Dad’s favourite memories of me is when I accidentally punched myself in the face while I was lying in bed.
Auntie Ciara regularly hears me curse down the phone when I forget that you need to push a door open before walking into it and I constantly drop my phone onto my face when trying to read a message lying down.
I’m also the perfect height for whacking my sides off tables. A lot.

Although this pregnancy has resulted in less stays in hospital, it has exacerbated the dreaded ‘Baby Brain’.
I find myself mid sentence not remembering what on earth I was talking about or asking questions like: “Why don’t the ice caps fall off and go into space?” That gem was met with a stunned silence from your Father at lunchtime today.
To be clear, I know it’s because of gravity but for those two minutes I just couldn’t get my head around it.

The bad news is: this ridiculous condition is getting worse.

Last week, I decided that you and I would have dinner in the Living Room (it was gammon, mash, gravy and veg – this is important).
I sat my plate down and got you settled on your seat with dinner.
In the thirty seconds it took to do this I completely forgot that I’d already brought my dinner in and I settled myself on the sofa…right on top of the plate.
The cream, fabric sofa is now nicely decorated with gravy stains that squelched out the sides.
Your dad came home to find me sitting on the sofa with my trousers off watching tv.
He didn’t ask any questions and accepted this as normal behaviour – which should really tell you the level of insanity he’s been coming home to on a regular basis.

I’ve not let this culinary disaster stop me from being my usual domestic goddess self *ahem*.
I decided to make some butternut squash and red pepper soup to bring into work.
Being organised, for a change, I had it sitting waiting in the blender for me this morning.
You can see where I’m going with this can’t you?
I came downstairs ready to leave and switched the blender on.
If you’re curious, blenders work fine without the lid on.
You and your Dad came into the kitchen to find me covered in soup. It was a lovely orange shade that did nothing for my colouring unfortunately.

You may be reading this and thinking it’s all harmless fun but I haven’t got to the worst one.

Continuing with my domestic goddess-like behaviour, I was recently cleaning the kitchen before we were to head out to visit Granny Annie and Granda Seamus.
Before leaving, I could swear that I smelt something ‘odd’ but decided that it was my hyper-sensitive pregnancy nose.
When we arrived home, weary and ready for bed your Dad opened the door to the unmistakable smell of a gas-filled house.
I’d successfully managed to leave the gas on the hob on. For seven hours.
So after opening all the upstairs windows, we decamped to Granny Betty’s for the night.
Que sobbing Mummy who kept saying: “I nearly killed us all.”
As you can imagine, it was a fun evening for your Dad.
By the next morning the house had properly aired and it was safe for us all to come home again.
This incident has now resulted in me checking the hob at least six times before going to bed.

Now, I’m not one to be paranoid but I’m beginning to sense that you are not helping my condition.
You’ve started a fun habit of hiding things around the house which is making it difficult to figure out if it’s me losing things or you purposely finding new places for them.

So far I’ve found the house phone in the letter box, my keys in the tumble dryer and my glasses were last seen on your mischievous face. Don’t deny it, here’s the proof:

I’m begging you for a truce. My brain isn’t working at full capacity and this is just bullying.
I will remember this in later life – who am I kidding I won’t remember this by the time I hit ‘publish’.

Love always,

Mum

posted on August 30, 2014 by elizabeth

Here We Go Again…

It’s been a strange year and it’s not about to get any quieter.
It seems that despite being very vocal about my rubbish time being pregnant with you, it didn’t put me off.
That theoretical sibling we’ve been talking about has become a literal one.
Any plans to make a cute announcement as suggested by the evil Pinterest went out the window when I was admitted to hospital with hyperemesis gravidarum AGAIN.
I’m not sure why my children like to try and kill me through dehydration but it’s not cool guys; not cool.

During that fun time in hospital I missed you incredibly and was feeling very sorry for myself, so I asked your Granny Betty to bring me a funny movie to watch on the laptop.
I specifically asked for one that would distract me from being separated from my son.
In her wisdom she brought me ‘Philomena’.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s a fantastic movie but not one to watch if you don’t want to have your heart broken.
The fact that it’s about a woman’s search for her son after he was illegally adopted didn’t exactly distract me from being away from you.
Thanks Mum.

On the upside, this baby has only had me in hospital once (so far) so it’s automatically been bumped to the favourite child spot, sorry.

I haven’t given much thought to the practicalities of having a second child just yet. To be honest I’m trying to survive being pregnant.
When the reality of it hits, it’s usually around 4am and I’m wide awake asking: “How the hell am I going to do this?”
I’m not going to lie, there’s been a lot of cold sweat and panicky moments over the last few months.
I hope the excitement of it all will overtake the fear aaaaaany day now.

You’re not going to be happy about this new addition, I’m preparing for this already by randomly picking up strangers’ children and pretending to take them home.
If you think you’re unhappy just think how the parents of those children feel? Don’t worry, I give them back before any charges are brought up.

The cats weren’t happy with you coming to town but now they’ve learned to accept it by creepily glaring at you through the kitchen window 24/7.
I won’t make you live outside when the baby comes or anything so already you’re doing better than them.

We’ve still got five months to figure all this out so let’s not panic more than we have to.
In the meantime I vote for blissful ignorance, you in?

Love always,

Mum

posted on September 12, 2013 by elizabeth

And Oliver Made Three…

As I write this, you and your Dad are playing on the sofa.
You are 17-weeks-old and by playing I mean you are laughing and drooling all over yourself while he lifts you over his head. Chess is off the
agenda for the foreseeable because he thinks you cheated in the last game – don’t deny it.
I thought I’d start this blog off by telling you how you came to be. Don’t worry, it’s a brief overview of the pregnancy and it won’t go into any details that will result in years of extensive therapy (I’m saving those gems for your teenage years), but if you don’t want to read a paragraph with the word ‘dilated’ in it, I’d probably quit now.

From the start we knew we wanted children, three in fact. However, after what was undoubtedly the most horrendous nine months of my life the future siblings that we’d planned to keep you well adjusted and not an over indulged brat have been called into question**
**Note to any future siblings reading this, you came about because Daddy got Mummy drunk and got her to sign an ironclad contract (I jest – mainly).
I had great expectations about my pregnancy, born mainly from episodes of ‘Friends’. I believed that I would feel a bit sick, have a beautiful little bump while the rest of me stayed pretty much the same and then give birth after a few pushes – complete with theatrical screaming – and the whole ordeal would be performed by a comical doctor who would make the finale hilarious!
The reality was, shall we say, a little different.
That little bit of sickness turned out to be hyperemesis gravidarum. This resulted in 10 weeks of unrelenting nausea and two stays in hospital. I spent this whole time surviving off orange dilute and having a huge fear of smell. Any smell. Freshly baked cookies would have me running for the bathroom. You get the general idea.
Funnily enough, this experience made me a little cross at those trying to offer helpful advice for morning sickness. It got to the point where I was seriously considering tying up the next person who suggested eating crackers or ginger and force feeding them said foods while laughing like a crazy person.
I can’t really blame you for all the dashes to the hospital. The majority were caused by a combination of my overactive imagination, my superhuman ability to panic and worry over absolutely anything – there was no niggle too small that I couldn’t turn into a life-threatening ailment – and the greatest cause of all, the internet.
I knew all the midwives on a first name basis by the time labour actually happened. It was a long nine months.
To be fair, I didn’t hate all of it.
By the time I could feel you bashing away at my ribs, you and I had reached a secret understanding: I’d keep you safe if you kept the sickness away.
From about halfway through the pregnancy your scans showed that you were measuring bigger than what you ‘should’ have been so my little grainy smudge on the screen started to be referred to as Godzilla baby. I started having dreams that you would be coming out just to terrorize downtown Tokyo.
They ruled out gestational diabetes as a reason for the size and tried to convince me that my body wouldn’t make a baby that it couldn’t deliver. Still, I wasn’t relishing the thought of delivering a 16lb sea monster.
The last few weeks of my sentence (ahem) were spent waddling around, providing a lot of entertainment for your Dad who eventually stopped laughing when he nearly put his back out helping me up and down from the sofa/bed/bath.
Eight days after you were due, my body – and me – had enough and served you an eviction notice which you decided to ignore. For 14 hours. You were quite cosy as you were so eventually I was taken in for an emergency section.
And then, out you came screaming like the antichrist with an angry, angry face and you were without a doubt the most perfect thing I’d ever seen. You weren’t quite the 16lber I’d been dreaming about but you weren’t far off (10lb 3.5oz).
So that was that. It was finally over and you made us a legitimate family. Anytime Daddy and I referred to the cats as our family we were shot a look that suggested we were properly mental and you look much cuter in a baby grow than them.
If you’ve made it through this far, well done. I’ll try my best to make the rest of the blog less traumatic or start putting aside a few quid a week for the aforementioned therapy.
Love always,
Mum

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