Tum Largum

Me at that Alabama 3 gig the other week, when I got my tummy out:



Update: Hahaha, I just noticed that strange ghosty thing protruding from my stomach: At first I thought it looked like a bongo under my arm or something, and then I realised: It is the baby's idiot father, sticking his head out from behind. It does rather look as though he is some kind of mischievous genii or other spirit, who lives in my bump...

Further update: I'm not due for another eight weeks yet (on 7th July). I know! Just think how huge I'll be then!

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Hot

Pregnant women don't like being hot much, have you noticed that?

Well it's true.

They don't.


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Biggering and Biggering

No, not buggering. BIGGERING.

I suspect I'm half-remembering some quote from a Dr Seuss book (have I ever told you how much I love Dr Seuss?) (well I do. I really love Dr Seuss), but I can't remember which book or exactly what the quote was so I'm going to try really hard to stop thinking about it now cos otherwise it'll drive me mad and I'll spend the next two hours hunting through my son's bedroom for Dr Seuss books (we have a lot) and getting sidetracked by tidying his bedroom instead of being sidetracked by writing blog posts, which is what I'm supposed to not be doing instead of what I'm really supposed to be supposed to be doing.

Where was I? Oh yes. I am bigger.

(biggering and biggering... oh damn it, what IS that quote?)

I can still reach the keyboard. But what happens when I can't? I only just can. I've heard people talking about balancing keyboards on bumps but frankly that's just silly, particularly at the rate and ferocity at which I type, and anyway what about my RSI? Huh?

This whole bump-getting-in-the-way thing is actually getting to be quite a pain. Not because I can't reach stuff, cos so far I can always find a way to reach stuff. No. It's literally a pain. The problem is, when you know it has a bit of give in it and you just need to stretch a liiitle bit further to reach the jam or the tea or the drill or the TV remote, then that's what you do. And if someone tries to squeeze past you in the kitchen or in the pub, you end up pushing the bump against the nearest obstacle in attempt to make yourself smaller. Which would all be well and good if it weren't for the fact that it hurts. Not at the time, but afterwards. I have a kind of permanent bruise on the tip of my bump. And sometimes it gives me nasty shooting pains. No no, I'm not in labour. It's not that kind of pain. Although I do wish constipation pains and labour pains weren't so similar. When I had the miscarriage I was convinced it was just a blockage in my tubes, and now every time my poo gets stuck I think I'm heading for premature babyville. Or worse. I do wish I hadn't watched Coronation St over the last couple of weeks (they have a character who up until last week was exactly the same amount of pregnant as me, but then her baby stopped kicking...) (mine is still kicking) (but I am keeping a very hawk-like eye on it).

Well, anyway. I am also hot. Because the weather is hot. Which is all very well, but pregnancy and hotness don't mix, and my hair needs cutting, and I hate hairdressers at the best of times, but I really don't fancy being pregnant in a hair salon. All that sitting about in unsuitable seats. All that chit-chat. Pregnancy makes me very intolerant of shit-chat. It happened last time too. Ooh, that was a typo but I like it. In the last sentence but one, I mean. Or is it but-two? Anyway, my hair is thick and makes me hot.

Of course, given that I am sitting here right now shit-chatting at you in the most brazen fashion imaginable, maybe I better shut up about that.

I'm supposed to be doing other stuff really. I'll go do that instead.

P.S. I made a key lime pie last night. On a whim, because I just happened to be passing a cupboard with a broken door and there was an ancient tin of condensed milk in there (I'm not sure why, I never use condensed milk) (what's it for, anyway?) (apart from making key lime pie, that is) (and why is it sometimes called evaporated milk?) (or are they not the same thing?) and it had a recipe on the side for key lime pie, and I liked the sound of it. So I made it last night. It is YUMMY. I had to freeze most of it though, because I also made a chocolate cake two days ago and all this biggering (oh damnit, what was that book?) makes me bruised.

P.P.S. And I made a fence and a gate and a ramp at the weekend. And they work, and are much less dilapidated than the last fence and gate I made (I have never made a ramp before though) (it is for a dog) (I am proud of it), although perhaps a little lopsided.

But I am supposed to be doing other stuff than this, and I will either go away now and do that instead or find something else to distract me from it.

[wanders off in search of Dr Seuss books]


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Streeeetch!

I've just noticed my maternity dungarees are made out of stretchy denim. I'm disproportionately pleased by this.

The majority of maternity wear available is just ordinary clothing with a vague nod in the direction of expanding tummies, and even when sold by Mothercare (who I -obviously mistakenly - think ought to know what they're doing), they're mostly uncomfortable and just don't really get it.

But these do the job.

And they remind me of when stretch denim was all new and exciting and trendy and all the rage, all of - er - 25 years ago (blimey).

I am enormous, by the way. I have a very big tummy indeed. I got it out at the Alabama 3 gig on Sat night and was astonished by the reaction. I had a vague feeling people might tell me off or something, but I was too hot so out it came (the bump) (nothing else). And suddenly people were beaming at me and telling me how wonderful it was and how wonderful I was and how ace that my baby would grow up to be an Alabama 3 fan, and it was all rather lovely.

A friend of mine took a photo on her mobile phone, she too being full of general happiness and impressedness on my behalf. As soon as she can get it to me I will post it here.


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This Life of Mine

I feel the need to write something here but can't think what, so I thought I might just witter on for a bit and see what happens...

It's all been a bit bitty, my blogging of late. I'm in this strange, very transient, phase of life. The illness is more or less over (yay) but I still get nauseous occasionally (boo) and the main problem is I get really-really tired (double boo) and can't do as much as I want. My body keeps forcing me to down tools, and I have to listen cos, well, you know, there's a baby in my tummy. And even if it's a head-fuck trying to make yourself believe you have another human being squirming around in your middle, it's still there and you have to look after it, in this weird, not-being-able-to-put-your-hands-on-it kind of a way which in fact involves looking after yourself. Which doesn't always work if you also have this mad drive to accomplish the sixty-squillion things on your To-Do list before it pops out. The baby, that is, not the To-Do list. Oh God, how awful if I gave birth to a To-Do list! I don't think I'd appreciate that.

So, yes. Being pregnant is indeed a licence to be selfish. You can bagsy the best seats and get people to run around after you and generally be a fat lazy arse, but it's OK cos you're doing it for the littl'un, not for you. I still feel guilty sometimes though, like when I'm kicking Ally out of bed in the mornings to do the Daddy stuff.

So, the baby kicks loads, and often reminds me of its presence. But it's still mostly a future being, rather than a present one. I think there will be a baby, rather than there is one. And yes, when it wriggles and squirms I lift my top and gaze at my tummy in amazement - the flesh moves around and it's all very Sigourney Weaver. But it's not only there at those moments. It's there all the time. No matter what I'm doing, there is an actual live human being, existing inside me. It's easier to think that it's not alive yet than to get your head around the idea that it already exists, and technically could survive outside the womb from now on, although it would find it difficult and I'd rather it didn't.

I don't normally use "it" to describe it, cos I do know the gender. I've told everyone else, I dunno why I haven't told you lot (at least, I don't think I have - my memory is even worse than normal). But, you know, it's nice to keep back a few surprises. And who knows, maybe the radiologist got it wrong.

So, apart from playing host to a teeny-tiny person, I'm getting myself in a pother over my ginormous To-Do list. I need to stop doing that. It really doesn't matter if the front door catch doesn't get fixed or the baby's room continues to have Soot Dribbling Down The Walls as its main decorous theme. Or indeed if my next novel doesn't get writ (but have you checked out the word counter lately? I'm doing rather well - am proud of that).

And gawd, that whole novel-writing thing. Argh. Even though I have now chosen a plot and style and have jumped in and am determined to finish it... I'm not convinced I'm writing the right book. Or indeed that I can write at all. Despite having two publishing deals behind me, I don't feel like I have the faintest clue what I'm doing, or - more importantly - that I have any talent at all. All those people, writing brilliant books, and then... me.

I've been fretting over this book wot I'm writing and its chatty style. It's quite frothy and won't win any literary awards. As a sop to myself, and to discourage myself from switching genre in the middle of a book, I'm also writing another book on the side; one which is all about the words, the beautiful language, the clever stuff. And which I'll probably never finish (I've only written 350 words so far, and anyway there are only so many hours in the day), but does make me feel slightly better about the whole thing. And is probably going to be a kids' book, even though I haven't made my mind up yet, which is interesting in itself.

Climbing stairs is hard. It's like hauling a hippopotamus up behind me. So far I'm still able to get to my computer, which is up two flights in the attic, but there may come a day when all communication suddenly ceases because I am sprawled, panting, across the bottom few steps and unable to get any further. And it makes my hips hurt.

I have eleven weeks to go. Eleven weeks seems like a long time to wait before my body starts being a bit kinder to me (ha! What am I thinking? Have I forgotten how sore it all is for weeks after childbirth?). But not long to accomplish all the things on The Enormous List whilst getting steadily more hippo-like.

I'm also doing some storytelling - will be doing some this Friday in fact - but it's all strictly amateur and I've reined myself in re plans to become Tip Top Professional Storyteller. There's only so much one woman can achieve, and I'm officially on maternity leave now. I have no clue what or who I will do / be when the baby gets bigger. There are too many imponderables, and for once I've managed to stop myself making obsessive plans for the future. Something'll come along, I guess, although this whole global economy meltdown thing is worrying me slightly. But only slightly. Tranquilising pregnancy hormones. They're ace. And they keep rushing around your system as long as you're breastfeeding, so I'll hopefully live in a little contented bubble for at least the rest of this year. Well, I did after Felix was born. I s'pose I could be in for a shock, but no point worrying about that now.

We're having a home birth, so I don't need to worry about my baby getting swapped for someone else's. No, sorry, that was ambiguous. We're not having a home birth because I'm worried about swapped babies. It's just that, given we are doing the home thing anyway, I should be pretty sure it's my baby I'm bringing up. Unless some absent-minded midwife packs someone else's baby in her boot by accident and gets it out of her bag and puts it down somewhere in my house after my baby's born.

I once had a dream, before I was a mother, that I had a baby. It was a recurring dream theme, back in the childless days. These babies would just appear, and I would think, 'Oh, that's odd, I don't remember being pregnant,' and then I'd forget them or lose them or otherwise fail in my mothering duties. In this one dream, I put it in my pocket and forgot all about it. Then a few days later, I thought, 'Hang on, didn't I have a baby? What did I do with it?' and there it was, at the bottom of a deep coat pocket, covered in ancient boiled sweets and bits of fluff.

Felix loves that story. He listened intently when I told it to someone else the other day, then repeated it back to me out of the blue yesterday morning.

'And you put me in your pocket,' he said.
'Well, it wasn't you I don't think. It was before you were born.'
'It was probably Conor then, from my class at school. He's older than me.'
'I don't think it was Conor either. I didn't know him then.'
'But it could have been Conor. I like to think of it being someone.'
'Oh. OK then.'

Anyway, Emmerdale. Oh sorry, don't you watch it? It's a British soap. They have this brilliant storyline at the moment. First there was a cot death, which I thought was handled unusually well, with a lot of focus on the aftermath, rather than sweeping the whole thing under the carpet and forgetting about it, like soaps normally do with dramatic storylines, until some character makes a brief mention of it years later, and you think, 'Oh yes, you once got tied up and raped in a garage and all your family were massacred, yes, I forgot about that.'

Well, anyway. First there was a cot death, and the announcer made a special warning at the beginning of the episode, so you would know it was going to make you cry, and I had to watch all the same, and it made me cry buckets. But now, just as they're still getting to grips with their grief and all that, now they've discovered it (probably) wasn't even their baby that died! Their babies were swapped at birth! Their baby is alive and kicking and living in a caravan with the next door neighbours! Who don't have a clue what's going on!

When I've told people (people who aren't as addicted to soaps as me) about this wonderful turn of events, they've clicked their tongues and sighed and said how silly. But personally, I think it's brilliant. What a wonderful dramatic twist! Whatever will happen next??!! And why can't I have ideas like that?

Coronation St have got a swapped-baby story going on at the moment, too. I'm similarly impressed by their dramatic ingeniousness. So, there you are, you have one teenage son, an only child, his father is dead, you dote on him. And then you find out he's not your son! Some other child, who lives in a posh house and goes to a posh school on the other side of town, is your son! And he looks just like his dead dad, who you loved terribly and miss awfully! And then there's the whole thing of who thinks what, with the other mother refusing to pay any attention, and the other son desperate to become your son cos he's a spoilt brat and doesn't think his family is good enough, and your original son is getting all jealous, and his real father is desperate to get to know him cos he doesn't like his own son who isn't really his son anyway... wonderful.

It is weird though, how two of the main three British soap operas have come up with the same unlikely plot. This plot-duplication thing happens a lot in soap operas. It's a bit annoying. Do they steal each other's ideas? And if so, why? Surely it only lessens both storylines, and certainly doesn't make you choose one soap over the other, just makes you feel exasperated with both of them? Ally has a much better theory, though, about why it happens. All the soaps are under constant pressure to come up with something amazing, something new, something which hasn't been done before. That in itself will be quite a small pool, as most things have already been done. And, of course, in the same way as people only pay attention to the next door neighbours they amazingly meet in far-flung corners of the earth and never think about all the people they don't bump into, most of the time the stories don't collide. You only notice it when they do. And there was something in the news a couple of years ago about some family somewhere in Eastern Europe or somewhere, who the baby-swap thing happened to. It might have planted seeds in the heads of several independent script writers.

So. Yes. I love soap opera.

Oh, shut up. When the baby gets old enough to express a preference, I'll probably have to give up soap operas, like I did when Felix was little. Let me have my few months of soap-swallowing fun.

And now I s'pose I better get back to that list. I should probably go back and edit this post as well, or at least split it into a few smaller ones. But I can't be arsed. Sorry.


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Pooh

I was at a birthday party for a 2-yr-old the other day. The other guests were either very-small or in charge of the very-small. Then I farted. And suddenly there was an air of consternation in the room.

"Katie, come here. Katie! It's OK, I just want to check your..."

"No, I think it's Amber. Amber honey, come here a minute..."

"Well, um, actually..."

"Katie, come on. Oh no, it's not her."

"It's not Amber either."

"You see, the thing is..."

"Oh Molly, I only just changed your nappy! Come on darling, let me just..."

"I don't think it's Molly either..."

And all the time I'm clenching my cheeks and trying to contain yet another one, and wondering whether to just keep schtum about the whole thing. It's bad enough to be the purveyor of rear end stench-fests, but at least in most circumstances people politely ignore it, and you don't cause the instant eruption of half the adults in the room. Talk about stink bomb.

Of course, if I were more mischievous I would revel in it. I would seek out mother-and-toddler groups and stroll through their midst, happily emitting wilful niffs and then settling back to watch the mayhem.

It's not just my rectal emissions which smell. Pregnancy is an inherently whiffy business. My groin, for instance, is immune to all attempts at hygiene. Within minutes of a bath or shower it's at it again, gleefully manufacturing its pungent odours. What's all that about? Surely everything up there should be nicely plugged, sealed and generally held in for future use? Why the need for extra stinky stuff to be descending the birth canal so far ahead of an actual birth? And God forbid I should indulge my hormones and partake in any extra-procreationary activities. Pooeeee.

And then there's my armpits. Well actually, the main culprit is my left armpit. The right side of my body has always been the elder sibling: responsible, capable, able to write a letter. The left is playful and pays no attention to deodorant, and I live in fear of my pitiful supply of maternity wear rotting under the arm, on one side only.

But it's not only back bottom, front bottom and under-arm which let me down. My breasts have joined in too. I haven't done any pencil tests recently but I doubt there'd be enough writing implements in the house anyway, particularly not with the added bonus of large tummy-shelf to wedge them against. And that's all fine, I'm prouder than ever of My Magnificent Boobs. Although the aureoles are getting a little scary, reminding me that soon they won't much belong to me any more... but anyway. The added droopiness creates yet another bodily crevice in which pongs can gather, and the unique breast smell which I have only ever smelt during pregnancy and breastfeeding is back.

And finally, not to be outdone, my gums are joining in. According to the dentist I'm doing really well for a pregnant lady and hardly have any gingivitis at all, but my son still turns his head when I approach for the goodnight kiss.

The only small consolation is that 5-yr-old children and pregnant women have a better sense of smell than most. One of the many tricks nature plays... take a nauseous woman and multiply her olfactory abilities.

Yeah, thanks nature. Good one. I owe you.


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Getting Where You Want to Be

Practically everything I've done over the last four years or so has been focused on the twin goals of baby and book, and suddenly here I am. Second baby on the way, second book getting published.

It's been longer and difficulter than I anticipated, with quite a few false starts and angst along the way.

But I can now announce that I am, finally, pleased to be where I am. So hurrah for that.

And here's to several more books to come (I'm planning to start work on Novel III in a week's time), but no more babies thank you very much. Books are less painful than babies. It's official.


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Bonding

I'm all right, by the way. Still nauseous in the mornings and evenings, still horribly-easily-tired inebwteen. Still getting bouts of HG, but they don't last longer than 36 hours these days, and follow a predictable pattern which I'm so used to I just shrug and say "Oh well, here we go again," decamp to the spare bed and retch hourly all night, then ease myself onto Rice Krispies in the morning. It's only four days since the last time and as usual it's taken me a few days to get my energy back again, but it's already (nearly) forgotten.

The good bits are slightly better, slightly longer, and I still have this permanently optimistic habit of saying, "OK, that's it, that was the last bout of HG."

I've reached 20 weeks now, which is theoretically halfway. Except it isn't, because pregnancies are measured from the first day of your last period which is actually two weeks before most people conceive, and anyway you rarely notice any symptoms for at least another two weeks after that, so I won't really be halfway through the experience of pregnancy for another two weeks... but that's just me being pedantic (I'm right though).

Anyway. 20 weeks. That's when you get your anomaly scan, which we had yesterday. This is when they look for major developmental problems with limbs, organs or brain. Large issues can be visible at this time - the kind of thing that can lead to a recommendation of termination.

Around this time is also when they start talking about amniocentesis, the test which allows them to remove cells from the womb and test for chromosomal abnormalities such as Downs and Spinabifida, but also a whole bunch of others.

Another thing which happens around now is that the baby starts kicking.

I didn't want to start decorating baby rooms or making concrete baby plans until I got to this point, had confirmation that my baby was alive and well and I was unlikely to lose it for whatever reason. It's not just because I had a miscarriage last year. It's also that I can't do this again. I'm getting too old, the potential gap between my kids is getting too large, but crucially I can't face repeating this level and length of illness. So I don't get another chance. If anything goes wrong this time, I've had my chips.

Which is also why we've decided against amniocentesis. There's a 1 in 300 chance of miscarriage as a direct result of the test. It's a small chance, but one I can't face taking. Just the thought of losing this child tells me how very much I want it. And to lose it as a result of something we could have prevented... No. And what if I found out the child had Downs? I don't blame those that make a decision of termination. It's hard work, bringing up a child with developmental problems. To say that you don't want to put yourself in that position is not to say that Downs children aren't wonderful human beings. But I couldn't do it. Not now. Not with everything behind me. And even if a worse problem were identified, one of the "not compatible with life" conditions, I'd still struggle with voluntarily ending this pregnancy without the option of "let's try again". So what's the point of taking the test, taking the risk of miscarriage?

And the scan was fine. We had it yesterday and I have two photos, one with a perfect image of a curved spinal column (and not much else), and one of a tiny little foot.

And the baby has started kicking, and we know its gender, and all of a sudden it is a little person inside me, and not just an illness, and I am finally bonding. And I bought some maternity wear and a new bra and a new wok (not sure why that's connected, but somehow it seems it is), and am planning to rearrange the house and visit friends to borrow used baby stuff (I am on strict austerity measures and managed to avert my eyes from the rows of outrageously priced cute babywear in Mothercare), and... well, feeling positive.

There are no guarantees. Things can still go wrong. But that's always true. It's not a reason not to make plans. And I do love making plans.

Those fucking bastard immigrant-bashing politicians though... Grr.


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By Halves

I'm living a strange kind of half life at the moment.

It's about three months since I started being ill, and I know better by now than to pronounce myself "well" or "recuperating". Every time I do that, I have another bout of HG. The last one was a week ago. All I can say is that for the last few days, I've been a bit less nauseous. Which is a good thing. And I'm nearing the 20-week mark, which is another good thing. I've got a good chance of getting better at 20 weeks, but I can't count on it.

In the meantime I still get nauseous easily, still get tired easily, and am stuck in semi-recuperation. There are things I want to do. But I have so many excuses for not doing them. Because I start and then have to stop again because I feel too ill. Because I'm too tired. Because I'm scared tthat I won't be able to do them, or will muck them up. Because I've spent so long sitting on a rocking chair and staring at the telly that I've developed Stockholm Syndrome, with the goggle box as my captor.

When I'm ill my brain doesn't work. I can't think about anything complex, can't reason, can't discern. In this state the only thing I can cope with is simple television. The kind that's not too shouty, not too bright, not too challenging. And it has become my comfort blanket, so I'm scared to step away from those warm fuzzy channels for too long. But I'm not so ill, not so often this week. Which means my brain is starting to work again, which means I'm getting bored and fidgety, but...

Having done practically nothing for three months, it's hard to believe I'm capable of doing something. So I do half-things, and leave them half-finished, and roam about the place, dissatisfied, occasionally nauseous.

Nausea is such a sneaky thief. Especially when you know it as the precursor to so much worse. When you learn that it might be a sign, for another spell of days in bed, possibly topped by a distinctly unpleasant hospital stay. So you tiptoe around it, even as it saps you of brain power, energy and the ability to smile, leaving you listless and resigned, another day scuppered.

I do have good bits. I feel churlish for moaning. It's not all bad and will end in something good, and I probably am on a permanently upward road now.

So, you know. Still, here, still hoping. The irony is the sliding scale of contrast. I feel bad, really bad, I complain about it, I long for something better. And then I get better, a little better, better enough to notice the contrast and be glad. But then I settle into the new kind of better and forget the worse that was before, noticing only the still not right of now. And then I get slightly better again, and am glad, but get used to it, and notice yet again that I'm still not well.

Illness shouldn't be measured in weeks and months, that's the problem. It's all so slow. Slow descent, slow recuperation, and all those bloody yo-yo bounces between, as recuperation turns into relapse and my body proves again that I can't trust a word it tells me. Illnesses are supposed to be short bursts, not long ones. And serious illness is supposed to be marked by fear of death, not the promise of life. It's all upside down and roundabout, and makes the moaning even harder to hear than normal.

I just need to lose some habits. Illness is a habit now, settled comfortably into my being and refusing to let go. Acticity, accomplishment, getting stuff done and having fun are habits I've lost, and as usual I'm impatient, assume I can jump right back in and ignore the disabled ramp. So I'll adjust. I'll point my chair down the ramp and negotiate the switchbacks, and aim right down for the well pool. But I might not use my brakes.


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Quick Update

Just in case anyone was wondering, I had another bout of HG and was in hospital again at the weekend. It was pretty 'orrible but I'm on an upward curve now and just hoping very much that's the last of it. I'll have reached 16 weeks on Monday, and lots of people find things get better after 16 weeks, including me in my first pregnancy.

I could tell all sorts of horror stories but I'm fed up of whingeing about it all and my brain isn't really working very well anyway, so I'll probably disappear again for a bit while I recuperate and then hopefully stay well for a bit.

Yours sincerely-lacking-in-inspiration-ly...


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Tum te tum te tumdle dee...

I'm so very sick of watching telly. I'm in this weird middle state right now, not very ill but not quite better either, and having to take it easy in case the illness comes back... and yeah, all right, I've got into bad habits. I've spent weeks sitting in a rocking chair watching the goggle box and I've got stuck in that mode.

I made a list of horrors while in hospital, and there's a post brewing about the state of the NHS, but I can't face writing it. Don't want to be reminded, I spose. So I got distracted waffling on endlessly on Ally's CiF thread instead, then had to forcibly remove myself before I became a One-Woman Thread-Answering Band and alienated myself from the whole CiF community.

What can I do? I need things to do. I can't write for any length of time cos it still makes me ill, I can't do anything physical cos I went for a walk today (first exercise in weeks, woohoo!) (well, apart from when I wnt swimming yesterday, which was actually the first exercise I did in weeks) (but "second exercise in weeks" sounds less impressive) and I'm knackered, I've done all the jigsaws in the house, I'm here on my own so I can't get anyone to play a board game with me...

But never mind all that whingeing. The fact is, I feel better than I have done in weeks. And my pleasure centres are returning. I ate a chocolate, and enjoyed it! I went swimming! I climbed a hill!

When I was in hospital, as I felt gradually more well, I found myself anticipating more and more all the things I might soon be able to enjoy again. Being in water. Being on top of a mountain. Eating biscuits. It was the start of optimism, and I'm still feeling it. There's a definite psychological boost in having 2007 behind me, as it really was rather rubbish (losing a baby, losing my job, getting ill). 2008 stands a good chance of being better.

Sadly there's still quite a high chance of me getting ill again, which is why I have to carry on being cautious and can't just do whatever the hell I want (oh how nice it will be), but even if I do I should be close to the end of it.

Hurrah for that, and hurrah for chocolate.


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An Article About Me!

Him Indoors has just written rather a good article about his experience of my current illness, over on Comment is Free. It's also about the wider subject of the expected role of a man in a situation like this. Go look.


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New Year

Midnight was hideous.

I live in the inner city, so it was an hour-long war of explosions and flashes on the ceiling. One of my symptoms is a hypersensitivity to light, smells and noise, and at the moment - despite my days being so much better - nights still consist of hourly wakings to vomit, spaced out by fitful sleep. That hour, that long hour with build-ups (and down) on either side when I wished everyone could have synchronised their watches and created one giant bang, instead of being so haphazard about it all, culminated in a nightmare which involved me travelling through a house full of excrement, abuse and torture. Maybe the worst nightmare I've ever had.

Feeling better now though. Happy new year and all that. No more fireworks tonight please.


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Bah Double Humbug

The HG started on Xmas Eve and didn't stop, with me ending up in hospital on a drip three days later. I was there four nights - I've just been discharged. Will write more when I'm able, but suffice to say that for now I'm feeling MUCH better, which is very good news indeed.


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School Soup

My days are like soup.

School soup.

Soup that smells of canteens and sounds like a hundred spoons banging, chairs scraping, voices grating.

My mouth tastes of it. Everything I raise turns to school soup between my lips. My saliva creates it, at night when I wake and shove bread-turned-soup in my gob and lie there, waiting, for the school soup aftermath to subside.

I am a school soup factory.

By day my legs, my arms, my mind move slowly, blearily or not at all. Through the soup which clings to elbows and synapses, clogging and clagging, preventing thought or creation or smiles.

School soup sticks in your throat. It pulls acid from below and fear from above and places a veil before you, blocking you from the future and into a neverending school-soup now.

I hate school soup.


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Bah Humbug

It's Christmas. The season of parties, and food, and drink. And I can't do any of it.

Not that I want to. I don't enjoy normal food, let alone the constant adverts for rich food which make me feel sick, the mere thought of alcohol makes me retch, and anything involving crowded rooms, loud noise, sweaty bodies or smoky air brings me out in a sweat.

Nope. Don't want any of it. But everyone else does, and I feel left out. I want to want it. And I want some of my pleasure centres restored. I want to feel some bloody pleasure, for fuck's sake. In any context. I want to feel something other than sick.

Oh well. I'll get there. Give me a few weeks, and I might even enjoy chocolate again. Oh God, I long for the day I can look at a box of chocolates and salivate again.


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Up and Down, Up and Down

Feeling much better again today though. With a bit of luck it'll stay mild this time.

In a way experience is a bad thing, as the fear and the bad memories contribute a lot to my current unease. Then again, there's a good chance I'd be much iller if I hadn't educated and armed myself and done all the preparation I did to try and keep things under control.

Ho hum. It's only time. Just have to keep ploughing through the time, til I get to the other side.


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Ungratitude

Yesterday was a bad day - the worst day yet of the pregnancy, with my first short bout of HG. So I was particularly vulnerable to a certain form of ungratefulness.

I was the same with my son. "Congratulations!" people would say, and I would smile weakly and grit my teeth, wondering what the hell I was supposed to feel celebratory about. Which must sound crazy. Babies are wonderful things, these were wanted and planned pregnancies, and this time more than ever - with a miscarriage not long behind me - surely I should be pleased, not to say delighted?

I was dreading the scan on Tuesday. I thought as soon as I had positive news I'd be overcome with tears of happiness, would feel a flood of relief. There was a moment of doubt - it turns out you don't hear the heartbeat after all - and then I saw it beating and I felt... nothing in particular. Brief relief, then flatness. And as with last time, the photo didn't move me particularly.

There's some deep-seated thing in my brain which refuses to translate pregnancy into baby. It's not a conscious thing - logically I can acknowledge that something could go wrong up to and past the birth, so it makes sense not to count any chickens, but I don't think much about all that. I just can't imagine what's inside me as a baby. My mind won't go there. And so all I'm left with is what I have, which is horrible illness and general debilitation, and when people say "Congratulations!" I just think, "What? Why?"

I know, I know. I wanted this pregnancy. I wanted it a lot. And I knew I'd probably get ill. That's why there's such a big gap between my children (six years). I've spent the last three or more years steeling myself and clearing the decks of my life in preparation for this onslaught. My wish to be a mother again was stronger than my fear. But that burning desire sort of... goes underground, once I'm pregnant. It's still there. If it wasn't, there'd be an easy way to escape the illness - but even at my worst moments, I won't contemplate that.

I want this, of course I do. I just don't like it very much.


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Good News

I have news.

I'm ten weeks pregnant. We went for a scan this morning and saw a heartbeat, which was a relief.

It's been making me quite ill, which is why I haven't been blogging much. I've been mostly unable to read or write, as the printed word makes me liable to vomit. I've been mostly sitting in my rocking chair and feeling crap. I've been mostly very bored.

I've also been terrified of developing HG (Hyperemesis Gravidarum), a debilitating condition I had in my first pregnancy which is so horrible I don't even want to describe it. I'm technically still in danger of getting it, and supposedly have an 80% risk, but I'm feeling much more positive than I was.

I've been writing about it all in another blog. I may blog more over there than over here for a while, mainly because words still make me feel ill (although reading is much worse than writing), so I have to minimise the amount of time I spend at the computer. I should probably warn you though: That other blog was designed for fellow HG sufferers, and may be a bit graphic / tediously-detailed for some.

But anyway. Hurrah, and all that.


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Discombobulation

I've been saying the same thing for months now.

My future is uncertain. I don't know what's going to happen. I'm teetering on the brink of The Rest Of My Life, but although the water is gushing behind and beside me and I can see the drop below, my kayak has got snarled on a twig.

Supposedly recruitment agents are handing my details out to employers who might want me to do short-term IT work and thereby earn some money. Timing-wise, the sooner this starts the better. No word on that so far.

Apparently there are publishers interested in my book, and some time soon I may be receiving concrete details of that. Not yet though.

Rumour has it that romantic weekends in Paris are good for procreation. But not so good if your body refuses to ovulate. Every morning I piss on a stick and wait for a little blue line to tell me to fuck off and make like a rabbit. Not today, apparently.

I know I know, it's old hat. I've been droning on about the same old stuff for months and months, and none of it ever goes anywhere.

Meanwhile there are hooks of the tenter variety firmly lodged in the back of my neck, and my Deluxe Swivel Office Chair is redundant, because I'm dangling from the ceiling as I type.


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More Babies Stuff

There's more! The posts on this page aren't the only "Babies" posts.

For all posts labelled "Babies" and posted before September 2007, please go here.


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