Happy Hyperemesis Gravidarum Awareness Day! and my experience of it

Happy Hyperemesis Gravidarum Awareness Day! and my experience of it

Don’t you love all the holidays we celebrate in America? We are an interesting people. I mean, I’m Catholic and I use any excuse to feast, even if it’s a Saint I’ve never heard of. But I confess that when I hear about another awareness thing I sometimes want to stick my head in the sand. Well, I was scrolling through a calendar of health related holidays for my job, and I came across today.

I have hyperemesis gravidarum (HG). I had never heard of this pregnancy complication before I had children. I first had it when I was pregnant with my daughter who is now two, and I have it currently with my son who will, God-willing, be born next month. With my child in between these two, I showed no such symptoms. Our Heavenly Father called him home when he was just 7 utero weeks old.

After a long day photographing our friends’ wedding in the summer of 2014, we drove home late from the reception. I had my husband pull over into a CVS parking lot so I could grab a pregnancy test (never again – Dollar Store all the way). I was a little late, and just had a feeling. I held off until maybe four in the morning until I just didn’t want to wait any longer. We were pregnant! Well, I was pregnant. But I think my husband had something to do with it.

At the time, I was commuting about 45 minutes each morning to work with my dad. Pinterest has so many cute ideas for baby reveals, but we just wanted to tell as many people face to face as possible. Especially Grandpa! We hadn’t had the opportunity yet though, when I walked into his office and he was chatting with someone who was going to shadow him that day at work. I discreetly put my things in the corner and squatted to pull out some saltines for the nausea that had begun not too long before. My dad, always the joker, looked over and, interrupting himself, asked, “What are you pregnant?!” He had been saying the same thing since we got married, so it wasn’t out of the blue, but my answer seemed to shock him! “Yep!” Haha!

I was able to keep working for a few more weeks through the morning sickness. Since we are in the healthcare field and my dad is a doctor, he was able to make sure there was always a stash of barf bags from the hospital in his car for me, as we travelled to visit patients in their homes. It got to a point though, where I couldn’t keep up. I was vomiting in the bushes outside of people’s houses and the smells I encountered walking into hospitals and assisted living facilities became too much. I started working from home and my hours logs quickly tanked. I dreaded getting out of bed because I never knew how bad I would feel. There was no question that I would feel bad, but how bad. I went from a newlywed, excited to take care of my new home and my new husband to the lady who lies on the couch every waking hour watching TV. I had to lie at a certain angle because any more or less would make me vomit. I couldn’t turn my head without vomiting. I couldn’t walk, even to the bathroom. I couldn’t stand any smells – food, of course, but my own deodorant, my husband’s normal scent, laundry detergent. I stopped brushing my teeth regularly because it would only make me vomit. I couldn’t wear a bra or a belt or anything with elastic around my abdomen. The water pressure from the shower was too much.

Well meaning friends, family, acquaintances, and strangers all sympathized, telling me it was normal – they, or their spouse, or their sister, or their dog breeder’s cousin had it bad, too. And proceeded to recommend saltines before getting out of bed, ginger tea, eating small, frequent meals, avoiding fatty or spicy foods, etc., etc., etc.

I tried everything.

When my vitals started to reveal that I was losing an unhealthy amount of weight and my family physician/pre-natal doc who knew me noticed that I just didn’t look ok, he told me about HG. It’s Latin for excessive vomiting during pregnancy. That sounded about right.

We tried a plethora of medications but nothing even seemed to dent my nausea and vomiting. It didn’t help that I often couldn’t keep the medicine down in the first place. Since we were newly married, I wasn’t yet close with anyone in our area. One saint of a woman who’s husband knew mine would pick up my prescriptions for me and drop off meals from time to time. But mostly I stayed on the couch alone all day, every day, and watched every episode of Psych, The Magic School Bus, and any other show I was ever interested in that was available on Netflix. If I soiked myself too badly (because when you are that weak, you don’t have much control of any of your bodily functions, be it where you aim or whatever else), my husband would help me into the bath in the evenings. He would bring me the neti pot so I could clean out the accumulated food particles from my nasal passages. He would help me wash my hair. He would sit with me while I cried, which only made me throw up all the more. He wanted to rub my back, but that made me be sick. I would often let him touch my hand or my foot, and that was it. His body heat made it worse.

We worked hard to find a food I could tolerate, and maybe even enjoy, but it never lasted long. Maybe I got a craving and my husband would drive to the grocery store to bring it back, only to find that just the thought of it already disgusted me. Or he bought the wrong brand and it wouldn’t work. Or maybe I would eat the same thing every day for a week, so we would stock up from Costco. And the next day I couldn’t look at it.

From what I’ve heard, most women with HG are repeatedly hospitalized for dehydration and often end up on home health or at least with a Zofran pump. Looking back, there were many times I probably should have gone to the hospital. But I didn’t know.

I still don’t really know. I still haven’t figured out a medication combo that works for me. I’ve still not gotten IV fluids, even when my skin turns grey. But I have learned some things.

Ive learned that I will never be the triathlon completing, cute bump dressing, glowing pregnant mama I thought I would be. My mom birthed 6 children – all naturally minus my emergency C-section – and push mowed our acre and a third lawn until we all arrived. Not me.

I’ve learned that, for me, it gets better. By the end of the pregnancy I can even cook and clean some.

I’ve learned how to be patient as a disabled person in a wheelchair.

I’ve learned that I can relate to women who abort their babies. HG is not a fatal illness with current knowledge and medical treatment if you find a doctor who knows what HG is and doesn’t just thing you’re complaining, like it was in the past, but many still die of it today, be it via abortion or suicide.

I’ve learned that physical ill health can lead to mental ill health. And that tying your hair up in a bun and leaving it that way for weeks will make it near impossible to brush out.

I’ve learned that throwing up is ok. Did I mention I had a phobia of it before getting pregnant? Hahahah oh that’s rich.

I’ve learned that the nausea doesn’t necessarily stop once the baby is born. I had something akin to normal, mild morning sickness from the time my first was born until the time I got pregnant with my third. Crazy high protein breakfasts help my body calm down, but every day I would still wake up sick.

I’ve learned that marriage normally doesn’t look like it did on your wedding day. For us, it mostly looked like death, with some life thrown in at the end, interspersed with periods where I am happy and “normal” and we are able to work hard and enjoy life.

I’ve learned that normal is relative, and if you are going to wait for a reason to enjoy life, you might miss out on life itself. I take joy in my daughter holding my hand while I throw up. I take joy for my daughter’s and husband’s sakes in being forced to slow down (and mostly stop), because my personality doesn’t generally permit me to just sit and relax. I take joy in walking to the car in whatever weather without throwing up, just to be in the world again. I take joy in being able to receive Holy Communion. I take joy in any connection whatsoever with a loved one.

I’ve learned that marriage is a pathway to holiness, and that God both trusts us with a lot and wants much more for us. In sickness and in health can mean mostly sickness. I’ve watched my husband become a better man before my eyes. I’ve seen my own weakness and how much growing I have to do. My eyes have been opened in new ways to the omnipresent yet often hidden sufferings of others.

I’ve learned that pregnancy, for me, means sickness and depression and loneliness and fear. And a call to trust. 

I’ve learned that labor and delivery and newborn night feedings and toddler tantrums are not so bad, relatively.

I’ve learned that there will always be people worse off than me, and there will always be people better off than me.

I’ve learned that community makes all the difference.

I’ve learned that I can’t love humans in the abstract. I can only love a particular person and only in deed. I’ve learned that love is not the same as affection. I’ve learned to love someone I don’t know. I’ve learned to love someone who causes me great suffering. I’ve learned that love requires sacrifice. I’ve learned that people we love are worth sacrificing for.

I’ve learned the tiniest bit of what Jesus did on the cross.

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2017, Year of Presence

2017, Year of Presence

Haley over at Carrots for Michaelmas shared a post recently describing her tradition of picking a word for the year to help her stay focused on her New Year’s resolutions. I love her wiritngs, but New Year’s resolutions aren’t really my thing. I’m already making resolutions on a regular basis in prayer, so adding more can overwhelm me. But this year, I am pregnant and have given up on everything. Because I suffer from hyperemesis gravidarum in my pregnancies, I check out about 8 weeks in, am unable to attend social functions, take care of my family, or even pray sometimes. Focusing takes energy that I don’t have, so I’m looking forward to July when my toddler can get her Meema back and I don’t have to depend on my husband to play the role of breadwinner and homemaker. And a one word resolution? That sounds like the only doable kind of resolution I could handle right now.

Mentally, I have been in survivor mode since the 24/7 nausea began. I just finished Chip and Jo Gaines book, The Magnolia Story, and their story helped remind me that I can settle for surviving or I can choose to thrive. Thriving in my circumstances will not match up to my idealized images of bounty and laughter, but it is possible and I think the key for me this year is presence.

I can’t cook. I can’t clean. I can’t go outside. I can’t even read to my daughter. But I can lie on the floor with her and let her build a block tower on me. I can smile at my husband and tell him how much I appreciate all he does for us when he is cooking dinner after a stressful day of work with a toddler attached to his leg. I can cut off the self-pity party, and offer it up instead. I can say in my heart, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” And in this moment, this is thriving for me. This is being present. To those dearest to me and to reality itself.

mom-and-toddler-playing-blocks
Kind of like this, except I’m dry-heaving.

Once this baby is born, “present” will look totally different. But I don’t want to use that as an excuse to not be present now. Happiness isn’t around the corner, or in our next pay raise. Holiness will not come once the kids are older and I have more time to pray. God is outside of time, but we wayfarers of this earth are only in the present. And here and now are the only circumstances in which I can be happy. And holy. And thriving.

Beginning Again: Humility and Moving Boxes

Beginning Again: Humility and Moving Boxes

I took the things off the wall first.
I admit it.
https://redoitdesign.wordpress.com/2012/06/21/picture-it-frame-those-walls/
except with nail holes
I know that I could have used this week of packing and moving as an opportunity to practice self-discipline, doing the hard task, first. The words from my weekly examination of conscience rang in my head, “Do I do my work when I ought (today, now), or do I deceive myself by leaving it for later, which is the same as not doing it at all?”
Aaaaaaand I ignored them.
I took down the plants I had hung, the aprons from the hook in the kitchen, the images of Our Lord and Our Lady, and then I started on the closet.
And when my husband, the man who packs each box the moment before loading it up on the day of the move, came home and seemed distressed over the walls with nothing on them and the floor with plenty on it, I did what any other God-fearing woman would do: I came up with an excuse.
“It helps motivate me!” I cried, as he laid down on the couch to rub his head without taking off his shoes. “I needed the inspiration to get going!” I lied through my teeth. And the humble, good man that he is, took the blame for overreacting and tried to get back in a pleasant mood for my sake.
As I was setting the table for dinner, I tried to come up with a way to rectify the situation. “Maybe I could put a few things back up while he’s sleeping,” I thought, nonsensically. “Well, he was overreacting,” I rationalized, selfishly.
And while he went dutifully to work on the bookshelf, Internally, eventually, I caved.
Come, Holy Spirit. Why is it that I seek favor in other’s eyes, to appear faultless, when You see me, when You are with me always and know my heart better than I? Especially when this pride causes me to hurt those around me?
The gulf between the dining room and the bookcase shrunk as my pride bubble popped. An apology and scrubbing the oven sound like a good way to begin again.
so we can be this happy
so we can be this happy