When I take care of my body and only eat really bland foods, when I take my medicine regularly, I begin to feel like a regular human being. I am able to attend classes and do my homework without too much pain.
And then I begin to think, “Maybe I’m getting better. Maybe The Sick is passing like everybody promised it would
(at twelve, no sixteen weeks) .” So I take fewer doses of Zofran a day, and maybe I eat a little meat, or indulge in spicy food.
And then I realize that it’s all a carefully constructed facade of medication hiding symptoms and my body not hating me for eating food it can’t tolerate.
So I retreat into my really-bland-food, regularly medicating schedule, until I’m lured into another state of false security and wander out of my experience-based regimen.
I also become marginally more bitter every time it happens. But that’s another story.
I’m resigning myself to the fact that I may well be sick throughout this entire pregnancy. I threw up yesterday after a couple weeks of reprieve due to diligence with my diet and anti-nausea medicine. Vomiting made me remember why I eat the food I eat, and how little I enjoy being sick.
I’m exhausted from being sick, from my stomach hurting. I’m disappointed because people kept promising that I would feel better, but I really don’t. I’m worried that taking medicine will hurt my baby. I have some better days than others, but the tenor is still illness.
I just want to hold my baby. To feel like it was worth it to be pregnant. To feel better.