None like it

Since my relapse on Monday, I’ve been working from home, which means that apart from a shopping trip Bruce insisted I take with him (I did feel a little more human after the walk) I’ve basically been a recluse for the last three days. This is how I want it to be right now, though. Even the sun, which I usually crave and can’t get enough of, seems mocking under these circumstances.

This evening, I have my first appointment with a midwife, and although it won’t entail any major surprises (blood work, a Q&A), I’m still feeling anxious about the whole thing. My initial visit and scan did nothing to inspire confidence that subsequent trips won’t be equally confusing, scary and humiliating, so my expectations are really low at the moment.

When I feel this way - ill, disoriented, nervous – I always start to miss That Place Formerly Known as Home. Never again will I be scooped up by my dad’s waiting car, transported to my childhood house (now sold) and set up on their king-sized bed for a quiet hour alone while they chat away in the next room with Bruce.

I know my parents and I have had our differences, and visits have always been fraught in some way, but familiarity in itself is a comfort few other instances can afford.

And I can’t believe that given all I do have – independence; a nice place to live; a good job; a lovely husband – I’m being such a child about this. But I’m just plain scared right now, and I want to see my horrible family.

Four more weeks until Canada.

So soon she spoke

This morning was an unpleasant mixture of denial and vomit – denial over the fact that I was feeling ill again; vomit for obvious reasons.

Having told friends, my family and colleagues that I’m finally over morning sickness, I’m not really sure where to go from here (the toilet, I guess). But I hold out hope that this is just a minor slip – a reminder of what I’m leaving behind rather than an omen of what the next five months could hold.

We have an appointment on Thursday with a midwife, midwifery being a standard practice in this country. From what I understand, they are like professional tour guides of the prenatal and birth-giving journey, accompanying you at every stage to offer support and advice until the big day has come and gone, and even a bit beyond.

They won’t actually deliver the baby, but I’m happy for an experienced obstetrician to do that bit. I know that midwives are licensed to deliver babies in Canada, but qualifications aside, the existence of two very different types of healthcare professionals fulfilling the same role at once seems like an unnecessary and confusing distinction to have to make.

It would be like if homeopaths were suddenly in the business of doing brain surgery. I’ll take the guy (or gal) who went to school specifically to tinker in that area, thanks. I’m sure there’s something inherently prejudiced about this, but I’ll take ignorance and an epidural over that uncertainty any day.

Actually, I’ve decided that until someone can adequately describe what the pain of birth-giving is actually like (my mother said unhelpfully: It’s like someone kicking a football at you. Down there.), I’m going to hold off on the scary, spine-piercing pain management drugs on offer thankyouverymuch.

But if any of you out there know and could help me out with the analogy, I'd be truly grateful. Comments are now open. (Just kidding, they're always open.)

Deadbeat mum-to-be

Rather than work from home today, I took the day off sick. It may not look this way because I am lying prone and often engrossed in reading or laughing at episodes of *Pot Psychology or choking down a piece of fruit, but the effort of tending to one’s constant nausea really takes its toll after a few weeks.

I don’t know how I’ll ever find my way out of this (very normal, millions upon billions do it!) prenatal nightmare, but I am taking it one day, one nap, one bag of Doritos, one episode of Dawson’s Creek at a time.

SHOOSH, there is something vaguely soothing about cheesy, overworked dialogue set to wailing C-list vocalists and don’t tell me there isn’t (or I might start crying, that’s just the kind of week I’m having).

Bruce - who has been dragging me out into the sunshine in case I forget what it looks like - insisted I accompany him to the shop this morning, so I bought a punnet of cherries, four large navel oranges and two dozen chocolate chip cookies, among other sundry items I thought I could probably manage. Cherries and oranges win the award for most palatable – the cookies tasted like pain.

And then I checked out for a few hours, buried inside a sleep so deep I didn’t even care that my mouth was hung open in the way of sleeping mouths belonging to those who accidentally eat spiders in their sleep – I would have eaten three or four spiders to prolong that sleep for another six hours, and you have not seen how I behave when I am suddenly made aware of a spider in the vicinity of my person. It was just that good.

Throughout, I've been missing my friends back home something awful but have received some very nice emails and notes and things, which is almost the same as having them here with me. Uh.


*I’ve seen reference to this on more than a few occasions and I finally had to **take a look; let’s just say that it balances out my penchant for soggy teen dramas

**WAIT, NOT AT WORK! OR WITH YOUR CHILDREN!