All the Horrible Girliness

Jungle Drums

All my best writing comes to me when I am too exhausted to write. I wrote in my head almost all night last night. I sleep so lightly now. The only thing I remember was a colorful new way of describing the pain in my breasts. It aches all the time now, but when my nipples are touched, the pain is a hot needle going straight through.

Even at my most sleepy, I can't sleep. Last night, I could only breathe through my right nostril. If I laid on my left side, which was most comfortable, my right nostril caved in and I had to sort of hold it open with my upper arm. My other arm cradled my left breast, lest the nipple accidentally brush against something. If I turned onto my other side, I could breathe, but it was less comfortable. My pillows were collapsing in on themselves and needed constant fluffing. Every time I turned, I had to readjust the pillow between my knees. Lying on my back made my back ache. I went around and around for hours last night.

All the while, I was sure my husband was going to die.

I've been reading Operating Instructions, this great little true account by Anne Lamott of her son's first year. In it, her lifelong friend Pammy finds out she has breast cancer and begins treatment. I know, from reading Lamott's later works, that Pammy dies, very young.

It's my control fixation that makes me think my husband will die somehow, will leave me alone with a baby. Before, I just assumed that if he died, I would die as well. Now, I don't have that option. It's insane to think this way, but I think it's all tied in to the pregnancy - last time, I took the whole pregnancy bit on faith, assumed all was well, and it was a miscarriage. This time, I don't want to be excited, I don't want to plan. I bother myself with statistics - one of five pregnancies end in miscarriage, so four out of five don't, but of those four, how many have other problems? So if I take it on faith that all will be well with this pregnancy - and certainly, I have to act like that's so - then I have to take it on faith that my husband and I will grow old together, healthy and happy, with a healthy and happy kid who outlives us.

This is what I do instead of sleep.

I'm just so tired, so fucking sick and exhausted for the vast majority of the day, that I can't be excited. I have zero maternal instinct. I admitted to my husband that I felt so shitty that I didn't care what happened to the kid. He was remarkably understanding.

I feel bad for most of the day, until around 4:00 pm. Then I have an hour and a half left of work. In the hours before that, I take small naps at my desk and spend as little time as possible in a standing position. I try to eat a bite every half hour. I gag while I chew. From about 6:00 pm on, I can eat in bulk, and I do. I eat everything I can get my hands on that doesn't make me need to vomit. I shovel it in, as if I could store it for later. Tonight I had Taco Bell, because it is fast and tacos are one thing I can kind of eat. I normally detest most fast food, even look down on those who eat it. I had three taco supremes and still had the sick aching throwuppy pain in my belly. Then I ate four nectarines and half a pint of frozen yogurt. I feel almost normal now, except for the sleepiness.

Now I'll go eat a biscuit with honey, and swallow my prenatal vitamin, and hope I will actually fall asleep tonight before the jungle drums start to play. For Anne Lamott, the jungle drums are forboding noises in her head. My jungle drum is my abdominal artery. I feel it pound all night. You can put your hand over my belly and feel it going crazy. With it comes the hot acid feeling in my stomach and esophagus that carries through from about midnight to 4:00 pm the next day.

posted by Samus @ 10:30 PM