The Pagan Heart
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May 2005 Issue
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Excuse Me While I Hurl...Again
By Catherine M.
For the next week and a half I got sicker and sicker. Walking past the confectionary aisle made me run to the bathroom. Hearing my husband discuss the hamburger lunch he'd had resulted in my own lunch returning. I knew I was pregnant. I've always known by day seven from conception as the morning sickness kicks in. The funny thing was that the embryos were three days old at implantation - four days later I threw up at the mall. The blood test was merely a courtesy. But still, such an important one. I knew, but I couldn't let myself believe it until I had that confirmation. The doctor's voice saying "Well, we did it. You're definately pregnant," filled me with joy. Here I was, pregnant again, but this time I felt that it would work. This time there'd be no miscarriage. No miscarriage, just 24 hour morning sickness. I threw up pretty much every two to three hours, even waking up to crawl to the bathroom and crouch over the toilet. Queasiness ruled my life until I wasn't sure which was worse - feeling sick or being sick. I do recall how offensive I found the whole situation - there I knelt, hair bunched up in one hand as I vomited bile, my stomach churning and growling as I wondered if 3am was too early to eat some baked salmon and rice. Yes, I was starving even as I chundered my way through my own personal vomitorium. Despite my apparent affection for the porcelain goddess, I managed to gain 11 pounds in the first three months. After that it slid down to about a pound every 2 weeks. Considering I was growing twins, this wasn't good. So I got medicated with Zofran. Wonderful, wonderful drug. They use it with chemo patients as it literally "turns off" the chemical production in the brain that creates nausea in maybe 5 minutes. Mind you, it's $50 a pill, and dosage of twice a day, so my insurance company screamed extremely loudly. Until my doctor threatened them with hospitalising me. Seems they prefered the $100 a day option. Did I mention that I loved my doctor? Anyway, back to discovering I was pregnant. Many would think that this success ended the complicated part of IVF. Nor so. Aside from the continuing nightly shots of sesame oil loaded with progesterone, I also got three weekly visits to my doctor. Blood work and ultrasounds. Now, recalling my needle phobia (which regular acquaintance with said objects had failed to alleviate whatsoever), regular bloodwork did not appeal. Once I got the idea. I rocked up for my first appointment to discover bloodwork was an integral part and my veins promptly vanished. It took the nurse almost half an hour to drain 1/3 of a syringeful from my poor, punctured arms. After I explained that I needed warning to psych myself up, otherwise my blood congeals deep inside my torso and fails to move, she advised me to expect it every vist. Psych away as it'll happen. Great. Oh, but the trauma and indignity did not cease there. Urine samples I can deal with. The blood tests, okay. More ultrasounds? Uh, say what? You see, during the "trying" stage I got intimately acquainted with Mr Dildo (ie the ultrasound probe) as Doc checked me and my ovaries out. I thought that was the end of it, but that was my mistake. My bloodwork was followed with a visit from Mr Dildo. We continued our friendship three times a week for the next ten weeks. The payoff for having my doctor say "shimmy on down here. Now which door is it today? Let's try door number two!" was seeing them. We watched my babies grow from engagement rings to beans to actual babies - albeit very small and gummy-bear shaped ones, and it was well worth it. Still, Mr Dildo holds a place in my memories - one where I store those hilarious yet oh-so-squeamish moments of life - intricately connected to the creation of my children. And probably will forever. |
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