Hyperemesis Gravidarum

Dear Future Self,

Look at you, fawning over your mewling offspring like some idiotic, idealistic moron too chemically unbalanced to acknowledge reality. But as you breeze your way through recovery to the tune of your wailing infant, as you stare and stare into the glazed-over eyes of your newborn child, remember this: I got you here, you fool.

And it wasn't by making lists of baby names and checking to make sure the initials won't spell something untoward. It wasn't by picking out impractical baby clothes to stock your already overflowing nursery closet. This miracle of life came to be because of my cold, glaring, unadorned misery.

Here are the things that make me nauseous: The sound of people clapping, the odor of my sister's fall hand soap, when the car makes a turn, when someone else sips from a straw and I hear it, thinking about, smelling, or God forbid, eating any food.

In order to avoid going to the hospital to be on a IV I take anti-nausea drugs that were created for chemo patients. Every couple of weeks I have a fight with our insurance company to pay for said drugs, usually they do, after I've run out and haven't had anything to drink for a couple of days. When they don't I pay several dollars per pill. When the pills are working, I can keep some liquids down. What I can't do is go to the bathroom. Ever. Again. Or get through a day without a nap, since the pills cause drowsiness. Oh yeah, and the headaches, remember those?

Oh you don't? That's right. You're too blissfully self-absorbed with your new gift to even take a moment to thank me. Figures.

You probably also forgot how alone I felt, how I feel like no one really gets how sick I am. How when I tell people I have "morning sickness" they give me a little sympathetic smile, and say "Have you tried saltines?" Or, "You should feel great soon!", and then expect me to go about my business of taking care of Henry and showering regularly. Meanwhile I am past the first trimester and things seem to just be getting warmed up, just the way it was last time when I puked for a full five months straight.

You probably can't even fathom how I lie in bed trying to think of something, anything but the way my body feels. All the petty pleasures that used to cheer me up do nothing now. Other than watching Henry talk, there is really only one thing that I can think of to keep it together when my husband asks if I want him to get a vasectomy: the letter that you will never bother to write to me. The one that says: "Dear past self, It was all worth it. Sincerely, Riding Your Coattails."

I hope, sincerely, that it was.

Your faithful friend,

Pregnant Grace