Fair assertion that yesterday was a bad day. I’m almost thirty-weeks pregnant at this point, which assumes the delight that sleeping is a distant memory. Last night was my crowning glory… I woke at two in the morning, and never fell back asleep, not really. I think I drifted off for thirty or forty minutes, but my son has had an early rise for entirely too long now, so he woke me up when I finally managed to get comfortable.
Pregnancy does interesting things to my body, so it isn’t just that I’m unbelievably tired, but I also feel an underlying nausea. I managed a half a piece of toast and attempted some water before I received the signal that my meager sustenance offering might not stay down, much less anything else.
In the last week or two I’ve been having exceptional trouble breathing (I can’t remember my name some days, so you can pretty much forget about me recalling any timeline besides my due date.). Everything is pushing up as I get larger, and, boy, am I getting larger. It doesn’t take all that much for me to require pause in general daily activity to catch my breath…Oddly, my exercise hasn’t been impacted by this development. This situation, however, is not new to me. The same thing happened with my son’s pregnancy until he dropped. Most interesting for me is that my daughter’s trajectory seems to be about a month ahead of his. All of this makes me wonder if there will be an even earlier arrival than his. But, I digress because this musing was not on my mind as I was making every effort to get through the day.
I had my first diabetes clinic appointment with my son as my escort. The plan was meeting with the nurse to go over the sugar testing with a quick hustle to the nutritionist immediately after. The entire whirlwind would last an hour exactly. My meeting with the nurse could have been worse, but it could have been significantly better as well. In a fog I’m looking along her walls seeing all of these sugar testing meter boxes, and immediately begin to well up…ridiculous… My son is eating his crackers, and smiling at me because he’s good that way. Then the nurse begins to tell me quickly about the logistics of how often and when I need to test. I begin to sob…obnoxiously… Oh, but it gets so much worse. I see the needle. The nurse is showing me something about it with the plan that I’m about to puncture myself. I open the alcohol wipe, and immediately request for her trash can. As my son was admiring the general festivities, I’m ralphing in a complete stranger’s trashcan because I can’t handle a needle. My saving grace is that I had only eaten toast all day and sipped a bit of water, so other than the idea of borching into the nurse’s garbage and the elimination of my dignity, no real harm was done.
My son continued to be wonderful throughout the remaining portions of a, blessedly, uneventful appointment. He was telling jokes, and seemed in good cheer despite having an absurd mother.
At home my son took his nap; I was so tired that I managed to as well. I felt better after, but it was an extremely long night. My husband has been home with a fever, but I had such heinous heartburn that wouldn’t abate that he eventually needed to take on some of the evening’s Little Man duty. Did I mention my son is wonderful? He clearly missed and wanted to play with Mommy, but was content to do his own thing much of the night while I sat uncomfortably on the sofa nursing the pain that was radiating throughout my entire chest. I think my son just knew Mommy was at her end by the evening; I’m not sure what I should think about this, so I choose not to.
After an hour or so, my heartburn subsided, replaced by my inability to breathe and extreme exhaustion. I was physically completely unable to get through the entire night routine, and am exceedingly grateful my husband was enough on the mend to help.
But, I was asleep by eight. I was up, literally, every hour throughout the night to use the facilities, but fell back asleep without issue. I feel oodles better this morning. It will be eight soon, and my son is still asleep…Ah, I remember mornings like this so fondly… I rescheduled my stabbing appointment and have a strategy because that can’t happen again. I started my dietary shifts this morning. I’ll get through all of this, but really I’m pulling for a delivery in the thirty-seven week neighborhood.