Pregnancy is such a special time. Really “special”.

21 Mar

My first pregnancy was great, until the last 4 weeks when my extra long baby kicked my liver so much it was displaced and threatened to stop working, making me quite sick.

Up until that point I’d felt pretty damn good. Sleeping well. No sickness. No pain. No bad pregnancy symptoms at all really. I worked, I gymed, I went out, I traveled. I slept brilliantly. I pretty much carried on as normal. I was excited and happy.

Fast forward almost exactly 2 years and this time pregnancy seriously tried to fuck me up, pushing my body and my spirit to near breaking point.

It’s Pregnancy II: The Revenge.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m 2 years older, just bad luck or because I already have a toddler to look after, but I can honestly say it’s been utterly shit from start to finish.

I’ve had every crap pregnancy symptom going. 21 weeks of vomiting? Thanks. Heartburn? Yay! Insomnia, low blood pressure, pelvic pain, restless legs, carpal tunnel syndrome, sinusitis, shortness of breath, anaemia, anxiety, sleep paralysis, random abdominal pain and now, a fucking huge and transverse baby wedged sideways in my uterus. Cheers. No, really.

The medical and ante natal care I’ve received has been excellent. My home birth midwife has been an amazing support, visiting me at home for my routine appointments and dropping by whenever I felt particularly unwell or stressed.

I’ve had more tests than a lab rat. Chest X-ray to rule out a cardiology problem, a insanely painful arterial blood gas test to check for a clot on my lungs (see pic), ECG, the evil fasting glucose tolerance test to check for diabetes, liver function tests and extra platelet and white blood cell monitoring. I’ve had 9 ultrasounds. I’ve spent a fucking fortune on parking.

All I can conclude is that my body hates being pregnant this time around. It can not cope with the physical demands of growing a human and it’s punishing me. I’m 36. I’m too old for this shit. My body was designed to do this 20 years ago. It doesn’t like the effort required to do it now.

I haven’t slept properly in forever.

I can’t eat because there’s no space and I just don’t want anything.

Getting up out of bed will soon require winching equipment.

I don’t fit in my maternity jeans anymore.

I don’t even fit in my bath.

I need to wee 27,000 times a day.

I feel like a fat, old, whinging bint.

My friends and family have been brilliant. Providing support, sympathy and help. They must be bored shitless of hearing me moan. I’m fucking bored of thinking it.

Strangers in the shops risk incurring my ever increasing wrath with their questions, opinions and inane small talk. I’ve not gone totally postal yet, but it’s brewing.

It’ll soon be over, I know that and it generates mixed feelings. I have a maximum of 23 days of this fresh hell to go but I do feel a tiny element of sadness that this will be my last baby as there’s no way I can risk having another pregnancy like this in another 2 years time. I feel like I should be given the Duke of Edinburgh award (Gold, obvs) for tolerating this shit.

I want this baby out, and as he’s sideways and a giant my consultant agrees. The Caesarian I was so desperate to avoid is now booked. And I don’t even mind. I want my body back, I want my clothes, my sleep, wine, running, not getting breathless or groaning each time I haul my vast carcass of the sofa. I want goats cheese and pate.

Mostly I want my baby safe and in my arms. So, they can slice me open. Then I can have a really good rest.



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