I have had a speculum in my, well you know, I can’t whisper vagina whilst typing.
I have most likely got a UTI. Thrush. And I’ll most likely need surgery post partum to sort out my back end.
My ribs feel barbecued.
I drink gaviscon as a night cap, lactulose before my morning brew.
I sleep in clutches. Wander about on my own in the still of the dark. Sometimes carrying a four year old back to her own bed as her starfishing plus the baby’s tumbles make me want to silently scream. To find some peace.
Hot compresses. Cold compresses. Daily baths.
Last week I ended up at the hospital having thought that my waters were leaking, to have a hot, young student doctor look at my bits with a builder’s torch, me naked from the waist down bar my Christmas socks and reveal that I’d most likely just peed myself a bit. I did not expect to see him again the next day at my community midwife appointment…
Essentially, this thing that I am so unbelievably grateful for, and fretful over, is leaving me in an undignified and exhausted state. Or is it wading my way through grief that means my body is struggling with this pregnancy. In the middle of this Venn diagram it looks like someone’s put a wash on.
And on that 60 degree cycle someone has chucked in some single socks, my sanity and my pelvic floor.
Since the weekend I have believed I have a DVT (despite being on blood thinners), preeclampsia (my socks are leaving some serious ankle rings) and that’s after I thought my waters were going.
The slow closure to this pregnancy brings up daily grief. Not always obviously. Sometimes I have to stop and calm my breaths. Wipe my eyes quickly. Catch myself staring into the middle distance but not seeing anything at all but the memory of a touch, a sound, a sense of RD.
On Sunday my suspected DVT had me hopping around trying to massage out the pain in my calf at midnight. Yes, it was most likely cramp. But that wasn’t the most painful thing that night. Every time I managed to steal some sleep I returned to a thread in the dream. That was that RD had died in September but not properly. And so every time I relived him dying. Again and again.
It meant that waking up on Monday felt impossible. Impossible to get through. I was physically and mentally exhausted and it wasn’t even 7.30am. I don’t think I even realised my eyes were permanently damp until I had a brief debate about applying mascara. The debate was infinitely shorter than the rest I needed after getting my knickers on.
I wondered if it’s like what the bends must feel like. That I was waiting for a decompression that wasn’t coming. Surrounded by a fear and a reality of death.
I sat bleary eyed in front of my computer, checking emails and data but watching the numbers and letters shift and sway. I went to put some figures into a folder, as I do weekly. And there it was 03/04/17. The wave of the fifth was coming. When I could score another line on my prison wall.