How the hell do people survive this?
The time between seeing two lines on a pregnancy test and vomiting suddenly and violently in a Woolies carpark can feel infinitesimal.
I hardly had time to experience the mix of excitement and terror, processing what this pregnancy meant for the future, before I was doubled over wondering how long this hell would last and how I was supposed to function while it did.
At urgent care one day, dizzy from having kept no food down for the previous 36 hours, I’m given the dreaded diagnosis: hyperemesis gravidarum. “Here’s some more tablets, follow up with your regular provider,” I am told.
I feel the powerlessness mirrored on my GPs face a few days later, a caring woman who has been with me throughout my fertility journey, from my first surprise pregnancy – an ectopic at age 26 which resulted in the loss of a fallopian tube and the discovery of endometriosis – to my subsequent on-purpose pregnancies, starting with an early miscarriage and ending with a healthy and amazing daughter.
My first viable pregnancy wasn’t exactly fun, but my NVP was considered moderate. It went away at 14 weeks’ gestation and wasn’t enough to make me swear off future pregnancies.
This second one has me considering termination.
According to NSW data from 2010-19, only 1.8% of women without HG in their first pregnancy have it in their second.
Lucky me.
My concerns in my first pregnancy included listeria, folic acid and hot showers. Is my bladder full enough for this ultrasound? Was this spag bol in the fridge cooked less than 24 hours ago?
My concern this time around is survival.
Ginger, vitamin B6, ondansetron, metoclopramide, doxylamine, cloudy apple juice, mango sorbet – this is my diet now and for the foreseeable future. There’s nothing more that can be done; it’s just a waiting game.
By nine weeks, every ounce of energy I have every day is spent on not vomiting. At any moment, a lapse in concentration from this task will undoubtedly lead to me losing what little fluids I’ve managed. The normal exhaustion of growing a human and a whole new organ is compounded by how desperately I need to focus on my one job of not being sick.
My 24/7 is vomit; I’m either puking or thinking about puking. I wake in the night from dreams of puking. I am consumed by it, and there’s no space for anything else in my brain. The symptoms that plagued me in my first pregnancy – swollen, tender breasts, crippling constipation, insomnia – have taken a backseat this time.
I have to ask myself: is this worth it?
I’ll never get this time back with my daughter. They say the first three years are crucial for forming a secure attachment and setting up the foundations for the rest of her life. She needs 100% from me but suddenly I can’t get out of bed for days on end.
I’ve also realised that life feels especially pointless now that I’m unable to eat my feelings. Maybe I should unpack that with a professional at some point…
Life continues to move around me, and I go through the motions as best I can. The idea that I could be like this for nearly the rest of the year is too much to handle some days, and my mental health has seldom been worse.
How will I manage vomiting this violently and regularly later on when several kilos of baby and fluid are compressing my guts and actively kicking me? What state will this child come out in if I can’t stomach even my prenatal vitamins, let alone actual sustenance?
It’s impossible to plan anything, because who knows what I’ll be like on the day, or even in that minute. Without the ability to plan, my life is reduced to one endless and aimless day. The depression and anxiety are rampant, and while the occasional weekend spent rotting on the couch can be nice, being able to do nothing but that forever is an intensely boring existence.
How do others manage this while trying to parent or hide their pregnancies? And why isn’t ‘HG leave’ a thing?
Many don’t have the amazing support I do. My workplace consists entirely of lovely, flexible people and my husband is the most competent man I’ve ever met. Even with him taking on 98% of the parenting and keeping the house together (all while working a very stressful full-time job), I’m still barely keeping it together. I haven’t had to change a soiled nappy or cook a meal for the past month.
It scares me to imagine having to survive this without the support I have, which is tragically the reality of so many women.
By 10 weeks, I can manage toast and occasionally cheese and crackers. Lollies are my main sustenance – the consistency of flavour and a cheeky glucose hit can’t be beaten, although sickly-sweet rainbow vomit isn’t very pleasant. I’ve lost 2kg at this point, surely mostly from my muscles withering away. I haven’t managed to leave the house in a week. Because brushing my teeth induces vomiting, my dental hygiene has taken a massive hit and I’ve developed gingivitis. My swollen, bloody gums add an extra layer of difficulty to eating and drinking.
I tell my GP one day that on Monday I had kept down a piece of toast, and on Wednesday I kept down a cheese sandwich – literally double the amount of food! She matches my mock excitement. These moments of connection are comforting.
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As I near 12 weeks, I’m able to start being a bit more adventurous with what I consume (although I’m down another kg). It still comes back up a lot of the time, but the food aversion seems to be waning slowly. I can even manage hot food some days, as long as it’s potato-based.
It’s been a journey of discovery; I’m learning more about vomit every day. For instance, did you know that strawberry milk congeals in your stomach? It’s like throwing up neon pink Oobleck or milky crushed chalk: somehow both wet and dry, liquid and solid, at the same time. I have yet to test if this is true also for chocolate milk.
Brushing my teeth has gotten easier as well. I still retch violently every time without fail, but I only bring something up every third time or so. Huzzah.
Some phrases I’ve come to hate are “at least the baby is healthy” and “hopefully it won’t last much longer”. Both things could be found to be untrue at any moment so they’re of no comfort to me, but I’m forced to agree with them so I don’t make everyone uncomfortable.
No one knows what to say to me. I’m in complete despair at this point and my misery feels endless. I can’t tell if the HG is reducing ever so slightly over time or if I’m just getting better at managing it. Either way, the depression and anxiety are worse than ever as this continues and the end-date feels more impossible to reach.
At 13.5 weeks however, I hit a milestone worthy of celebration: I brush my teeth without retching. I go on to puke twice that day but still, this felt huge. The nausea remains constant throughout the day and night, with not a moment of respite.
I’ve come to understand that eating doesn’t actually help the nausea, it just transforms it into a different kind. I’m either empty-sick or full-sick – there’s no way to win but, in a sense, I get to choose my own adventure.
A few days later, the heartburn sets in and I’m back to square one. Sweet and salty foods and drinks (basically anything with flavour) are now off the table, as is laying down as much as I have been. What little comfort I could take from my limited diet and various reclined resting positions around the house are gone in an instant. I thought it couldn’t get any worse, but I was dead wrong.
This sickness has robbed me of the joy of hearing that first heartbeat. It’s robbed my daughter of the parents she deserves, and my husband the partner he needs. It’s taken my life from me, albeit temporarily, and it’s impossible to see the light at the end of the tunnel most days. There’s nothing to look forward to day to day.
The doctors I interact with obviously can’t take all this on. If I’m not withering away too much and I’m not suicidal, there’s not much else they can do. But those who take the time to acknowledge how utterly terrible this is without dismissing it are the heroes to me.
They validate me and help me ignore the mean girl in my head that tells me to buck up because I probably don’t know half the suffering of women without support. I even had one doc mock the “parasite” that had done this to me, and that made me feel a little better about not being particularly joyous for the new life I was growing.
I’ve learned that genuine connection and kindness are really the only things that can get me through this impossible situation. Whether it be from my amazing workplace, my long-term healthcare providers or new faces at reception desks and emergency departments, even brief moments of sympathy and compassion help give me strength.
Humour is comforting, and simple acknowledgement of how crap this is without trying to add a pretty little bow onto the conversation is how I’ve been helped the most by those around me.
In a few years when I’m looking back, surely these mere months of torture will be worth the life we’ve created, right? My two children will do something so soul-crushingly sweet and organic together that my heart will feel like it might burst, and I’ll surely forget how awful this pregnancy was.
It’s impossible to say. All I know for certain is my partner is getting a vasectomy.
