Pregnancy Logs: The First Trimester; Or; I am Dead, Horatio

April 13, 2018

It’s week 7 of my first trimester, and I’m in what feels like my permanent spot: On the couch, under a blanket, clutching my pillow. By this point in the night, my eyes are usually squeezed shut and I’m forcing myself to focus on my breath. Inhale, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Hold, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four, five six, seven, eight. Repeat. It’s a technique I have long used to manage my anxiety. Right now, it’s a steadying force against an endless tide of nausea.

The small meal I ate forty minutes ago—kiwi and a small bowl of plain noodles—is sitting in my stomach like a pile of rocks. I shouldn’t have eaten, but if I didn’t, my blood sugar would plummet and I’d wake up in the middle of the night feeling even worse.

This is the week that the legendary prenatal heightened sense of smell decided to kick in. I now know that we haven’t been as diligent as we’d thought with the dog’s occasional accidents. I can smell stale pee somewhere in the living room, an old stain made fresh by my new, useless superpower. On the opposite end of the apartment, my cat is using her litter box. The stench is unbearable, but as I am forbidden to clean the litter box for the rest of this year, I have to endure it until Hubby gets home.

I keep telling myself that the worsening symptoms are a good sign; a sign that my hormone levels are on track, that the embryo is viable, but those are two different things, I know, and I am terrified that my first ultrasound will end with, “I’m so sorry, but there’s no heartbeat.” Or “There’s nothing there.” A blighted ovum, a missed miscarriage. My body can still think it’s pregnant long after an embryo dies. I know this from my incessant research after my miscarriage.

Even if my symptoms are a good sign, it doesn’t mean they’re not horrible. I feel like I’m living with a secret chronic illness; always nauseated, always exhausted. Cooking, something I normally love to do, a de-stressor, is now a Herculean task. Cleaning, with the stinking array of dizzying chemicals, is out of the question. Playing with Zuko is difficult, which riddles me with guilt.

I haven’t had the violent mood swings—yet—but I get irritated in the blink of an eye. Drivers on the road irritate me. People asking me repetitive questions irritate me. My pets licking themselves irritates me. I’ve snapped at my husband more than once; something practically unheard of in our relationship. I normally enjoy my job, but I’m so exhausted now that I’m just counting the hours until I can come home and curl up on the couch for a nap.

I feel like an invalid.

            This April diary entry is the perfect snapshot of my first trimester experience.

            I know that the cultural bifurcation of mind and body is bullshit, but I’ve always had trouble in situations where my physical form draws too much of my focus. Sickness, sleeplessness, that point in exercise where everything hurts and you’re exhausted, I hate it all. These situations make me feel like my body is a prison. I have never felt more trapped in my own flesh than during my first trimester.

            Pregnancy is a full-body change. It’s a phrase often said, but not understood until you actually go through it. It’s not just your body growing a baby bump and your breasts getting bigger. It affects everything; from your ligaments to your sinuses and gums to your very thoughts.

            The above diary entry was written a few days before we found out we were having twins, but looking at the weeks before, it makes a lot of sense. I have twice the average level of pregnancy hormones coursing through my veins. That meant that my symptoms hit early and they hit hard. I was exhausted and nauseated as early as 4 weeks in. My focus disappeared. My appetite disappeared. My relatively healthy diet was reduced to plain noodles, crackers, mild cheese, and bread. I steeped ginger and lemon in hot water and drank it constantly, but to no avail. The nausea never ebbed. For three months, I felt like I was on the verge of throwing up, falling asleep in my chair, or both.

            Pregnancy books, sites, and apps do their best to explain your situation and keep you positive. Rest when your body wants to rest. Eat small, frequent meals so you don’t overload your stomach. Try ginger. And remember, this is temporary!

            Imagine suffering from something between a stomach flu and a vicious hangover for three months straight. Not just in the mornings; all day. Sure, it’s temporary, but three months of feeling so ill is an eternity. It feels even longer when you have to drag yourself to work, grocery shop, clean, walk the dogs, and otherwise trudge through daily life. Many blogs and sites recommend doing something to keep yourself busy, which I desperately tried. I tried reading, working on my new novel project, and even bought some watercolors—a whole new medium to learn. I couldn’t do any of it. I had no focus or energy. All I could do was lie on the couch, staring at the TV screen or scrolling down my Facebook newsfeed. It was maddening.

We decided to keep our pregnancy under wraps until the second trimester because we hated the thought of having to tell everyone we know about a miscarriage, if we were to have another. I still stand by that decision—I know that if I had lost the pregnancy, someone who’d missed the memo asking me “How’s the baby?” would destroy me—but it made the first trimester incredibly isolating. In case you couldn’t tell, I’m a sharer. I’m a social creature. I reach out to others to find strength and support. Suffering in silence isn’t really my thing. It was hard enough keeping such wonderful, life-changing news from friends and extended family, but being unable to talk about how…just, truly awful I felt was almost just as hard. It was especially difficult when I had to miss social events because I was just too sick and tired.  I missed friends coming into town, I missed a wedding, I even missed a Tim Burton-themed dance party.

My mood and mental disposition were another strange burden adding to the pile. I am very lucky in that my mood swings were minimal, but I was constantly irritated. Everyone around me was an idiot, didn’t know how to drive, or took way too long to order something in line. I hated making small talk, which is a big part of my job and daily life. I kept these thoughts to myself for the most part. I rarely lashed out at anyone. But they really, really bothered me. I felt arrogant and selfish for feeling so negatively toward people when I typically love people in general and possess an overabundance of empathy.

Complicating my first trimester even further was my particular mental health issue. Due to my previous miscarriage, every single symptom, from minimal spotting to an odd cramp, sent me into cold, prickling panic. Every trip to the bathroom, and there are many when you’re pregnant, was an ordeal. Would there be blood? Every ultrasound (you have a lot with twins) and blood test was prefaced by periods of sheer terror. Did my OB pause just now? What’s wrong? Oh, God, my iron was flagged in my last blood test. What was that spontaneous heart failure I’d heard happens during pregnancy? Better Google it. This was one of the few instances in my life where too much knowledge was a very, very bad thing. I spent my first trimester talking myself down from panic attacks, leaving frantic messages for my OB, and begging my poor husband to reassure me that neither I nor the babies were dying. Unfortunately, only time and pregnancy-safe antidepressants helped quell this particular symptom.

            Now in my second trimester, I find it remarkable how quickly such a severe and long-lasting condition improved. The moment I hit week 13, I was feeling better. Instantly better. In fact, it was like the past three months hadn’t happened at all. I was me again in a matter of a week. However, I think it’s important not to minimize the misery that is the first trimester of some pregnancies. So many people have it much, much harder than I did. Sometimes the symptoms continue into the second trimester, often for the entire pregnancy. I even know a friend who suffered from hyperemesis gravidarum.

            My first trimester taught me a number of things. First, that every pregnancy is different for every person. Around the time of my diary entry, my mother (love you, Mom) couldn’t stop telling me how she’d never suffered so much as a flicker of nausea during both of her pregnancies. My body, possibly from carrying twins or possibly not, reacted differently.

            The second thing that my first trimester taught me is how much we downplay the negative aspects of pregnancy as a whole. TV shows portray the first trimester as utterly blissful with the occasional trip to the bathroom for a little vomit (usually only one, to trigger suspicion of pregnancy, and then you never see it again.) You never see a sitcom character who’s supposed to be 8 weeks pregnant asleep on the couch at noon surrounded by empty cups of ginger tea with a barf bucket at her feet.

Ladies and gentlemen, the aesthetic paragraph break.

Any women who dare insinuate that pregnancy has been anything less than a blissful, transformative, earth-goddess-farting-rainbows experience is often shut down, dismissed, or admonished as ungrateful. “Don’t you know how many women would kill to be in your position right now, no matter how sick?” As if the fact that people who struggle with infertility must be accounted for in every personal conversation about one’s own pregnancy experience. I understand using discretion—maybe don’t bitch about morning sickness to your friend who has been going through IVF treatments with no success—but too often this is used to completely shut down any discussion of anything negative about pregnancy. Infertility is valid and the feelings of those who may be struggling should absolutely be taken into account, but so too should the struggles and miseries of pregnancy be validated. The fact that I didn’t enjoy the feeling of being on a rapidly sinking ship 24/7 doesn’t make me ungrateful for this pregnancy. Even on my worst days, I wanted to be pregnant and tried my best to remember that my symptoms were a good sign (especially since I didn’t have any at all in the weeks before my miscarriage.)

            The last lesson taken from my first trimester is this: Women* are strong as fuck. Anyone who thinks otherwise is dead fucking wrong. More than half of us suffer from nausea, pure exhaustion, uncontrollable mood swings, insane bloating, and worse during our first trimesters, and we go to work, we run errands, we take classes, we kick ass through all of it. To quote my OB, “Pregnancy is dangerous. That’s why you see a doctor.” Pregnancy changes everything about your body. You experience side effects no one ever told you about; side effects that can completely debilitate you while they happen. And we get through it, and shoulder the rest of daily life while we’re at it. Pregnant people deserve every door held open, every bus seat given, every little perk (a hot chocolate on the house, a free cookie with a takeout order, etc) they get. The shit women go through during pregnancy is Herculean, and no one—no one—is right to dismiss them, mock them, or diminish what they’re doing. My first trimester intensified my advocacy of a woman’s right to choose to be pregnant (being pro-choice, pro-science-based sex ed, pro-sexual protection for all.) No one should ever have to go through a pregnancy unwillingly. The very thought of dealing with the life-and-body-altering event that is pregnancy against one’s will is as morally repugnant as you can possibly get. And again, anyone who thinks otherwise is dead fucking wrong. Full stop.

            So, as I hop off my soapbox, cheers to my first trimester. You made me decide that, yes, two children and one pregnancy is totally enough for me. And if you’re reading this going through your first trimester: Darling, my heart is with you. Your misery is absolutely valid, and don’t let anyone try to minimize it. Sleep, groan, drink your ginger tea, and know that you’re not alone and that there is absolutely a light at the end of this tunnel. Your misery will end. It will get better.

*Women and anyone else with uteri, vaginas, and ovaries.