Are you one of those women that love to be pregnant and enjoy every moment of it? Then this commentary isn’t for you – it’s for those who aren’t built to breed quite as well.
When I was pregnant, I felt like I had PMS for nine nonstop months. Morning sickness forced me to live on crackers, which in turn made me hate crackers so I turned to eating cucumbers. Odors make me hurl – even things that I used to love eating. I hated spaghetti, eggs, any sort of fried foods and the smell of pork.
Unlike that myth about pregnancy making a woman’s skin and hair beautiful, mine was quite the opposite. I broke out more than I did when I was in puberty and I had little red dots all over my arms and hands (I was told they would go away after giving birth, which eventually they did). My nails were cracked to all hell and my hair was a ball of grease that literally fell out in clumps.
My back felt like an elephant was growing from it during the last trimester, and I swear that my baby purposely kicked me in the ribs whenever I’d eaten and bounced upon my bladder every time I tried to fall asleep.
Besides the physical symptoms, my moods mimicked the PMS psycho cycle. I could laugh and cry within ten seconds of the other for no good reason at all. At times I wanted to run someone over or scream and cry and pound my fists like a two-year-old.
Then came time for labor. I’d attended a labor discussion at the hospital prior to delivery as to prepare myself for this wonderful life experience. Apparently, everyone there but me had no issues with the gory parts of giving birth. When someone started talking about episiotimes, my hands became clammy, I felt a little dizzy, and ran to the bathroom before I regurgitated my dinner. That was enough for me.
“I want to be knocked out,” I informed my doctor. “I don’t want to be awake for any part of this.”
To my disappointment, she informed me that they don’t knock people out anymore but that I could have an epidural.
Two weeks after my due date, I went into labor. Twenty-three whole hours of it, in fact – three of them being the pushing part. One of the nurses asked if I’d like a mirror so I could watch this miracle of birth. Gag!!! No thanks, I told her.
Then that wonderful epidural wore off. The doctor was using suction devices and clamps and things that I never knew could fit in my gi-gi. I thought I was shitting a watermelon.
Afterwards, I wasn’t producing enough milk, and post-partum blues started within 12 hours of giving birth. I suffered from a kidney infection that required hospitalization and soft-tissue tears that took two years to heal.
But the worst part of it all came when someone asked, “Do you plan to have anymore?”