Plagued by the return of the sickness, I was begining to wish my pregnancy over. Food had lost its joy (I love food, all food, all the time, I never say no to food). My life had turned into a nauseated bag of shite! I had no joy, I felt like a whale and worst of all it was the hottest summer for like a million years. It was quite simply the epitome of hell (or may have been actual hell, by this point I want sure).
Nothing will quite shock you out of your wallowing pit of self loathing quite like a movement scare. After an argument with my other half that didn’t dispel any of my anxiety I drove myself straight to hospital from work. Like magic the long walk to the triage (the closest carpark most inconveniently was shut!!) triggered little miss to have a dance party. Sure enough when I got checked out all was fine but god, the worry. I had to go back the next day for a growth scan just to be sure but all was fine (actually she was growing very very well and was big, not helpful to know when your panicking about the impending process if birth). Safe in the knowledge that she was ok I was begining to ease up on my self loathing. The midwife at the hospital had seen I was struggling and had asked if I had thought about finishing up from work early.
That wasn’t the plan at all. The plan was to finish 3 weeks before, take the last of my annual leave and keep as much maternity as possible pre baby to have all the time post baby. True I was struggling but I only had a couple more weeks I’d be fine, surely. After a routine midwife appointment a few days later at my local surgery my midwife advised I saw the doctor and got signed off. It’s true my girdle pain had returned, sleep was non existent and as for general comfort…well it had long since left the building. The following day my gp signed me off, first for a week (I was in denial) then till my planned time to finish.
So all there was to do was rest.
From the exhausted mummy and her eye bags