Since that first day of feeling awful, I had a string of days where I felt just fine. Then my first doctor's appointment where my quirky-rarely-says-the-right-thing-doctor reminds me that because I'm in my 30's now, my risk of miscarriage goes up. And that feeling really, really sick is a sign of a healthy pregnancy. All I felt was really, really tired. She actually told me "miscarriage usually happens around 6 or 7 weeks. So, if you wake up on Monday barfing your guts out - that's great! If you wake up Monday feeling fabulous, that's baaaaad".
Thanks Doc.
I hate to harp on this. I hate that my mind instantly goes to this bad place. But miscarriage is traumatic, in the truest sense of the word. At least it was for me. Trauma lingers. It's an experience I still play back in my mind. I'm terrified of having to go through it again. Or worse...my friends and family going through it with us again.
Anyway. I've now had a short string of days where I feel like ass. The fatigue is beyond description. I'm literally, no exaggeration, in bed by 7:30pm some nights. The second Rhys is in his crib I collapse in bed to rest 'for 10 minutes' and wake up 3 hours later to stumble to the washroom in a haze and clumsily take out my contacts, only to collapse again 45 seconds later, mascara smudged under my eyes and my underwire bra still on.
The fatigue acts as a nice segue to the Self Loathing part of pregnancy I had forgotten. Because of the crippling fatigue and the constant underlying nausea, I have no energy and zero motivation to do anything after Rhys is in bed. So laundry piles up. Dishes pile up. Garbage starts to stink. Towels and socks litter the bedroom. Rhys' toys don't get put away at night. And I start to hate myself. I'm lazy and using pregnancy as an excuse. At least that's what the mean bitch in my head is telling me.
