I spent 20 weeks being sick. My body aching and denying comfort. Constantly running to the bathroom to throw up.
I threw up everything. I wish I was exaggerating, but even water made me sick. I would brush my teeth to clean my mouth after vomiting only to be sick even more from the toothpaste. Kind of hard to ever feel clean.
20 weeks of shaking from hunger, thirst, and weakness. From crying and dry-heaving. Embarrassment didn’t keep me at home. My sprint to the closest restroom did. And when I did need to leave the house, I improvised. There’s a dumpster behind a Verizon power building near the Oceanfront that I visited more than once. Tired of the bile, I also visited the hospital for IV’s and Zofran more than once… a week.
I thought about how it was supposed to be easier by now. I made it out of the first trimester. That alone deserved a parade, some confetti, a cupcake or even just some bland toast that I could actually eat. Something that let me celebrate that I didn’t have another miscarriage statistic to my name. The first trimester was supposed to be the “worry trimester.” The second was supposed to be the “easy trimester” and the third was going to be the “rush to get everything ready” one. Or so I thought.