If my previous post scared you, I suggest you don't proceed further to read this one.
I think there is a reason why most mothers tell their daughters "Oh you'll forget the pain once the baby comes" when posed with the inevitable "Does having a baby hurt?".
Take it from me, it's a pain you'll never forget, never ever. And how do some girls go through all that again, knowing the facts and experiencing everything first hand, is beyond my understanding. There must be some divine intervention that clouds your judgement.
The Chinese are the compassionate ones, "You poor thing, you've been to hell and back, you should not be put through that ordeal again." Go China!
I wanted to have a normal birth, I mean who wants to drug their baby right? But knowing that I had a very low threshold for pain I had an anaesthetist on standby. And a lousy one at that, who gave me a frigging 75% dosage so that I would be able to cooperate with the birthing team when it was time to pop the baby. If you're taking the drugs, take them right, don't settle. Or else like me you'll end up with a 100% pain concentrated in about 25% of your labour area and will probably pop out other things along with the baby.
So to continue from where I left off, I got the drugs that I was begging for and they worked beautifully for two hours. Then I felt this wrenching pain in the left side of my stomach. Something evil was having a rave party in there. I asked for the drugs again, and by now you should know the response; a big fat no.
Their apathetic rebuttals to my pleas triggered the following:
- I cursed the anaesthetist
- asked the nurses to give him a call that very minute
- told the nurses that I wanted to talk to him on the phone
- told them that the fellow was an idiot for not giving me a dose enough to keep me out of pain
- doubted whether he was a doctor at all and posed that question rather loudly to everyone in the labour room
- screamed my head off
And then magically I felt another cool thing down my spine; they had just administered another dose, of course not 100% because I was still in pain. But I guess the screaming had some effect.
In between all that they had hooked me with a catheter because I refused to pee on the bed; I was not going to do something that I had tried so hard to kick off millions of years ago.
There was a nurse asking me to breathe, and believe me I was trying. All that I learnt during the pre-natal classes took a flying-'the thing you have to do to make a baby'.
I was doing the hee hee - hoo hoo breathing which didn't do a damn thing to ease the pain but made me look like a runaway from the psycho ward.
By then I am sure that the whole scene in the delivery room was reminiscent of the Exorcist. My obstetrician made an appearance, I imagine with a bible and holy water and stood at the bloody end of my bed. The nurse was holding my hand, mumbling to herself; she might have been asking god to save her from this vicious thing that had possession of her hand.
And then it was time to get the baby out. I was told to push
But I had no clue what to do, what do I push, how do I push. I made the sounds and faces that I saw on TV but they were not pushing anything out. Then the nurse said, "bikki, bikki". This was not the time to improve my vocabulary in the local language. I told her, not very politely that I didn't understand. And she, to rid herself of me told me I had push in a way to stimulate bowel movement; of course she didn't tell me in so many nice words. They were all in the local language, said in a tone as you may to a child when they are being toilet trained. Once I received clear instructions I started doing what I had to do. I pushed and I pushed and I pushed some more.
And then she came out, looking more like a reptile than a human, but she was my little baby. So tiny and screaming her lungs out, I forgot the damned pain for a second, but only a second, we had made a baby, a real live baby. It was a frigging miracle!
Showing posts with label pregnancy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pregnancy. Show all posts
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Friday, June 07, 2013
The Pregnancy Diaries - The Truth About Labour
I've been promising to write this post for a long time now. Just to clear any doubts, I am not pregnant again, I am still recovering from the first one.
Disclaimer: Extreme content, reading of which may cause shock, blackouts and a possible gut wrench.
Double Disclaimer for the Pregnant Girls: Don't read this. If you're still reading this, beware, content may induce labour; keep your emergency contact informed.
It's been about four years since I found out I was pregnant, was a hormonal bitch, ate anything and everything that came my way, grew from being a huge cow to an enormous whale and then finally popped. I wish the popping bit was just as easy but no, here come the gory details. Have I mentioned before that I remember everything about my delivery? And no amount of watching birthing videos and burying your head in 'what to expect' can prepare you for this. For one, 'what to expect' makes childbirth sound easy and never tells you about the bitching pain that is labour. You'd think popping the baby would be the most difficult part right? Newsflash, it isn't.
Let me take you through what happened that day.
At about 11:30 at night, on the 15th of Dec, I felt an acute pain. But it came like a flash and was gone. When you read so much about pregnancy, you automatically analyse symptoms and then come to the conclusion that it is false labour and there is no need to panic or rush to the hospital. It could also be gas and to save yourself embarrassment you call it false labour and stay put at home. Half an hour later the pain came again, don't worry I won't be taking you through a half hourly tour of my ordeal. From about one in the morning (16th Dec) it became a little more frequent, so I decided to go to the hospital, just in case. I was very sure that the nurse would send me away saying it was false labour, but instead I was given a hospital gown, after being thoroughly prodded.
I thought,'This is not bad, the baby should be coming out maybe in another hour or two, tops'. Wrong again! The pains were now getting rough to handle and I was crouching like somebody had punched me in the stomach. I heard a few women in the labour ward screaming, like they were having Rosemary's baby and not their own.
I decided to remain calm, not cry, not scream and have a dignified birthing process. All of those things when right out of the window when the doctor decided to induce me with a drug from hell. You see it was twelve o clock in the afternoon, I was supposedly having frequent contractions since one o clock that morning and nothing really had progressed in eleven hours. That means, the doctor saw that I was not in 'enough' pain and decided to give me some more.
After twelve o clock, I am sure I was in hell and all the nurses and doctors were the minions of the devil doing his bidding, by ignoring my cries and pleas for the epidural. I actually begged for it, I am not making this up. Every time I asked for the drugs, my sheet would go up, there would be some prodding and a curt 'Now is not the time'. I think they were waiting for the time of the Blood Moon, the reverse eclipse, to offer me as a sacrifice. I kind of knew that at some time during my labour I would be reduced to a crying and screaming state, but begging, that too for drugs, now that was the low point.
And then there was this lady in a bed next to mine, who was moaning; the sounds were like sex noises but the labour ward, if anything, can definitely not turn you on. After about 20 minutes of some more moaning she was whisked away to the delivery room to have a baby! Here I was, the screaming, begging lunatic, with no sign of a baby coming out in the near future watching a slightly moaning lady being taken to the delivery room. 'She needs to be in more pain', I thought.
Anyway, at four o clock, after four hours of relentless labour, and still no baby, I heard the word,'epidural'. I was taken to the delivery room and pricked in the spine, but was way too exhausted to feel any pain. Then I felt this cool flow throughout my spine and the pain was magically disappearing. The doctor then tells me, that I would not be receiving a 100% epidural only 75% so that I would be able to cooperate with the nurses when it was time to push the baby out. I thought, 'Oh 75% can't be that bad, what is 25% of pain, should be alright.' Wrong yet again! This party keeps getting better.
The epidural gave me some relief though and I was feeling better. Of course, being in no pain is always a wonderful feeling. Santhosh came in around that time, he drove from Bangalore and came straight to the hospital; When he saw me all the blood drained from his face. It probably looked like the hell hounds got me but I was actually now relaxed and feeling rested, some drugs are just wonderful. I don't think he would've lasted even one minute if he had seen me in the state I had just come out of. If he stayed longer I am sure he would be in a hospital bed being treated for extreme shock and probably nausea.
Now that the idiot doctor had given me only 75% of the epidural, after 2 hours the pain was back. That pain was now concentrated on the left side of my hip, because it was supposedly reduced to 25%. It was so terrible that I thought my pancreas and left kidney would be coming out along with the baby. The screaming, crying and begging started all over again and went on for another three and a half hours.
What happened in those three and a half hours and the miracle that is birth, in my next post.
Disclaimer: Extreme content, reading of which may cause shock, blackouts and a possible gut wrench.
Double Disclaimer for the Pregnant Girls: Don't read this. If you're still reading this, beware, content may induce labour; keep your emergency contact informed.
It's been about four years since I found out I was pregnant, was a hormonal bitch, ate anything and everything that came my way, grew from being a huge cow to an enormous whale and then finally popped. I wish the popping bit was just as easy but no, here come the gory details. Have I mentioned before that I remember everything about my delivery? And no amount of watching birthing videos and burying your head in 'what to expect' can prepare you for this. For one, 'what to expect' makes childbirth sound easy and never tells you about the bitching pain that is labour. You'd think popping the baby would be the most difficult part right? Newsflash, it isn't.
Let me take you through what happened that day.
At about 11:30 at night, on the 15th of Dec, I felt an acute pain. But it came like a flash and was gone. When you read so much about pregnancy, you automatically analyse symptoms and then come to the conclusion that it is false labour and there is no need to panic or rush to the hospital. It could also be gas and to save yourself embarrassment you call it false labour and stay put at home. Half an hour later the pain came again, don't worry I won't be taking you through a half hourly tour of my ordeal. From about one in the morning (16th Dec) it became a little more frequent, so I decided to go to the hospital, just in case. I was very sure that the nurse would send me away saying it was false labour, but instead I was given a hospital gown, after being thoroughly prodded.
I thought,'This is not bad, the baby should be coming out maybe in another hour or two, tops'. Wrong again! The pains were now getting rough to handle and I was crouching like somebody had punched me in the stomach. I heard a few women in the labour ward screaming, like they were having Rosemary's baby and not their own.
I decided to remain calm, not cry, not scream and have a dignified birthing process. All of those things when right out of the window when the doctor decided to induce me with a drug from hell. You see it was twelve o clock in the afternoon, I was supposedly having frequent contractions since one o clock that morning and nothing really had progressed in eleven hours. That means, the doctor saw that I was not in 'enough' pain and decided to give me some more.
After twelve o clock, I am sure I was in hell and all the nurses and doctors were the minions of the devil doing his bidding, by ignoring my cries and pleas for the epidural. I actually begged for it, I am not making this up. Every time I asked for the drugs, my sheet would go up, there would be some prodding and a curt 'Now is not the time'. I think they were waiting for the time of the Blood Moon, the reverse eclipse, to offer me as a sacrifice. I kind of knew that at some time during my labour I would be reduced to a crying and screaming state, but begging, that too for drugs, now that was the low point.
And then there was this lady in a bed next to mine, who was moaning; the sounds were like sex noises but the labour ward, if anything, can definitely not turn you on. After about 20 minutes of some more moaning she was whisked away to the delivery room to have a baby! Here I was, the screaming, begging lunatic, with no sign of a baby coming out in the near future watching a slightly moaning lady being taken to the delivery room. 'She needs to be in more pain', I thought.
Anyway, at four o clock, after four hours of relentless labour, and still no baby, I heard the word,'epidural'. I was taken to the delivery room and pricked in the spine, but was way too exhausted to feel any pain. Then I felt this cool flow throughout my spine and the pain was magically disappearing. The doctor then tells me, that I would not be receiving a 100% epidural only 75% so that I would be able to cooperate with the nurses when it was time to push the baby out. I thought, 'Oh 75% can't be that bad, what is 25% of pain, should be alright.' Wrong yet again! This party keeps getting better.
The epidural gave me some relief though and I was feeling better. Of course, being in no pain is always a wonderful feeling. Santhosh came in around that time, he drove from Bangalore and came straight to the hospital; When he saw me all the blood drained from his face. It probably looked like the hell hounds got me but I was actually now relaxed and feeling rested, some drugs are just wonderful. I don't think he would've lasted even one minute if he had seen me in the state I had just come out of. If he stayed longer I am sure he would be in a hospital bed being treated for extreme shock and probably nausea.
Now that the idiot doctor had given me only 75% of the epidural, after 2 hours the pain was back. That pain was now concentrated on the left side of my hip, because it was supposedly reduced to 25%. It was so terrible that I thought my pancreas and left kidney would be coming out along with the baby. The screaming, crying and begging started all over again and went on for another three and a half hours.
What happened in those three and a half hours and the miracle that is birth, in my next post.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The Pregnancy Diaries: The Cookie Monster
Did you know that when you're pregnant you mysteriously turn into the cookie monster? I lived in denial for a few months but when my doctor told me that I needed to go on a diet, that too while pregnant, I had to admit it. On the pretext of "cravings" and "I have to eat for two people now", the cookie monster demanded chocolate chip cookies at midnight and BLT Sandwiches for breakfast; of course it all depended on what the baby was asking for at the time, I couldn't ignore that could I. Now if you think the cookie monster was just being a complete ravenous pig and randomly stuffing its face, you're wrong. There were phases, like on some full moons the monster had to have its steak 'blue'.
Up until two months I had no cravings at all; well it was already a month before I found out I was preggers and the month following that the fact that I was preggers was just sinking in. So when you're starting your 3rd month it's perfect for cravings because now everyone's been given the "good news" and with the hormones working full time everyone's just better off doing what they're told i.e supplying the monster food everyday.
It started one day with a bar of Cadbury's Fruit and Nut, which was innocently picked up during grocery shopping. The next day another one mysteriously found its way into my handbag; it must've hopped in at the bakery while I was not looking. These bars then started showing up at my house and to destroy all evidence of its existence were promptly devoured. Then when I would run out of stock (these bars sometimes got lazy and just stopped showing up) the husband would get a call to pick up some on his way back.
This phase lasted about 3 weeks and then I went cold turkey on the Fruit & Nut bars; no more chocolate for me, it was time to bring on the meat. In the month following the Fruit & Nut phase, the demographics of domestic herbivores reported a sharp downward trend. Before 'Vegetarians R Us' and PETA could stage a demonstration in front of my house I switched to Biriyanis, mostly Chicken but since the fowl was also consumed with huge amounts of rice I didn't look so bad. I didn't eat the biriyanis everyday though I wanted them. One night I had cooked soggy dal for dinner, yet again, (When all you want to do is sleep after getting back from work, soggy dal it is. I didn't sprout an extra pair of hands that looked like ladles when no one was looking) and of course one look at it made me crave for my new found love, biriyani. So hubby gets a call to pick up biriyani on his way back from work. So while he was eating the soggy dal that I had so lovingly prepared I was wolfing down the biriyani. I did save him some leftovers though.
If anyone knows what you want to eat when you're pregnant, its Mama. Without my asking I would receive parcels of the yummiest Mangalorean food. She would generously send enough to feed even my neighbours, but we all know where that went. There were 'Garios', fried balls made of primarily jackfruit pulp and rice flour; 'Patholis' which are steamed rolls that come in two versions, one out jackfuit pulp, rice flour and coconut and the other out of jaggery and coconut wrapped in a rice flour paste. Also, Mangalorean preparations of Pork and beef were sent my way every other week; there was PETA ready to strike again. Everyday the cookie monster religiously raided her fridge and made sure that these parcels of love (and loads of calories) fulfilled their purpose.
But all of your pregnancy cannot be one huge gastronomical party. Enter the husband. Though I was taken out for gelatos (double the cost of an ice cream but healthier and less fat you see) at night and Italian whenever I heard Pavarotti on the radio, I was made to eat my fruits. Now bananas and oranges are the low maintenance ones, you take the whole fruit to work, wash, peel and eat, done. I had no qualms about these, these I would put into my lunch bag with a song. And if you're thinking what else can piss off this old gal, I'll tell you, its the Pomegranate. For everyday of my pregnant life I have eaten on an average two pomegranates, not because I loved them but because my husband made me. And no, he was not the one painstakingly peeling the damn things and packing them into the tupperware. One morning I went to work with what I thought was my pristine white shirt, not realising that my shirt looked like it had got the measles, there were pomegranate juice squirts all over it. After that I had to wake up an hour earlier than normal because you have to peel these things with either no clothes on, which would prompt my maid to run away from the job with no notice at all or at a meter's distance which made the peeling process quite impossible. Almost everyday I had nightmares of a giant pomegranate shooting its arils (yes thats what the things inside are called) at me in a white shirt. At the rate I was eating this fruit there was a slight chance that I would be giving birth to a baby covered with arils and would have to later explain them as birthmarks. That year pomegranate sales were at an all time high and my local fruit vendor apparently built a mansion and bought himself a Harley.
You'd think a person can eat only so much and I probably broke records which I didn't know of. But what better time to do that without feeling guilty eh? Now if I ask for ice cream at midnight it'll be received with an incoherent mumble and a possible kick in the shins.
Up until two months I had no cravings at all; well it was already a month before I found out I was preggers and the month following that the fact that I was preggers was just sinking in. So when you're starting your 3rd month it's perfect for cravings because now everyone's been given the "good news" and with the hormones working full time everyone's just better off doing what they're told i.e supplying the monster food everyday.
It started one day with a bar of Cadbury's Fruit and Nut, which was innocently picked up during grocery shopping. The next day another one mysteriously found its way into my handbag; it must've hopped in at the bakery while I was not looking. These bars then started showing up at my house and to destroy all evidence of its existence were promptly devoured. Then when I would run out of stock (these bars sometimes got lazy and just stopped showing up) the husband would get a call to pick up some on his way back.
This phase lasted about 3 weeks and then I went cold turkey on the Fruit & Nut bars; no more chocolate for me, it was time to bring on the meat. In the month following the Fruit & Nut phase, the demographics of domestic herbivores reported a sharp downward trend. Before 'Vegetarians R Us' and PETA could stage a demonstration in front of my house I switched to Biriyanis, mostly Chicken but since the fowl was also consumed with huge amounts of rice I didn't look so bad. I didn't eat the biriyanis everyday though I wanted them. One night I had cooked soggy dal for dinner, yet again, (When all you want to do is sleep after getting back from work, soggy dal it is. I didn't sprout an extra pair of hands that looked like ladles when no one was looking) and of course one look at it made me crave for my new found love, biriyani. So hubby gets a call to pick up biriyani on his way back from work. So while he was eating the soggy dal that I had so lovingly prepared I was wolfing down the biriyani. I did save him some leftovers though.
If anyone knows what you want to eat when you're pregnant, its Mama. Without my asking I would receive parcels of the yummiest Mangalorean food. She would generously send enough to feed even my neighbours, but we all know where that went. There were 'Garios', fried balls made of primarily jackfruit pulp and rice flour; 'Patholis' which are steamed rolls that come in two versions, one out jackfuit pulp, rice flour and coconut and the other out of jaggery and coconut wrapped in a rice flour paste. Also, Mangalorean preparations of Pork and beef were sent my way every other week; there was PETA ready to strike again. Everyday the cookie monster religiously raided her fridge and made sure that these parcels of love (and loads of calories) fulfilled their purpose.
But all of your pregnancy cannot be one huge gastronomical party. Enter the husband. Though I was taken out for gelatos (double the cost of an ice cream but healthier and less fat you see) at night and Italian whenever I heard Pavarotti on the radio, I was made to eat my fruits. Now bananas and oranges are the low maintenance ones, you take the whole fruit to work, wash, peel and eat, done. I had no qualms about these, these I would put into my lunch bag with a song. And if you're thinking what else can piss off this old gal, I'll tell you, its the Pomegranate. For everyday of my pregnant life I have eaten on an average two pomegranates, not because I loved them but because my husband made me. And no, he was not the one painstakingly peeling the damn things and packing them into the tupperware. One morning I went to work with what I thought was my pristine white shirt, not realising that my shirt looked like it had got the measles, there were pomegranate juice squirts all over it. After that I had to wake up an hour earlier than normal because you have to peel these things with either no clothes on, which would prompt my maid to run away from the job with no notice at all or at a meter's distance which made the peeling process quite impossible. Almost everyday I had nightmares of a giant pomegranate shooting its arils (yes thats what the things inside are called) at me in a white shirt. At the rate I was eating this fruit there was a slight chance that I would be giving birth to a baby covered with arils and would have to later explain them as birthmarks. That year pomegranate sales were at an all time high and my local fruit vendor apparently built a mansion and bought himself a Harley.
You'd think a person can eat only so much and I probably broke records which I didn't know of. But what better time to do that without feeling guilty eh? Now if I ask for ice cream at midnight it'll be received with an incoherent mumble and a possible kick in the shins.
Monday, March 28, 2011
The Pregnancy Diaries: The Queen of Bad Times
Pregnancy can be hard; not can be, it is hard. The first four months were particularly hard for me. If you think I spent mornings with my head steeped in the toilet bowl, then you can spare the "I know how it feels" speech. Actually, I belonged to the group who saw no morning or evening sickness.
But that doesn't mean I didn't have any aversions. One particular brand of instant noodles made me go green and extremely nauseous. So while the whole family would enjoy a Sunday evening snack of instant noodles I'd stand in the balcony, which didn't overlook the pool but a huge dumping ground for garbage, waiting for everyone to finish and destroy all traces of the nauseating factor before they called me back in. Actually the foul smell emanating from the garbage was much more appealing than the instant noodles at that time.
Another nauseating factor was a particular brand of my sister's perfume. One day she was strutting around the house wearing this perfume and I was watching a food show whilst suddenly feeling extremely nauseous. It was either the food show or the perfume. The poor girl got told off for wearing the perfume, which I actually loved before and was sent to her room; what?! only until I was done watching the food show. Another time she was getting dressed for a party and there was that nauseous feeling again. She had worn "the" perfume. The poor girl stayed put in her room the whole time until her friend came to pick her up. That perfume was probably FedEx'ed to a tribal woman in Timbuktu. She didn't want to tick me off again and be resigned to the fate of being jailed in her room a third time.
Nausea is one thing; but being hormonal is a totally different streak. To compensate for not having any morning sickness, my hormones decided to have the cake and it eat it too. Now normally I do tend to get a little cranky and I have to agree that there is definitely a hint of nastiness in my nature. But the pregnancy hormones cranked up these things to a whole new level. The Queen of Bad Times had arrived. Who bore the brunt of these hormones? First the husband of course; I thought he'd divorce me at the end of nine months. I was actually surprised at how nasty I could be. Any question he asked was always returned with a retort, nothing witty, just plain mean.
Him: Are you feeling alright?
Me: None of your business
Him: Are you going to work today?
Me: None of your business
Him: Do you want me to pick you up from work?
Me: Just stop asking me stupid questions ok!
At first he'd ask me why I was behaving like a total lunatic. That would be met by a long winded speech on insensitivity, ignorance and how men had the best deal in all of this. But he learnt fast. I was still the lunatic but he took it in his stride and would not say a word. It's a wonder that he didn't go insane at the end of it all; all that pent up frustration I was causing him was definitely not easy to subdue.
My immediate family were not spared 'the horror that was me', either. One night my brothers, sister and a couple of their friends were home. At about one in the morning I was woken by this raucous laughter. And with that the hormones too were ignited into top gear; I tried to sleep but couldn't and the laughter in the room didn't seem to stop. So I went out and politely asked them to keep it down. Once I went back and tried to settle in, there was more of that laughter. They received a second warning. Though I heard hushed tones for about 5 minutes after the warning, the decibel level gradually kept going up, with more laughter. Feeling totally awake now I went out into the hall and started watching a movie. By now, actually, the anger had died down and I was enjoying the movie; oblivious that a bunch of youngsters were huddled in the bedroom too frightened to come out to the kitchen for even a glass of water. A year later, my sister tells me that when I had come out into the hall that night they were all scared. I was the nasty preggy witch who was ready to have them for a midnight snack. For lack of space one of them had to actually crash in the hall; but they decided to adjust themselves in the bedroom, packed like a tin of sardines, rather than endure my wrath and be eaten alive. This was the sort of monster I had turned into.
Luckily for me and all around me, the hormones settled themselves in about four months time. I was turning back into my sweeter, calmer self; oh ok, that's a lie. But I was definitely less nasty and hubby had now stopped wearing his protective armour. Also, the little cross and holy water under my pillow were now gone. And they told me it was to ward off nightmares and help me sleep better.
But that doesn't mean I didn't have any aversions. One particular brand of instant noodles made me go green and extremely nauseous. So while the whole family would enjoy a Sunday evening snack of instant noodles I'd stand in the balcony, which didn't overlook the pool but a huge dumping ground for garbage, waiting for everyone to finish and destroy all traces of the nauseating factor before they called me back in. Actually the foul smell emanating from the garbage was much more appealing than the instant noodles at that time.
Another nauseating factor was a particular brand of my sister's perfume. One day she was strutting around the house wearing this perfume and I was watching a food show whilst suddenly feeling extremely nauseous. It was either the food show or the perfume. The poor girl got told off for wearing the perfume, which I actually loved before and was sent to her room; what?! only until I was done watching the food show. Another time she was getting dressed for a party and there was that nauseous feeling again. She had worn "the" perfume. The poor girl stayed put in her room the whole time until her friend came to pick her up. That perfume was probably FedEx'ed to a tribal woman in Timbuktu. She didn't want to tick me off again and be resigned to the fate of being jailed in her room a third time.
Nausea is one thing; but being hormonal is a totally different streak. To compensate for not having any morning sickness, my hormones decided to have the cake and it eat it too. Now normally I do tend to get a little cranky and I have to agree that there is definitely a hint of nastiness in my nature. But the pregnancy hormones cranked up these things to a whole new level. The Queen of Bad Times had arrived. Who bore the brunt of these hormones? First the husband of course; I thought he'd divorce me at the end of nine months. I was actually surprised at how nasty I could be. Any question he asked was always returned with a retort, nothing witty, just plain mean.
Him: Are you feeling alright?
Me: None of your business
Him: Are you going to work today?
Me: None of your business
Him: Do you want me to pick you up from work?
Me: Just stop asking me stupid questions ok!
At first he'd ask me why I was behaving like a total lunatic. That would be met by a long winded speech on insensitivity, ignorance and how men had the best deal in all of this. But he learnt fast. I was still the lunatic but he took it in his stride and would not say a word. It's a wonder that he didn't go insane at the end of it all; all that pent up frustration I was causing him was definitely not easy to subdue.
My immediate family were not spared 'the horror that was me', either. One night my brothers, sister and a couple of their friends were home. At about one in the morning I was woken by this raucous laughter. And with that the hormones too were ignited into top gear; I tried to sleep but couldn't and the laughter in the room didn't seem to stop. So I went out and politely asked them to keep it down. Once I went back and tried to settle in, there was more of that laughter. They received a second warning. Though I heard hushed tones for about 5 minutes after the warning, the decibel level gradually kept going up, with more laughter. Feeling totally awake now I went out into the hall and started watching a movie. By now, actually, the anger had died down and I was enjoying the movie; oblivious that a bunch of youngsters were huddled in the bedroom too frightened to come out to the kitchen for even a glass of water. A year later, my sister tells me that when I had come out into the hall that night they were all scared. I was the nasty preggy witch who was ready to have them for a midnight snack. For lack of space one of them had to actually crash in the hall; but they decided to adjust themselves in the bedroom, packed like a tin of sardines, rather than endure my wrath and be eaten alive. This was the sort of monster I had turned into.
Luckily for me and all around me, the hormones settled themselves in about four months time. I was turning back into my sweeter, calmer self; oh ok, that's a lie. But I was definitely less nasty and hubby had now stopped wearing his protective armour. Also, the little cross and holy water under my pillow were now gone. And they told me it was to ward off nightmares and help me sleep better.
Friday, March 25, 2011
The Pregnancy Diaries: Genesis
All of us love the 'how it all began' stories. "How did you two meet? Tell us how it all began. Did he propose?" No no he didn't; my next door neighbour with two wives and a stump did. Of course he proposed, begged and cried too; at least I'd like to think the last two were true. But I am not going to bore you with the story of how we met now, maybe another time.
Almost two years ago, while summer was just setting in, that 'time of the month' didn't come by. I was really really late and without even taking the pregnancy test, a little nagging voice told me that the oven was already baking a little bun. But I didn't want to believe it. So I took a pregnancy test, feeling quite nervous. The test showed two pink lines, which meant there was definitely a bun on the way. Still couldn't believe it; sometimes these tests can turn out all wrong and secretly this is what I was hoping for. Hubby was handing me out congratulations with a broad smile on his face and I looked, well, rather upset. Don't get me wrong I love kids and at that time, if the kids weren't mine even better. You just had to hand the crying baby back to the parents after having had a great time playing peek-a-boo and this little piggy with them.
There were two aspects to my emotion. One, it was totally unexpected. Everything that was supposed to be worn was worn. We could attribute this to a latex malfunction. Also counting back it should've been the 'safe period'; I think no such thing exists and the term was probably coined by a lazy guy who didn't want to get the rubber on.
Two, I had been up, close and personal with babies; I knew how they functioned. I had been there and done that, when you have 5 siblings it's difficult to not get involved. They poop, eat, cry, sleep not necessarily in that order; the crying usually precedes and succeeds the other activities. Bringing up a baby needs a lot patience, energy and sanity; all three attributes very questionable in my nature. So mine feeling upset was really not abnormal. See, already wearing thin on sanity.
However, just to be absolutely sure, I took the test the next day as well. And what do you know, the two pink lines promptly appeared. It was like the stupid little pee stick was mocking me; wanna go again sister, we'll be right here. So I made the call to hubby to tell him again that the two little pink lines had made an appearance and that I was definitely pregnant. He was not able to contain his joy. I think he was already thinking of hideous baby names, dreaming of an angelic quiet little bundle that he look at for hours, who'd catch hold of his finger and fall asleep in his arms. Clearly hubby had no clue what he was signing up for. He had probably seen little ducklings following the mother duck everywhere with the father duck making only a guest appearance. Probably it was the case of "someone else's kid" with fathers he'd seen, when the baby cries it is instantly handed over to the mother.
The next thing we had to do, to be triply sure, since we'd taken the home test twice, was to visit the doctor. I had some faint trace of hope that I was not preggers and that the home tests were past their expiration date; the pee sticks were probably snickering now; dream on sister. Once inside the doctor's room there were a lot of questions followed by a lot of prodding in the area below my waist. When it was time for the internal exam (which involves no pen or paper) I felt like I was punched in the guts, literally. I must've died for two seconds. Definitely not a great start to a "magical" pregnancy, I was just violated by a huge rubber gloved hand and it was legal.
Congratulations were in order again. This time I was undeniably, positively, surely pregnant. Now based on data provided by me to the doctor before all the pressing, jabbing and digging began I was now 8 weeks preggy. 8 weeks? I told the doctor that that was just impossible. On the date she suggested, to get the bun rolling, it would have taken a miracle like an immaculate conception or sex with a stranger; both not my style. Hubby probably threw me a sly sidewards glance, this doctor was making me look bad. I told her categorically that I was not in the country at the time and was also without my husband, so this was quite a preposterous suggestion. She seemed to laugh suggestively; I think my frown made it clear that I was not the swaying type; also one who had made it through a really long long-distance relationship. hmmph.
Sensing that my hormones were kicking in already the doctor quickly suggested that I get my first antenatal scan done. In the scan room there was some more prodding and there on the screen was this tiny dot; that teensy speck was my baby. Now these scanners are highly intelligent and can calculate a whole lot of stuff themselves. A report was instantly generated which was then handed over to my doctor. Looking at it my doctor said that I was 4 weeks pregnant. I told you I did not cheat.
When we went home hubby and I were looking quite fondly at the little speck; there was our baby. I had warmed up to this after all. On reading the report we came across the Date of Conception. Now what exactly was this doctor trying to prove, I thought to myself. The report suggested a date when I was in my hometown and hubby in Bangalore. Thankfully my hubby trusts me completely so no deep dive into the errant dates were necessary.
Until now this has been our great unsolvable mystery. So as to how it all began, we have no freaking idea.
Almost two years ago, while summer was just setting in, that 'time of the month' didn't come by. I was really really late and without even taking the pregnancy test, a little nagging voice told me that the oven was already baking a little bun. But I didn't want to believe it. So I took a pregnancy test, feeling quite nervous. The test showed two pink lines, which meant there was definitely a bun on the way. Still couldn't believe it; sometimes these tests can turn out all wrong and secretly this is what I was hoping for. Hubby was handing me out congratulations with a broad smile on his face and I looked, well, rather upset. Don't get me wrong I love kids and at that time, if the kids weren't mine even better. You just had to hand the crying baby back to the parents after having had a great time playing peek-a-boo and this little piggy with them.
There were two aspects to my emotion. One, it was totally unexpected. Everything that was supposed to be worn was worn. We could attribute this to a latex malfunction. Also counting back it should've been the 'safe period'; I think no such thing exists and the term was probably coined by a lazy guy who didn't want to get the rubber on.
Two, I had been up, close and personal with babies; I knew how they functioned. I had been there and done that, when you have 5 siblings it's difficult to not get involved. They poop, eat, cry, sleep not necessarily in that order; the crying usually precedes and succeeds the other activities. Bringing up a baby needs a lot patience, energy and sanity; all three attributes very questionable in my nature. So mine feeling upset was really not abnormal. See, already wearing thin on sanity.
However, just to be absolutely sure, I took the test the next day as well. And what do you know, the two pink lines promptly appeared. It was like the stupid little pee stick was mocking me; wanna go again sister, we'll be right here. So I made the call to hubby to tell him again that the two little pink lines had made an appearance and that I was definitely pregnant. He was not able to contain his joy. I think he was already thinking of hideous baby names, dreaming of an angelic quiet little bundle that he look at for hours, who'd catch hold of his finger and fall asleep in his arms. Clearly hubby had no clue what he was signing up for. He had probably seen little ducklings following the mother duck everywhere with the father duck making only a guest appearance. Probably it was the case of "someone else's kid" with fathers he'd seen, when the baby cries it is instantly handed over to the mother.
The next thing we had to do, to be triply sure, since we'd taken the home test twice, was to visit the doctor. I had some faint trace of hope that I was not preggers and that the home tests were past their expiration date; the pee sticks were probably snickering now; dream on sister. Once inside the doctor's room there were a lot of questions followed by a lot of prodding in the area below my waist. When it was time for the internal exam (which involves no pen or paper) I felt like I was punched in the guts, literally. I must've died for two seconds. Definitely not a great start to a "magical" pregnancy, I was just violated by a huge rubber gloved hand and it was legal.
Congratulations were in order again. This time I was undeniably, positively, surely pregnant. Now based on data provided by me to the doctor before all the pressing, jabbing and digging began I was now 8 weeks preggy. 8 weeks? I told the doctor that that was just impossible. On the date she suggested, to get the bun rolling, it would have taken a miracle like an immaculate conception or sex with a stranger; both not my style. Hubby probably threw me a sly sidewards glance, this doctor was making me look bad. I told her categorically that I was not in the country at the time and was also without my husband, so this was quite a preposterous suggestion. She seemed to laugh suggestively; I think my frown made it clear that I was not the swaying type; also one who had made it through a really long long-distance relationship. hmmph.
Sensing that my hormones were kicking in already the doctor quickly suggested that I get my first antenatal scan done. In the scan room there was some more prodding and there on the screen was this tiny dot; that teensy speck was my baby. Now these scanners are highly intelligent and can calculate a whole lot of stuff themselves. A report was instantly generated which was then handed over to my doctor. Looking at it my doctor said that I was 4 weeks pregnant. I told you I did not cheat.
When we went home hubby and I were looking quite fondly at the little speck; there was our baby. I had warmed up to this after all. On reading the report we came across the Date of Conception. Now what exactly was this doctor trying to prove, I thought to myself. The report suggested a date when I was in my hometown and hubby in Bangalore. Thankfully my hubby trusts me completely so no deep dive into the errant dates were necessary.
Until now this has been our great unsolvable mystery. So as to how it all began, we have no freaking idea.
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