The First Trimester, According to Gordita

I've been thinking about this post for quite a while now. What would I say? How would I describe my first trimester? Now that I'm well into the second, I think I'm far enough removed to be objective, but still close enough to it that I remember.

Well, here's what I've come up with to summarize the experience: it was crappy.

The nausea, the bloating, the digestive ummm struggles, the emergency ravenousness, general cloudy headedness, acute loss of sense of humor, the panic and guilt I felt... Yeah. All crap.

Because I was so nauseated, and only a few foods really appealed to me, I ate whatever sounded good. For some reason fruits and vegetables in any form did NOT sound good to me. Neither did anything with any semblance of nutrition. I subsisted on cereal, white rice with butter and salt, boiled pasta with a whisper of olive oil, chicken nuggets, fries and toast with honey. My favorite foods--goldfish, diet Dr. Pepper, pizza, and even Cafe Rio (the horror)--did not appeal. In fact, they induced nausea. Heart-rending, I know.

My poor diet, along with the zofran I was taking for nausea, plus the general pregnantness I was experiencing led to my digestive ummm struggles. All I will say about that is this: I do not wish that kind of pain on even the most loathsome of people.

Then there was the emergency ravenousness, the feeling that fatty's gonna have a heart attack if we don't eat again soon (name THAT movie). What a conundrum: I must eat or I will die, or worse, vomit. But nothing sounds appealing. Plus, it's 2:30 in the antemeridian and my dear husband is trying to sleep and our apartment is small and every sound is heard everywhere and it's not like I could prepare boiled pasta without disturbing him. So, I ate cereal. Like a kid at fat camp that sneaks into the kitchen at night, I snuck around eating cereal as quietly as I could. You'd be surprised at how much racket a metal spoon makes clanking against a porcelain bowl. It's like jet engine loud at 2:30 am.

Between the bloating and the poor diet, I gained weight. I wasn't "showing," just chubbier. I was less than delighted about that.

So as a result of my physical difficulties I felt cloudy-headed. I wasn't ME anymore. And I completely lost any semblance of a sense of humor. TC was no longer funny. His jokes or words of comfort and support intended to ease my burden were seemingly insensitive (i.e. TC: "Well, at least this will be over soon." Me: "That's not funny jerk. Don't trivialize my demise! It's like you want me to feel miserable.") Yeah. I was a joy to be around.

I felt panicked that this condition was permanent, although every degree of logic pointed to temporary. And I panicked that I wasn't happy to be pregnant. After waiting and hoping for so long, I was miserable. Is this what tragic irony is all about?

And I felt guilty that the little one growing inside of me, sucking the life out of me, snuffing me out gradually, wasn't loved and treasured. Would I love this baby, the cause of my lengthy expiry, once it was born, assuming I survived that long? Would I resent the creature? Would I continue to view him as a parasite?

I'm happy to report that with the second trimester things gradually changed, on all fronts. Things have gotten better: I'm not nauseated, my head is unclouded, it's no longer eat or die, and I'm starting to kind of like this little guy. I realize now that wherever I go, I have company, and I like it. Also, my diet is more varied and my favorites are back into play (except for pizza for some strange reason). And the digestive struggles have subsided. Things are looking up!

So to anyone out there reading this that might be in their first trimester, fearing that they will never be funny again, that they will never have another normal "movement," or that they will never love diet Dr. Pepper the same, take courage. Things will get better! This IS temporary.

However, when one problem is solved, another takes its place. I'll tell you all about my second trimester once it's over.