Ginger, everybody said.
Ginger is the key to getting on top of that pesky nausea. When you feel a bit icky, reach for some yummy ginger and it'll calm you right down.
Well, I was more than willing to try that. I was always a fan of the dark ginger chocolates my grandma used to get for Christmas, and I'm partial to the occasional ginger ale.
So I got some ginger beer. I checked it was made with real ginger. And when I felt the nausea strike, I was armed.
Little sips of ginger, everybody said. Little sips.
Well, I can tell you this much. Ginger beer doesn't help the nausea much, but it doesn't half sting your nose when you vomit it out of your nasal cavities.
Sunday, 26 February 2012
Friday, 24 February 2012
Sick note
Now, I'm not going to pretend I'm one of those super-high flyers with my own PA and a string of people I refer to as "staff", but I do have a reasonably good job for an investment bank. Most of the time, it's fine - the hours aren't too mental - 9 until 6.30ish, but with an hour's commute each way, it can make it feel like a longer day than it actually is.
As I'm so exhausted at the moment, I decided to take off last Friday and Monday, to have a nice long weekend. It was lovely.
What was not so lovely was the return to work.
At 9 a.m. I was frantically trying to clear 200 emails. None of which actually mattered, if it came down to a life or death situation. Unfortunately my manager doesn't see it this way.
At 10 a.m. I was preparing for the monthly senior management meeting; I'm the most junior person who goes to this, so I really needed to be on my game. Unfortunately I felt like a cockroach had crawled up my nose and laid eggs in my brain.
At 11 a.m. I was sitting in the meeting. I literally have no idea what the content was. All I could think, on a loop over and over in my brain was, "I'm going to vomit on the Managing Director. I'm actually going to vomit on him. That's not a good career move."
At midday I was laid out on the floor of a toilet cubicle, regurgitating my healthy breakfast (a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and some blackcurrant squash).
It's worse than it should be for a couple of reasons: I can't tell anyone at work because it's not exactly a family-friendly organisation. Oh, they have all the right policies in place, but time and time again I've seen women marginalised because they've left to have children. Despite there being 50 women in my department, not a single one works part time. Because it's not allowed. Not officially of course - the policies are in place to support flexible working. It just doesn't happen.
Even worse, redundancies are on the horizon, and although I'm a relatively high performer, I know that if they find out I'm up the duff, it's significantly more likely that my role will suddenly and mysteriously become null and void.
So I'm trying to be an uber-high performer, putting in the hours, getting more and more exhausted... and trying not to vomit on the MD.
As I'm so exhausted at the moment, I decided to take off last Friday and Monday, to have a nice long weekend. It was lovely.
What was not so lovely was the return to work.
At 9 a.m. I was frantically trying to clear 200 emails. None of which actually mattered, if it came down to a life or death situation. Unfortunately my manager doesn't see it this way.
At 10 a.m. I was preparing for the monthly senior management meeting; I'm the most junior person who goes to this, so I really needed to be on my game. Unfortunately I felt like a cockroach had crawled up my nose and laid eggs in my brain.
At 11 a.m. I was sitting in the meeting. I literally have no idea what the content was. All I could think, on a loop over and over in my brain was, "I'm going to vomit on the Managing Director. I'm actually going to vomit on him. That's not a good career move."
At midday I was laid out on the floor of a toilet cubicle, regurgitating my healthy breakfast (a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and some blackcurrant squash).
It's worse than it should be for a couple of reasons: I can't tell anyone at work because it's not exactly a family-friendly organisation. Oh, they have all the right policies in place, but time and time again I've seen women marginalised because they've left to have children. Despite there being 50 women in my department, not a single one works part time. Because it's not allowed. Not officially of course - the policies are in place to support flexible working. It just doesn't happen.
Even worse, redundancies are on the horizon, and although I'm a relatively high performer, I know that if they find out I'm up the duff, it's significantly more likely that my role will suddenly and mysteriously become null and void.
So I'm trying to be an uber-high performer, putting in the hours, getting more and more exhausted... and trying not to vomit on the MD.
Monday, 20 February 2012
Midwife crisis
So, I had my first appointment at Whipps Cross Hospital last week, to see the midwife and to have some blood tests, as per usual procedure.
I'll be honest, whilst I'm incredibly glad the NHS exists, honestly, I've very rarely had a good experience with it. Perhaps it's symptomatic of living in the London area; perhaps resources are stretched by a greater demand. Whatever, from my GP surgery (a two-month waiting list for a blood test) to my husband being clusterfucked after receiving a cricket ball to his face and the NHS not thinking it was important to do scans (eventually it was discovered he had a fractured skull and bleeding into his cavities), my NHS experiences have been less than good.
Anyway, off to Whipps Cross I went, and after some effort in actually locating the right unit (my fault, not theirs), I joined a queue seven pregnant women deep. Finally getting to the front of the queue, I was told they were running on time... and then proceeded to be kept waiting for 30 minutes past my appointment time.
I will say for the NHS - the staff themselves generally (though not without exceptions) are fantastic. It's just the system. No-one knew I was waiting, apparently. And then someone else was in the queue before me. And when I finally went in, the midwife took a personal phone call from her bank! (And then apologised with the words, "Sorry, but I love my money.")
At this point another tiny nurse walked in. She was about four feet six. She said to me, "I hope she's not using my PC. Last time someone used my PC and there was lots of porno on it. Porno!" Crikey, it's a good job I wasn't an innocent. Though, I guess, if I was, then perhaps I wouldn't have been in an antenatal unit.
I then found out the bottle they'd given me, which I'd assumed was for blood, was actually for urine. And then I had to queue another hour for a blood test, where there was literally no queuing system - you just had to work out who you'd arrived before, and who had turned up after you. It was rubbish. Two easy suggestions to save 60 minutes of every patient's time:
1. A simple ticket pull like they have at a deli to tell you who's up next.
2. Train the midwife to take blood. It can't be that difficult, and would also save a headcount, as you could sack the phlebotomist.
The place was also full of bleached blonde Essex girls, all called Tiffany and Brittany, which didn't add to the relaxing experience as their dulcet tones could be heard shrieking down their iPhone 4S, "Nanny! Are you sittin' dahn? It's a boy! I told ya, din I? It's a boy, Bobby after Grandad!"
Vom.
I'm such a snob. I'd consider going private, but at £10k for the birth, I think I'll probably just have to put up, shut up or speak up.
I'll be honest, whilst I'm incredibly glad the NHS exists, honestly, I've very rarely had a good experience with it. Perhaps it's symptomatic of living in the London area; perhaps resources are stretched by a greater demand. Whatever, from my GP surgery (a two-month waiting list for a blood test) to my husband being clusterfucked after receiving a cricket ball to his face and the NHS not thinking it was important to do scans (eventually it was discovered he had a fractured skull and bleeding into his cavities), my NHS experiences have been less than good.
Anyway, off to Whipps Cross I went, and after some effort in actually locating the right unit (my fault, not theirs), I joined a queue seven pregnant women deep. Finally getting to the front of the queue, I was told they were running on time... and then proceeded to be kept waiting for 30 minutes past my appointment time.
I will say for the NHS - the staff themselves generally (though not without exceptions) are fantastic. It's just the system. No-one knew I was waiting, apparently. And then someone else was in the queue before me. And when I finally went in, the midwife took a personal phone call from her bank! (And then apologised with the words, "Sorry, but I love my money.")
At this point another tiny nurse walked in. She was about four feet six. She said to me, "I hope she's not using my PC. Last time someone used my PC and there was lots of porno on it. Porno!" Crikey, it's a good job I wasn't an innocent. Though, I guess, if I was, then perhaps I wouldn't have been in an antenatal unit.
I then found out the bottle they'd given me, which I'd assumed was for blood, was actually for urine. And then I had to queue another hour for a blood test, where there was literally no queuing system - you just had to work out who you'd arrived before, and who had turned up after you. It was rubbish. Two easy suggestions to save 60 minutes of every patient's time:
1. A simple ticket pull like they have at a deli to tell you who's up next.
2. Train the midwife to take blood. It can't be that difficult, and would also save a headcount, as you could sack the phlebotomist.
The place was also full of bleached blonde Essex girls, all called Tiffany and Brittany, which didn't add to the relaxing experience as their dulcet tones could be heard shrieking down their iPhone 4S, "Nanny! Are you sittin' dahn? It's a boy! I told ya, din I? It's a boy, Bobby after Grandad!"
Vom.
I'm such a snob. I'd consider going private, but at £10k for the birth, I think I'll probably just have to put up, shut up or speak up.
Monday, 13 February 2012
Symptomatic
Here are the list of joyful pregnancy symptoms I've had over the last few weeks:
- Snomiting (half sneeze, half vomit)
- Vomiting, sparked by anything from the smell of bleach, the thought of dirty laundry, seeing dog poo on the street, going into our bathroom when my husband has recently been to the toilet... and the thought of my own cat's bottom.
- A furry tummy that an adult gorilla would be proud of
- A moustache that Charlie Chaplin would be proud of
- Hairy toes that the Yeti would be proud of
- Diarrhea that strikes at a moment's notice
- Constipation that can keep me clogged up for five days at a time
- Piles. Itchy, hurty piles.
- Exhaustion meaning I'm too tired even to finish this senten
Sunday, 12 February 2012
Snomit - a new word in the pregnancy lexicon
This morning I sneezed. This is nothing special in itself; I'm a seasoned sneezer, and it's not unusual for me to sneeze six or seven times in a row.
This morning was only four sneezes - relatively civilised... until the final sneezed turned into a kind of cough-retch, almost vomit.
My husband pissed himself laughing and now keeps asking me if I'm going to "snomit" again.
Joy.
This morning was only four sneezes - relatively civilised... until the final sneezed turned into a kind of cough-retch, almost vomit.
My husband pissed himself laughing and now keeps asking me if I'm going to "snomit" again.
Joy.
Thursday, 2 February 2012
Home is where the barf is
So a relaxing day working from home? This is what the last hour has looked like for me:
1.00 Decide to cook myself some spaghetti bolognese
1.05 Whist spaghetti is boiling, decide to put some laundry on
1.07 As I'm putting clothes into machine, suddenly the thought of dirty laundry makes me sick. Very sick. I get to the kitchen sink in time and heave up the only thing I've swallowed today: a glass of milk. Not so bad, you think? Well, turns out, milk mixed with stomach acid = large white lumps of cheese that I then have to poke down the sink with my finger. My finger then smells of sick. This makes me sick again.
1.10 Turn spaghetti off on gas hob and go and brush my teeth.
1.15 Finish making spaghetti. Serve.
1.30 Phone rings. It's an estate agent (speculatively calling). I suddenly realise I need to get rid of them NOW. I ask them to call back later. I put spaghetti down.
1.32 Make it upstairs just in time to have spectacular diarrhoea. Mostly water, with strange yellow lumps that can only be sweetcorn. I genuinely cannot remember the last time I have had sweetcorn. I don't think I've had sweetcorn for at least a month.
1.37 Realise excessive diarrhoea is covering back wall of toilet and will need to be wiped down. Wipe down with wet wipe.
1.38 This makes me sick again. Brush teeth again.
1.45 Come back downstairs to spaghetti bolognese which is a) cold and b) has my cat's face buried up to his whiskers in it.
8 weeks down. Daren't think about how many more to go.
Thursday, 26 January 2012
Hello dot!
Wow. Long time, no update.
My husband and I (crikey, I sound like the Queen) went to MyUltrababy near Canary Wharf about a week ago for the early scan. I was a day off 8 weeks, by my calculations, though was still concerned as to why I'd had so many negative pregnancy tests after my period was due.
Before the scan I had to drink 2.5 pints of water. That is a lot of water. Considering I'm currently running to the toilets twice as often as usual at the moment anyway, that was practically an obscene amount of water. Of course, it wasn't helped by a little girl in the waiting room at the clinic, for whom the greatest toy in the word - ever was playing with the water dispenser. One of those ones that dispenses water in a noisy trickle to a paper cup... and then goes GLUG GLUG GLUG as the bubbles rise to the top. I swear I nearly weed myself there and then.
So we went into the clinic bang on time, and the sonographer (is that what they're called?) rubbed the cold jelly on my stomach. All I could see was a massive empty sac. My heart sank. Or beat faster. Or did something. Then she zoomed in. And then zoomed in again. And suddenly there was a tiny dot there.
To get a better view, the sonographer recommended an internal scan. She actually let me go to the toilet before this, which was much appreciated! Then I basically had a thin metal willy inserted in me, and the same sort of scan was done again... and this time she found a heartbeat! We saw it on screen - a flickering. She said that I wasn't 8 weeks - she measured it at 5 weeks and 6 days - a mere 2.7mm little dot. Crazy. But she said it was a viable pregnancy.
So I guess (I hope) I ovulated late, as this would explain the early negative pregnancy tests (either that or there could be a problem with the development, but I'm trying not to think about that). I got a print out of the scan (not that there's much to see), and we went home.
So why have I been so slack about blogging? I'm absolutely exhausted. Like nothing I've ever known before. I find it hard to cross the room to pick the remote up to change channel. I would rather not eat than prepare dinner. Work is a real chore - not least that (whilst luckily not actually sick yet), I seem to be nauseous constantly. Which is always a delight on a rush hour tube.
So I will try to update more often. But honestly, typing anything longer than my name at the moment is a real struggle. My 12-week scan is booked for the start of March.
My husband and I (crikey, I sound like the Queen) went to MyUltrababy near Canary Wharf about a week ago for the early scan. I was a day off 8 weeks, by my calculations, though was still concerned as to why I'd had so many negative pregnancy tests after my period was due.
Before the scan I had to drink 2.5 pints of water. That is a lot of water. Considering I'm currently running to the toilets twice as often as usual at the moment anyway, that was practically an obscene amount of water. Of course, it wasn't helped by a little girl in the waiting room at the clinic, for whom the greatest toy in the word - ever was playing with the water dispenser. One of those ones that dispenses water in a noisy trickle to a paper cup... and then goes GLUG GLUG GLUG as the bubbles rise to the top. I swear I nearly weed myself there and then.
So we went into the clinic bang on time, and the sonographer (is that what they're called?) rubbed the cold jelly on my stomach. All I could see was a massive empty sac. My heart sank. Or beat faster. Or did something. Then she zoomed in. And then zoomed in again. And suddenly there was a tiny dot there.
To get a better view, the sonographer recommended an internal scan. She actually let me go to the toilet before this, which was much appreciated! Then I basically had a thin metal willy inserted in me, and the same sort of scan was done again... and this time she found a heartbeat! We saw it on screen - a flickering. She said that I wasn't 8 weeks - she measured it at 5 weeks and 6 days - a mere 2.7mm little dot. Crazy. But she said it was a viable pregnancy.
So I guess (I hope) I ovulated late, as this would explain the early negative pregnancy tests (either that or there could be a problem with the development, but I'm trying not to think about that). I got a print out of the scan (not that there's much to see), and we went home.
So why have I been so slack about blogging? I'm absolutely exhausted. Like nothing I've ever known before. I find it hard to cross the room to pick the remote up to change channel. I would rather not eat than prepare dinner. Work is a real chore - not least that (whilst luckily not actually sick yet), I seem to be nauseous constantly. Which is always a delight on a rush hour tube.
So I will try to update more often. But honestly, typing anything longer than my name at the moment is a real struggle. My 12-week scan is booked for the start of March.
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