HG Part 2: It peaks in an instant
Updated: May 14, 2020
Warning: this post contains details of hard days with HG. It’s terribly confronting. Possibly triggering. And I have battled with what parts to share. I have made a conscious decision to delve as deeply as I can. To reflect its unfolding as honestly and entirely as I can.
The full unadulterated expression of my experience is the best way I can extend a hand to anyone huddled in the same boat. As they crash through the waves of intensity, to show that despite the roughness, there is a way forward.
Most importantly, if you’re not up for a tough read today, exercise self care and move onto the next post.
Otherwise, let's sink in.
It peaks in an instant.
The moment the nausea dial breaks from the scale is horrific.
It is the day I attempt going into work.
Intense hot waves of rolling nausea amplify in a moment. And I want desperately to be free from my body. Every part of me wants to escape this living hell. At any cost.
Mania roars to the surface.
A bus drives down the busy street I am waiting to cross and for a split second I honestly consider stepping right in front of it.
Just for the nausea to be done with.
There is no thought for the future. For the ramifications. Just an intensity of nausea that makes seeing clearly totally impossible.
I catch myself. Step back from the road. Sit down on a park bench. Take a breath. Take another. Witness the intensity of this experience. Cry. Feel scared. Walk back to work, shaken. Gather my things. Get in my car. Drive slowly and carefully home.
I see clearly that unlike my first pregnancy, I cannot ‘push through’ this nausea. I arrange to close up work for a few weeks. An easy decision to make considering the gravity of what I just stepped away from.
I don’t go anywhere near busy roads for many months until I know for sure I am in a better place.
And I barely tell a soul about that day because I feel ashamed of the way the unfathomable intensity swept through me, and made me want to give up so quickly.
Just one week before I had been painting our house, running, playing netball, working hard and smiling. What the fuck happened?
The emotions of HG
I am Frail. Weak.
And barely alive.
A layer of skin with nothing much in.
Gutted like a fish.
I am loosing kilos and loosing hope. Fast.
The cruelest thing about HG isn't the sickness.
It's the places it takes you.
That it so brutally asks you to go.
Mentally and emotionally.
A horror, unrelenting.
It feels Horrific. Relentless. Unforgiving.
Unparalleled. Unimaginable. Isolating. Excruciating.
I am Helpless. Hopeless. Powerless.
In deeply unforgiving and relentless terrain.
There is no stopping this.
HG is living hell.
I meet despair.
Despair - the complete loss or absence of hope.
For the first time in life I am, absolutely and fully, without hope.
Despair is a feeling so awful and so gripping that the memory of it has kept a gentle hold on me ever since.
This is more intense than I ever thought life could provide.
It is permeating every cell and every corner
Into the depths of my very essence.
A true crisis of the spirit.
Lifelines are ripped away -
Food. Our lifeline. Gone
Water. Our lifeline. Gone
In an instant, all taken away.
Frustratingly, they're all still right there,
But somehow I can not cross the bridge to them.
I am lying down,
witnessing my own demise.
This is so cruel.
It wasn’t that survival didn’t seem likely.
It didn’t seem possible at all.
I couldn’t see any way forward.
The elephant in the room: Choosing to stay pregnant
Around 10% of HG pregnancies end in therapeutic terminations.
My poor heart can see why.
I felt so relentlessly battered from every day and every night of those months.
Months where it felt like I had descended into hell itself.
Where I was lying on the floor. Waiting to die.
There were many moments I had to choose to stay pregnant. I shudder at that completley.
Because this precious babe is the pure divine joy of life itself. And I love her more than air.
And yet, in those moments, where the pure act of survival seemed so illusive, I had to constantly and continuously choose to stay pregnant.
Still pregnant - yes.
Still choosing this - yes.
Another three minutes done - yes.
Can I do three minutes more - yes.
And sometimes the answer was no.
No, I couldn't do it.
No, not for another 3 minutes. Sometimes not even for another 3 seconds.
When this would happen, I would crawl into the shower
and let the warm water soothe me.
I would retch and weep hollow tears,
and find a way to choose to stay pregnant.