Mother’s little helper ain’t what it used to be.
Any relief I get from taking codeine and morphine is superseded by the guilt about the real or perceived damage I’m inflicting on my little one.
But I’m simply in too much pain to function, think, or even breathe. The halfway mark is approaching, and I don’t want to spend the next 20 weeks on narcotics. For the most part I try to hold off for as long as possible before I pop a pill, but I’m this ( – ) close to admitting myself back into hospital so I can get a dose of morphine to lower the volume on the pain from nerve-jangling throbbing to something a little less crazy-making.
When I’m playing superwoman (and opting out of downing a tab), my coping methods involve Lamaze-inspired breathing techniques and pacing. These don’t lessen the pain by any means, but they certainly distract.
There’s also the worry about the prolonged damage to my liver. Dr. Freedman assures me that it would take more than the occasional Tylenol 3 to ruin me, but it’s still a concern. No matter how beneficial these drugs are in the short term, the long-term implications weigh on my mind.
We’ll return to our regularly-scheduled happy person tomorrow.
Pardon me for a moment. I’ve been trying so hard to stay upbeat, and today the façade just cracked. I’ve spent the better part of two days breathing through pain. The only things that provide relief are hot showers or hot sex. And I’m not getting nearly enough of the latter right now to make me feel better.
Having this kind of unabated pain is isolating. I mean, my parents and the boy know that I’m not doing so well, I just don’t think they understand what it is I’m dealing with. Most of my day is spent willing myself to make it through another 30 seconds. One minute. Five. Ten minutes. Half-hour. Hour. It’s certainly a test of endurance – I mean, how much longer can I do this? How much longer until I can take another Codeine? How long can I make it without one?
Tonight, while in the shower – and for the first time since this whole ordeal started – I cried. Everything just hurts so much. I know that this will pass, but I’m just frazzled. Exhausted and scared. What are all these drugs going to do to my baby? How long am I going to have to continue taking them? How will I manage without them?
Speaking of my baby, while I am a total basket-case, she (she! heh) has been a little trooper. She’s active in there, rolling and flailing about, seemingly unaffected by the hardcore drugs filtering through my system. Feeling her move reassures me that I’ve not ruined her health or turned her into a vegetable with my pill-popping.
I’ll keep holding on for now.
Praying to St. Joseph, patron saint of pregnant ladies.
Even though I’ve made a point to blog fairly regularly about my pregnancy, IRL I’ve been fairly low-key about it, keeping it mostly mum among even my friends and off social media. That’s because I’m wildly superstitious.
In my first trimester, I refused to linger in the childrens’ aisles of clothing stores, never giving more than a passing glance to the adorably shrunken versions of adult items – hoodies, pea coats, cargo pants for boys, or leggings, tunics and blazers for girls. As if just gazing upon these items would trigger a miscarriage or some kind of uterine mishap. At that time, I didn’t even know whether Peanut was a he or a she, so it didn’t make much sense to purchase as much as a onesie in a gender-neutral green, grey or yellow.
I just figured it was bad luck to buy something so early in the pregnancy, when it’s been proved, time and time again, that anything can go wrong in the early days. Better to just wait until I got the all-clear, no?
And even then, there’s no real guarantee that I/we were “safe”… Read more