Friday, September 24, 2010

But Michael, I don't want to go to the doctor!

This past Saturday night, I ate mashed potatoes for supper.  If I had known they were to be my last meal, I would have also asked for macaroni and cheese, my mom's lasagna, pizza, and a 3 liter of high-test coke.

Sunday.  I ate.  I vomited.

Monday.  I ate.  And then I vomited.

Tuesday.  I ate.  I vomited.  And then I projectile vomited into the lake in front of my husband.  (Hey baby, how you doin'?)

So Wednesday, Michael was not pleased with the fact that I'd lost 4 more lbs.  He thought that pregnancy and weight gain were synonymous.  I did too, but hello?  I was not going to complain if God wanted me to be a thin pregnant girl.  No weight gain = no weight to lose.  Then Mr. Super Husband asked me how long it'd been since I kept any food or liquid down.  Oh, um.. Saturday.  "WHAT?!?!?  Call the doctor right now!"

So I call my OB.  His voicemail says he's in surgery on Wednesdays.  Score.  Maybe I won't have to go to the doctor.  I decide to text our friend Stephanie (an OB RN), hoping that she'll be like, "totally nothing to worry about.  Pregnant girls throw up all the time!"  Err... no cigar.  She said, "Call the front desk and ask for an appointment.  Now."

So off we three kings of orient... I mean we two adults and one fetus go to the doctor.  I am, in fact, down 4 lbs from my visit there the previous week.  They want me to pee in a cup.  Pee in a cup?  With what?  All the water I threw up?  Please try.  Ok, whatever.  I didn't even pee enough to coat the bottom of the cup.  They said it was enough.  Good, 'cause that was my best effort.

They run my pee, and it comes back that I am very dehydrated.  Doctor says I have hyperemesis. They are sending me to the hospital.

I cry.

I cry some more.  I consider the fact that something seriously might be wrong with my doctor because what man wants to deal with hormonal women all day long?  Whatever.  I don't want to go to the hospital.  I didn't even want to go to the doctor.  And now, they're going to put needles in me!  I hate being pregnant.

The nurse in the hospital tells me that when you're dehydrated, your veins constrict, which makes it more difficult to put in an IV.  Well, that's just fan-freaking-tastic.  I would hate needles if my veins were big enough to shop at Lane Bryant.  I get poked a total of three times due to my small veins, and if my face wasn't green before she started, it sure as heck was by the time she was done.

I got three bags of fluid with Reglan, and I was there for about 6 hours.  I was bored.  I complained a lot.  Most importantly, I did not annoy Michael to the point that he doesn't want to be married to me anymore.  That's always good.

So far, I'm giving pregnancy a D-.


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