I wake up. It’s been a little over 3 weeks. Three weeks since the incident, three loooooooong weeks since I have had a satisfying poo. Thanks to Google I have learned that both Ativan and Gabapentin have the unfortunate side effect of constipation.
People talk about feeling constipated all the time. I thought I knew what it meant, but I didn’t until I was pregnant for the first time. Way back in 2008, I was overjoyed to be pregnant after dealing with unexplained infertility. That joy lasted two whole weeks. The joy ended at week six when the nausea started.
It was not just a touch of morning sickness. I was wracked by nausea morning, noon, and night. I can no longer walk along the sidewalks of Ballard without looking at different sets of bushes, reminded of where I puked. Dave was not allowed to touch me, nor any piece of furniture I might be laying upon. The only thing that got me through the first trimester was the promise that the nausea would subside as I magically drifted into the second trimester.
Twelve, thirteen, fourteen weeks. There was no relief. If I was not vomiting, I was trying to find everything to make the sickness stop. I tried ginger chews, special teas, sea bands, papaya, acupuncture and then finally asked Dr. McHH for help. He offered me Zofran, a drug frequently given to cancer patients to combat nausea associated with chemotherapy. I gratefully accepted.
The Zofran offered a slight respite from my plight. I still vomited every day, but the constant feeling of nausea was less strong. I could finally lift my head up off the couch to see the light of day. I did not take much notice when “other things” slowed down as well.
The summer of 2008 was hot and melty. I lived in my cool basement. I decided to break up the monotony of my days by visiting my sister in Portland. My high school freshman honors English teacher swore that the biggest and best bookstore west of the Mississippi was Powell’s Bookstore in Portland. My brother-in-law, sister, and I decided to spend the afternoon there.
While browsing, I felt the need to head to the bathroom. Had I known what was in store for me, I would not have felt safe once I found the bathroom. In the stall I tried to go, but I couldn’t. I NEEDED to poop, but I couldn’t. Beads of sweat gathered on my forehead and dripped down my back. I untied the halter of my dress and tried to wipe down my body as I strained, crying. I can only wonder about what the other ladies of the restroom thought about the pregnant lady who had been in the stall for over an hour. But it was not to be.
A week later, it was still not to be. I was miserable. True constipation is a horrible feeling. I had two choices. I could choose to continue my constipation misery and be less pukey. My other option was to return to a life of non-stop nausea and vomiting. What is a pregnant woman to do? My choice soon became obvious.
In my childhood innocence, I would watch commercials for hemorrhoid creams and be glad I was not an aging male. The commercials led me to believe that only old men got hemorrhoids. I did not even really know what a hemorrhoid was.
Fast forward to pregnancy and the universe/Zofran had given me an education on the subject. Hemorrhoids are painful. They itch. They keep you from sleeping. They make themselves constantly known.
I mention the problem during an OB visit with Dr. McHH. He asks if he can take a look. A LOOK!?! Somehow this is a huge ask, but I nod. Please keep in mind that Dr. McHH is maybe 35 years old tops at this point. I assume the position, but am trembling. Dr. McHH is professional and incredibly gentle. He states, “Well, this is what we would call thrombose.” He gives me my options, but really I have no options until this baby comes out of me in 3 months. But I do have a choice. I can choose the puking and I do. I would rather puke nonstop than deal with constipation.
Back to the present, it has been over three weeks since a good poop has happened. I’m beginning to feel sick. My old my friend, hemorrhoids, has returned with a vengeance. I’ve been taking fiber, magnesium sulfate, pounding water, and eating my greens. It is no match for the medications that have been coursing through me.
Today I have a choice. Co-workers have graciously offered to cover my classes so I can rest. The only thing I have to do is take my kids to school. Instead of my normal two pills, I only take one in the morning. I take more fiber, more magnesium sulfate. I do not take my midday pills. Things begin to rumble.
I call Danish Blueberry Mound to attempt to schedule my newly prescribed movement therapy. I wait my turn in the phone line for 15 minutes. When the person at the other line answers, she tells me I’ve called the wrong department and transfers me. My body rumbles. I reach the voicemail of the new department and leave a message. My body rumbles.
I head upstairs to my favorite toilet. I have low expectations, but I bring my phone. This could be a while….I wait. I wait. I wait. Rumble. Rumble. Wait wait wait. And then…..YESSSSSSS!!! The relief is amazing. I don’t have time to bask in my relief because my phone rings. It’s Danish Blueberry Mound and the department I left a message at has no record of my referral. What? I haltingly explain who I am and what my referral is for. “Oh! This is the wrong department. You need to call blank (the department I originally called). Do you have something to write down the number?”
“No, go ahead and just transfer me.” I decide to not share my current location/situation. I talk to a different receptionist this time at the department I first called. From the seat of my favorite toilet, I manage to schedule my first therapy appointment, a little over two months from now.
I’m too focused on the task at hand to dwell on the slowness and frustration of the medical system. Finally finished, I decide to weigh myself. I need to be able to tangibly measure the level of discomfort I’ve been experiencing. 1.5 pounds lighter. That’s what I’m talking about!
I lie down. Satisfied, I still don’t take my midday pills. Sure, my hands are tremoring, but it’s fine. I like the ability to poop and I don’t have anything that I must do today. Evening comes and I’m on cloud nine. Yes, I have hemorrhoids, but I pooped! It was glorious! Sure I am having more trouble speaking and my face is violently twitching, but POOP! I don’t take my bed time pills.
Sleep does not come easily and when it does, I toss and turn. I wake up. My face dances and does not stop. My body tremors. I try to speak, but can’t. I cannot even string together three words. I go downstairs. My head bobs, my hands shake. It’s like the past two weeks of improvements have disappeared in an instant.
In the kitchen, I look at Dave. I see the disappointment in his eyes. This thing I’m dealing with is still very much there. Medication masks my condition. My recovery may take longer than either one of us has thought.
I take both morning pills. I apologize. I apologize that I’m putting our family through this. I apologize I didn’t take my medication yesterday. It’s not my fault and yet I feel entirely responsible. Part of me is glad I made the choice I did. My relief and shrinking hemorrhoids cannot be discounted. More importantly, I learned I need to take my medication. I may not feel sick, but that does not mean I’m okay.