It isn’t morning sickness. It isn’t restricted to the morning. The morning, or part of it, is the only bit of the day where my body is at peace. Only briefly, but peace is there. When my eyes first open and my mind refocuses. When the birds start up their song. When the house is sleeping and my body is still. For those few moments, there is nothing. Nothing. But as my body wakes and life takes hold, it starts. And it doesn’t stop.
There’s no let up. Most days I think that vomiting would be a sweet relief; yesterday I realised that wasn’t true and forced myself to bed at last.
Rest. That is my only relief right now.
From the constant nausea. The pangs of hunger, of knowing that I should eat and that I need to eat. The hunger that brings wave after wave of nausea. The nausea that makes everything inedible. Makes everything smell so intense. Makes food the devil. Then the hunger pangs that lead me to dry toast. Or fruit. Frozen raspberries. Momentary relief.
Because after that slice of dry toast is done, the nausea is back. Intense and unrelenting. And I’m wishing that I hadn’t eaten anything at all.
And this lasts all day, until I fall into bed. Yesterday I actually cried myself to sleep. Pretty pathetic.
I’ve been here before. I’m not sure the sickness was quite so bad, but its not unfamiliar. It just seems so unfair this time. But please don’t think me ungrateful; don’t think that I don’t know I am lucky to be pregnant, to have one more chance at it all. My poppy seed is still there; the sickness is testament to that.