Poot and Cubby

A note of warning: the following may be a very long, very whiny blog post…

I have become convinced that I am testing out some sort of superbug for the government without my knowing it. I have been exposed to something, and it is not pretty. Everyone knows I have had a “cold” for over 2 weeks, so when said cold began to morph into a strange “my skin hurts and I can barely breathe” illness, I went to the doctor.

Mr. Doctor told me I had bronchitis and sent me home with some antibiotics. I know it’s lame, but my pregnant self was so giddy to be given permission to have any drugs, even the most innocent of antibiotic. The sicky-fun continued on Thursday, when I was treated to an entertaining fever and leg cramps so vicious I feared my legs were jumping ship. This did not surprise me as it seems like many parts of me are conspiring in some sort of mutiny.

Earlier that day, while walking through a parking lot, my last ounce of allure disappeared as I gagged uncontrollably by a storefront. If public gagging no longer passes for sexy, I just don’t understand this crazy modern world. If I didn’t collapse from embarrassment, I was sure the lack of oxygen was going to do me in. Luckily, I retained consciousness, only to hang my head in shame while continuing my walk. My poor head has no choice but to remain downward in public anymore, as rumor has it that my pride has taken off with some Saskatchewan hussy. Funny, how your pride will just take off on you after days of peeing yourself just a little bit every time you collapse into a coughing fit. I tried to tell it that the pregnancy has made my bladder-control similar to a resident at a rest home, but Pride said it was fed up with my excuses. Alas, no more allure, or pride for me. The legs and I remain in heated negotiations.

After an evening of simultaneously feeling so cold and achy that I felt as though tiny elves were hacking away at icebergs inside every inch of my body, and then being unbearably hot and drenched in sweat, I decided to stay home from work. Then, because the day of rest rejuvenated me, I overdid it in the evening. I was then told by my friendly local health-line nurse to get myself to the hospital when my temperature reached 39 degrees. Naturally, I started hyperventilating at the thought of my poor unborn child boiling in its own amniotic fluid. Imagine my relief when the doctor told me the baby was just fine and to prove it, I listened to its little heartbeat while it relaxed on its tropical island.

The rest of the weekend was pretty much the same. Every day I could do a bit more, but was still dragging my ass everywhere, instead of skipping and singing my way through the day as I normally would. My mental state continued to deteriorate as the weekend rolled on. I decided I might not be in a good place when Elliot jokingly calling me “poopy pants” brought me to the verge of tears. On a positive note, Elliot began to release her suffocating vice-grip on me as she spent more one-on-one time with her daddy. At least I hope this is the reason, but I couldn’t help but notice the look of humiliation on her face as I hobbled through the house like a plague-stricken hunchback.

To fight off the nightly chilly-fever attacks, I have been drinking an obscene amount of tea, popping Tylenol like they are Pez, and wearing as many layers of clothing as possible while still maintaining some physical movement. Yesterday, I made dinner while wearing two layers of regular clothes, my housecoat and my felted slippers. Who says I have lost all my sex appeal? I also had the brainwave to have a bath. Let me say this – my baths continue to disappoint me (is my water heater small? Weak? I don’t know.) Every time I dream of a hot bath, I end up shivering in a shallow pool of tepid water. And I love hot baths – I mean, so hot, I can feel my skin burning and I get the odd sensation that it might just start peeling away from my body like wallpaper. Of course, last night I was robbed of this delight and I was pissed. When I turned on the tap for more hot water I actually said, “Come on, you bitch”. At the point where I was calling inanimate objects “bitches” and emotionally incapacitated by the harmless insults of a toddler, I decided that perhaps it was time to give up and just go to bed.