I've been extremely lucky. In most ways, I've had it pretty easy these last few months. I wouldn't trade this pregnancy for anything and would bite the hot, hairy balls off of anyone who tried to take it away from me, but all of a sudden I'm finding it hard. Really fucking hard.
There's the none-too-surprising Willendorfian body transformation (oh god, the tapioca-like carnage of my thighs) and the inability to maintain a train of thought; any train of thought. There's the limping lurch that succeeds every attempt to rise from a sitting position; the unstoppable stream of pee that sneaks out when I sneeze; the pain between my shoulder blades that turns working at a computer into a form of ingeniously slow torture. Uncomfortable, but mostly expected.
But a couple of weeks ago, the endocrinologist who looks after my thyroid noticed that I had a heart murmur. I haven't had a detectable heart murmur for about sixteen years--not since the summer of my dilettante eating disorder. It's not serious, but it scares me to know that it has returned. Next, the doctor on call at my OB's office found, to my enormous surprise, that my long-dormant asthma has made a strong comeback, where I just assumed I was supposed to feel out of breath at this stage of the game. Though not sixteen, it's been at least nine years since I needed an inhaler. While there, I was simultaneously diagnosed with sinus and bronchial infections, given prescriptions for antibiotics and an albuterol inhaler and told to "go home, lie in bed, take Tylenol every four hours, drink hot fluids and don't get up till next week."
So, I can't walk very well, can't breathe through my nose, my lungs are indulging in little airless spasms and I've coughed up so much orange goo that I strained what might once have been an oblique muscle. And I've missed three crucial days of work.
But I am glowing.
If only it weren't from a low-grade fever.