In which we return a zombie

That title? Not even an exaggeration, folks.

See, here's the deal:
When we found out we were pregnant, I thought, "Hm, we can turn this into a cute little mommy blog with like all the cute weekly updates and journal all about the awesome miracle happening to my body. This could be fun."

See? We started out right--all cute and everything.
I told Chris I wanted pictures, and, after the first round, I hit the camera timer and told him we were pregnant.
This may be the only time I successfully surprised him EVER.
Also, neither of our mom's got the Mario One-Up Mushroom reference
*sigh* Sometimes, it's tough being a nerd.

Sure, it could have been fun.
It could have been cute and conventional, too.
Instead, I got something like this:

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Last June, Sharon and I went to a baby shower for a dear friend, Joy.  As we watched Joy move from guest to guest, laughing and chattering, another guest commented, "Wow, Joy is the picture of a perfect pregnancy. Like, she gives me hope. Maybe being pregnant can be awesome."
It was true: Joy confirmed what I had previously thought a myth. Pregnant women do possess a golden glow. They are radiant.

Well, Joy was.

Me?
I think people worried that I was a bulging Patient Zero from the zombie apocalypse.
Seriously, if you want to continue to believe in the pregnancy glow, don't read my story.
Close this page, and ignore it for the next month or two. Pick it back up once we're solely baby pictures and updates on life as a family. Don't read about my pregnancy.

Or, I mean, you can and use it to terrify your teenage daughters into celibacy.

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You'll hear from almost every pregnancy book, website, and mother that the term "morning sickness" isn't entirely accurate. It could strike at any time.
Or all the time.

I was the "all the time" kinda pregnant chick.
Beast.
Blob.
Sludge.
Really unhappy, unfocused almost human person.

The only relief I found was sleep, but even that wasn't foolproof.
As soon as I was even the TINIEST bit stirred from deep slumber, I was RUSHING to the toilet to empty out my guts.

And, yes, that continued even after I started taking Zofran--a powerful anti-puke med--for pure survival. Most mornings, I puke. Wait. Choke down a pill. Wait some more. Puke again. Repeat. If I was lucky, I timed it right the first time and didn't puke again until the meds wore off.
Sure, it got better after the first trimester, but not by much. Third trimester as like a flashback to the first except there was WAY more heartburn and I had completely lost all remnant of my waist.  I was married to those meds. I forgot what it was like to wake up and not hug my toilet in dread.


When I was six weeks pregnant, we moved from our air-conditioned, 2 bedroom, 2.5 bath townhouse to a 3 bedroom, 1 bath duplex we later discovered had no air-conditioning whatsoever.
A thermostat, but no cooling system.
And 90+ as soon as the sun came up.
I spent the moving day curled up on my pillow in a corner.
Scrubbing up the townhouse after moving out was torture. I'd clean a toilet then collapse beside it, using all my mental and physical strength to keep from hurling.

I was useless, folks.
My husband described it as "one bullet." Each day, I made a choice (or told Chris to make it for me because I was too sick and exhausted to think straight). 
I could either:

• Clean
  A majority of our possessions remained in boxes that I stumbled around daily to get to the couch where I could melt next to our standing fan, watch Netflix all day, and be positively immobile. 
• Cook
  Thanks to Chris's sister, Melanie, the kitchen at least was unpacked. Unfortunately, the heat from the oven PLUS the heat from everywhere else made it a miserable space. That and all food made me want to hurl again. 
• Bathe
  I don't think this needs an explanation.
  But I was stanky. 

 Chris got one choice because, after completing that ONE task, I was wasted.
Just absolutely useless.

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Also, TOTAL TRUTH IN EVERY WAY.
Try what I would, there was absolutely no escape.

Thank goodness his company paid for professional movers when we had to move again.
Oh, yeah.
After we had been in our new place for a week, Chris was notified that they wanted him to take a new position back in Florida.
Or become unemployed.

He tried to find new work, he really did.
But then he'd see me, in the bathroom, stuffing Zofran in my mouth and clutching my daily injection--

Oh, wait, I didn't mention the injections???
You see, way back in October 2013, we discovered I had a blood-clotting condition. After that, I had so many blood draws the poor lab tech knew my name AND my dog's name.  Once we found out we were pregnant, it was back to more blood draws, and I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease known as Hughes Syndrome or Antiphospholipid Syndrome (APS).  It doesn't really have a ton of symptoms other than increasing my chances of developing blood clots, but it is known to cause miscarriages. It's theorized that APS causes clotting in the placenta causing it to deteriorate, but no one knows for sure WHY it complicates pregnancy. The solution to this is to take one low-dose aspirin a day alongside a dose of lovenox and later  two does of heparin.  You take this via syringe to the abdomen.
It's a darn good thing I've never been afraid of needles.

SO ALL OF THAT SIMPLY TO SAY . . .
--Chris realized we needed insurance badly.

So, I hid in the bathroom with the furballs while our possessions were repacked and loaded onto a moving truck.  The next day, Chris and I packed up my meds, "Puke Can" (yes, the trashcan had a name), the fish, the two cats, and the dog, and drove across the country.

I was fourteen weeks pregnant and still puking.

But, really, in the midst of all this, we were so very grateful.
It's hard to be grateful when you vomit up the only food you actually wanted to eat (Ah, Chalupa, I knew thee well . . . ), but we were.
Because we went in for ultrasounds, and there was our tiny person with its teeny tiny heartbeat, just being awesome rocking out in my uterus.
So worth it.