Haven’t written anything lately. In fact, haven’t done much in the last two weeks but gravitate between the couch, the toilet, and the bed. Eight weeks and five days gone, and still a long way to go, and right now it’s the throwing up phase.
Not complaining, just making note of it. It’s strange how I’ve become subservient to my body; how helpless I am right now when nausea or sleepiness or exhaustion takes over. Everyday goes by in a haze, and the moments when I am completely lucid I spend watching DVDs or DVDs of films I’ve seen many times before: The Cutting Edge; Jerry Maguire; Amelie; Big Fish. There are no surprises, but it feels good to remember where and what I was like when I first saw them.
In the meantime, I devour fruit like a fiend because fruit is the only kind of food that really stays down. My new faith is prenatal vitamins: I take them religiously and without fail. A book on pregnancy is my bible. On most days I find myself maintaining conversations with my stomach; I don’t mind that it doesn’t answer back, I just want to reassure its precious content.
The first time I felt really wide awake was last week. Sen. Antonio Trillanes IV did his symbolic but futile gesture, and I was glued in front of the tv, exasperated. Why take over a hotel? Who the hell would go there to sympathize? It’s the Oakwood mutiny all over again. Maybe next time they’ll go to the Shangri-la or the Manila Hotel, gad. Why couldn’t they have gone to a church or a chapel? After the siege and everyone was hauled off to Bicutan (including the journalists, which was bizarre and stupid), I returned to my semi-permanent state of stupor.
The day after, I got up, left the house and went to get an ultrasound. While I lay there in this thin gown, slightly shivering from the cold air recycled by the airconditioning unit I thought of how two months go by so fast. In three months I’ll get another ultrasound done, and by then we know whether Egg will be a girl or boy (it doesn’t matter, so long as Egg’s healthy and normal and complete). Kim is batting for a girl (takot yatang maging katulad niya kung lalaki – a mini Kim who would be twice, even thrice as makulit).
So it’s now December, and I am nowhere near putting up a Christmas tree or even the smallest Christmas lantern. Earlier last month I’d been all gung-ho about putting up decorations – getting a tree, twinkly lights, wreaths on the door, the works. Now I’m ecstatic when I can empty the sink of all the dishes and glasses: succeeding in doing the wash up means I have energy to spare.
I have one more month to go before I start on my second trimester. It’s a period the book says I will feel more or less normal again, and I feel will as if i had control over my body again. I don’t really mind that I’m sluggish and slow right now because I know that it’s Egg whose benefiting from my slowing down because he/she’s forming his/her limbs and organs; what I do mind, though, is feeling guilty about it because I am forced to let go of work.
Right now, for the most part, my greatest concern is being able to feed myself, and keeping the food down, and getting enough nutrients for Egg. Work has to take the backseat (but am trying to do what I can) because I really can’t concentrate on anything else but my growing tummy. All these fears of miscarriages and fetal deaths and accidents crowd in on me sometimes and I just have to sit down and whisper to Egg “please, please stay in there, okay? There are so many things I want to show you, teach you, give you; but you have to stay there until July next year.” I think about the books he/she will read, the music he/she will listen to, the clothes he/she will wear, and how I will be so very, very careful in carrying him/her about like so many eggs in a carton tray.