I told my boss I couldn’t go to Las Vegas for work last spring because my doctor advised against it. It was true, I was seven weeks pregnant, but I made it seem like a mysterious illness was preventing me from having a good time.
When you first find out you’re pregnant and risk miscarrying, you have to give a tired song and dance about why you are so tired, or why you suddenly appear swollen and slow, like a hungover pool toy. It’s silly, because when you’re thirty and married everyone’s thinking it anyway. And because you only have to maintain the charade for a couple months before the big reveal, you don’t fully commit to the role. You’re a child actor, unconvincing but guaranteed a paycheck.
I was thankful to be given a doctor’s note. Being pregnant in Las Vegas sounds about as enjoyable as having diarrhea on the moon (no bathroom, complicated spacesuit, male coworkers). I suppose I would have enjoyed the Penn & Teller show or sharing a bench with an old person to watch the Bellagio fountain. I certainly would have stocked up at the M&M’S store, at least until a Brayden with a $20 bumped into me and I rethought having children at all.
The first of May last year was sunny and fresh, a real orange juice of a day. I spent it exhausted and congested, and moody because I knew it’d be wasted. I’m from the Midwest, so if I don’t have the best day of my life every time there’s a nice day, the day is wasted. When I wasn’t lying on the couch wishing back the humidity of the past two months so I could blow my nose, I was wandering around telling the furniture how tired I was. What is it about being tired that we can’t just keep it to ourselves? Everyone must know.
Because I wanted an excuse for being such a sad sack on a 72 degree day, and because I wanted a baby, I took a pregnancy test. When you’re trying to get pregnant and take a test each month, you finally use your eyes to their full capacity. I think I’d only used 75% of my eyes before. This month was no different. Okay I see one line, and yes I see another line. But is that really two lines? 1, 2. Yes, those are two lines that I am seeing. This must mean that I am pregnant. I am pregnant! But am I? Let’s count again… I’m pretty sure my husband Hall counted too.
I lay on the floor smiling with my mouth open. I still couldn’t breathe through my nose and I was no less exhausted but I didn’t care.
24 hours later I tested positive for Covid so it’s unclear if my symptoms were from pregnancy or a virus I had spent two years evading. Either way, I had a baby! And anxiety!
The only other person besides Hall who knew I was pregnant was Google. I use the word person intentionally, considering how much time I spend with her. Google is the neighbor who doesn’t have to pry; she sits there waiting for you to spill all of your secrets.
Hall only got me so far when it came to pregnancy, and I wouldn’t see my doctor for another few weeks, so I spent a lot of time Googling my new ailments.
I discovered that everything is a symptom of pregnancy. Whatever condition I looked up, there was sure to be a result and a corresponding Mayo Clinic article. Dry eyes, congestion, loss of appetite, clammy hands. Wanting to clean. Wanting to fight. Feeling sad. Feeling dumb. Feeling like a mammal.
I came into it expecting a few bodily changes. I knew that food cravings were common but had no idea that food aversions were too. I knew I would no longer feel period cramps but didn’t know the wrath of pregnancy cramps. And I’d seen thousands of women in movies scurrying away to barf but didn’t know that you don’t always get the satisfaction of a barf. Sometimes it’s just the feeling preceding it, where your mouth salivates over the open bowl.
Like the attorney in the rom-com, shocked to find out she’s pregnant after that rainy Manhattan night with the immature, but so, just so something professional hockey player, I was amazed by the multitude of symptoms that meant I was about to be a mother.
When I could finally share the news, I asked my friends about a random ache or pain and was always met with a nod of agreement.
“Did your lower back hurt?” I asked Sandra.
“Yeah,” she said. “Does your upper back hurt? It will.”
“Is bloating a thing?” I asked Lauren.
“Until the moment you give birth,” she said. “And then for the next two years.”
I learned that it was normal to get winded after walking up the stairs, normal to wake up at 8 and have to nap at 10, and normal to resent your husband for his ability to tie his shoes or eat salami. If a friend didn’t experience a particular symptom she always knew someone else who did.
One symptom was universal. “My boobs are huge!” I’d say, so pleased with myself. And every time I received the same sobering response.
“Just wait ‘til the milk comes in.” Like it was a threat. (I’ve found out since that it was.)
Even when I didn’t bring up symptoms people volunteered them. “20 weeks! How are you feeling? Are your gums bleeding?”
The presiding sentiment, the resounding chorus in the ballad of woes from every friend and for every symptom was, “But it was so worth it!” The result of a baby canceled out any and all pain.
“I was constipated for two months. But it was so worth it!”
“I was so tired I fell asleep driving. So worth it though!”
“Killed my husband. But it was so worth it in the end!”
Eventually I stopped looking things up and assumed that whatever I felt at any given moment was a symptom. A random bruise, difficulty hearing, sore hair. On our babymoon my palms got dry and scaly which I attributed to pregnancy before realizing I’d gotten a manicure at a place with two stars. Later I went around for days blinking and squinting, assuming failing contacts were just another side effect until I inspected one and discovered a huge tear. Oh, I thought, so I guess my eyeballs are getting sharper???
During pregnancy you’re not supposed to lie on your back because it limits blood flow to the baby. It also causes heartburn, making whatever you’ve just eaten rise up to eye level. In some communities women labor in fun positions, like on tire swings or while hang gliding, but if you give birth in an American hospital they put you flat on your back.
When it was time to push, and I felt myself coming apart like a Lego, I lay on my back for the first time in months. The burn arose within seconds and because I couldn’t reach for the Tums I had kept in my pocket like cigarettes, I settled for the encouragement of the nurses.
“Push!” I didn’t know if I was pushing down my child or my lunch but I was doing it. I know that because they kept saying that I was doing it. “You’re doing it!” After nine months I was finally experiencing the greatest symptom of all – having a baby. I took a deep breath, swallowed meatloaf, and pushed.