Week 7, Day 1 (here come the weepies!)

I am not a crybaby. I’m more of a wall-thumper/door-slammer than a wailer. That lifeplan however just buckled in the force of the emotions that crashed through me on Friday. The ‘ex’ coined the perfect name for me when I’m in a bad mood – “Snarl”. He wasn’t far wrong. So “Snarl” came out in force because everything was wrong, nothing was right, life sucks, blah blah blah big whingeing ninny thew a hissy fit. Then the idiot collapsed on Wayne’s ever-patient shoulder and bawled like a little kid. I was horrified at my behaviour but had no control over it whatsoever. Who IS this crazy woman, and who let her out?!!! (And can you please lock her up again? Securely??)

I guess some of it was due to exhaustion, and some was due to frustration and pain. A few weeks before I found out about Tadpole, my previously (mostly) tame RSI/OOS came back in force in ways I hadn’t experienced since 1993. Both wrists were playing carpal tunnel songs, and the other associated toothaches in the elbows and forearms were playing Dixie and were again waking me up in the night with the pain. It seems this is par for the course with RSI sufferers; pregnancy can well cause a major flare up, and the good news is it usually lasts for the entire pregnancy. But wait – it gets better! You can’t take anti-inflammatories or pain killers because it’s bad for the baby. What fun.

Add to that the extreme tiredness that was ruling me. Each day felt like an ordeal lived as though wading through deep mud, even a shower usually meant I had to have a wee lie down afterwards. Now I’m not exactly a bouncy person at the best of times, but I’m not an exhausted wreck either! Spending 16 or so hours dozing each day was playing havoc with my job and my life. Not to mention my feelings of helplessness and uselessness were skyrocketing.

Bugger this for a game of soldiers!

Wayne knows me so well he realised the best panacea was to put me in the car and take me somewhere, anywhere. Because my childhood was spent either in a car or not terribly far from a journey of some kind, seeing the road unfold before me is a comfort zone. We ended up in AshVegas, and strolled around the malls for a while, poking around second hand bookstores and other variously interesting shops. A health store sold me some Organic Iron Tablets – well it’s not going to hurt, chances are they’ll put me on iron anyway so why not start now with a low daily dose?

By the next morning I was feeling 40% more energetic and didn’t need a nap all day. That was the best I had felt in about a month, yahoo for iron!

Before you ask (and if you know me well then you know I’m a shocker to skip meals), I’m eating very well. This is a first, and I can’t take any credit for it at all. I am possessed by this creature who puts in a direct order with the subconscious part of the brain, which then rules my habits. She’s a hell of a nuisance – I wish she’d asked first before deciding that my 6-8 cups of coffee (ultra strong) per day had to go. We might have negotiated it down to, say, three? There was no negotiation. Suddenly I went from six to one cup of coffee, and no more than two cups of tea as a replacement. Tadpole put an order in for fruit smoothies instead (something I had never had before as the thought of them revolted me). She also decided that red meat is okay in very small doses, but that she would rather I ate fish. Get between me and a tin of tuna in spring water and I do not guarantee your safety.

Fruit? What fruit! The fruit bowl is filled every few days and it’s usually gone before Wayne has a chance to pack his daily lunch. Last night Tadpole put in an order for seven different vegetables with dinner – seven, I ask you!

I have gone from 1 to maybe 2 meals a day to six or so tiny meals, on Tadpole’s Orders. She’s bossy, this one. Like I said, I wish I could take the credit but hey, it’s nothing to do with me. She’s even got me eating breakfast each morning. It’s not like I want breakfast (like I said, eating makes me feel nauseous), but I find myself studiously munching my way through cereal and fruit with all the passion and enjoyment of statue visited by pigeons.

Am I carrying a wannabe Romanian Shot-putter?