Heartbeat, Blueberries, And IV Fluids (Seven Weeks)
Well, let’s start with the good news, shall we? That crazy little rabble-rousing Right-Click fetus has a heartbeat! We confirmed both this and the fact that, from all appearances, I’m probably only carrying only one of the little blueberries at my first OB appointment last Friday. Yay for Baby Center’s consistency in comparing the size of gestating humans to fruits, and double yay for me NOT HAVING TWINS!
Moving on, I spent the majority of Thursday in the emergency room getting IV fluids. Here’s what happened: I got up on Thursday morning feeling like crap. Since I always feel like crap latey, I did not let this affect my plans for the day, and went to my appointment at the gym with Travis. After about twenty minutes of an admittedly low energy workout, I noticed that I wasn’t sweating and found this moderately alarming. I decided to skip the rest of the workout and called Mr. Right-Click to tell him I thought maybe I was a little dehydrated.
What followed was a friendly discussion of whether I should have gone to work out when I was dehydrated. This friendly discussion continued throughout the day, in fact, with my point being: if you feel like shit every single day, how are you supposed to know that today you feel like shit in part because you’re dehydrated and so, maybe you shouldn’t work out? Particularly when the working out has shown to earn you, with endorphins, some precious nausea-free time that is otherwise totally unavailable to you?
Mr. Right-Click’s side of the friendly discussion was concentrated on the whole need for “working out” in the first place, coupled with an insistence that it was obvious that I was dehydrated because I had chapped lips and also: I didn’t even drink the Gatorade he brought me last night, see? D’you see?
Anyway, we didn’t reach a consensus who was right with on any of this. I gave him a “V for Victory” sign while we were waiting out bag number 3 in the ER room, though.
He told me that the backwards way I was doing it in the picture means “fuck you” in England, rather than “V for Victory.” (But, you know, that works too.)
I don’t know, should you be concerned when you need seven blankets to keep yourself warm while sitting in the chair in the ER? They said they keep the temperature down so as to keep bacteria from growing. (Hookay.)
After 2 1/2 bags of fluids and some IV Zofran I started to feel much, much better. Like, not normal better — let’s not get crazy — but better enough to want to eat something. Mr. Right-Click, shortly before being sent to the hospital cafeteria, scrounged around in my purse and found a fortune cookie. The message?
Oh! how we laughed. Why, I can picture them trying to work out opportunities to refer to me as “erudite” even now!