A Quick Update Before I Fall off the Face of the Earth...

I realized something this week.

I’m 38-weeks pregnant.

Fine. I’ve had to Google, “How pregnant am I if I’m due May…” at least four times in the last eight months, but I’m not completely delusional; on top of my doctor giving me my pregnancy stats at every appointment, I’m clearly VERY pregnant. Like I’m HUGE.

But maybe I’ve been in a bit of denial the last few weeks because I don’t quite remember how I felt or how big I was at this stage in my last pregnancy; a situational effect of the new house drama/Covid craziness at the end of my last pregnancy—can you blame me for remembering only the height of Covid in 2020? But another explanation could be the overload of dopamine that typically clouds the memory of women post-labor, making you forget the horror-show of pregnancy and labor and think, “Hey, that wasn’t so bad! Let’s do it again!”—something a co-worker told me this week.

So, I’ve been pushing through as usual and acting like my pregnancy was non-existent. Pretending my pregnancy symptoms aren’t killer—no joke, the heartburn is horrendous and there’s NOTHING that makes it go away completely, I’m TIRED in a way I’ve never been, I can’t breathe, and there’s no comfortable position to sleep in anymore. Running around with my two-year old. Continuing to work my fulltime job at full capacity. Making social plans with friends and family. Keeping up with housework—bending over to pick up my son’s toys, even as my husband yells at me from the other room. You know, acting like nothing big is about to happen or that I can still do most physical things. Because that’s what I’ve been taught; pregnancy is no reason to be lazy and (at least in America) shouldn’t impede performance. Perfect example: one of my best friends gave birth to her first daughter only after working a full 12-hour nursing shift—where she was on her feet and was actively contracting through most of it. We learned it from our mothers; the workforce has no room for complaints, so better to plant a smile on your face and grit through the pain.

But this week, I felt those 38-weeks.

I realize now that part of the difference between this pregnancy and my last is that I’m not this pregnant at the height of a worldwide pandemic. Last time, I didn’t have to leave my house for the last 6-weeks of my pregnancy. I didn’t have to commute to the office (at this point, I can barely touch the pedals and anything over a fifteen minute drive leaves me tears) or sit in an uncomfortable office chair for eight hours a day. I wore sweatpants and huge t-shirts everyday. I didn’t have a toddler to run after. EVERYTHING was so different and, in effect, easier because I was home during the absolute worst part of pregnancy.

Because let’s be clear: the last month of pregnancy is HELL. No discussion, no difference among women. It is AWFUL. Every single symptom is amplified and simple movement can cause excruciating pain. On top of that, you are trying to be careful to not induce labor—will standing up from a sitting position break my water? Don’t get me started on the increased anxiety in counting baby movement—I haven’t felt them move in an hour, should I call my doctor? And then you have to prep your co-workers for your maternity leave—not sure if that’s just a ME thing?

Well, it’s been bubbling and building under the surface for weeks now. I’ve been putting on my “Big Girl Pants” and smiling through the pain and stress, knowing this is what everyone goes through and that I’m not special and my pregnancy isn’t any different. But this week it became unbearable and I couldn’t deny it any longer. I was at work and had just returned to my department from a 2-hour meeting. You’d think sitting in a chair for that long would be ideal when you’re this pregnant; you are wrong, sir! When the meeting ended, I couldn’t get out of that room fast enough. Then the walk/waddle back—which was from a conference room on the other side of the building—pushed me over the edge; it left me breathless and with a ragging burn in my chest. The baby’s buttock is firmly planted right between my rib cage (which my doctor confirmed that morning) and every movement is shifting the baby further up, causing obscene pressure in my chest.

As I walked down the aisle to my desk, I was called over to a group of my male co-workers. Innocently, one of them said, “Where were you? We thought you went into labor!” I turned to that small group of men and burst into tears.

Tears that instantly turned into a mortified embarrassment.

Now on top of being in excruciating pain, I was the over-emotional, stereotypical woman that I had been trying to avoid my whole pregnancy. Hell! My entire career! I sheepishly retreated to my desk to try and pull it together. And thankfully, that small group of men—who I spend more time with then my husband or family—followed me to make sure I was okay. Between sobs I explained what was going on, and—that group of five mid-30’s angel men—swiftly said, “Why are you doing this to yourself? You’ve rocked this entire pregnancy! Go home, put your feet up! We are prepped and ready; don’t worry about us!” They didn’t give me a choice or allow me to argue that I was really okay, just a hormonal mess; they packed up my stuff and marched me to my car, all the while cracking jokes and making my embarrassment a distant memory.

And off I went at their insistence—something that annoyed my husband to no end, because he had been saying just that for weeks when, at the end of each work day, I was left a curled-up ball of pain. The truth is I should’ve said something sooner. It shouldn’t have taken being debilitated, reduced to a puddle of tears to admit, “Hey! I can’t do this anymore. I’m working from home.” EVERYONE had been saying it to me for weeks. I did this to myself; I wanted to be Super Woman and prove that I could take the pain and perform at work. Prove to who? No clue, really. Because working until you drop is not healthy and does more mental damage than anything else—and frankly, would’ve induced labor a lot quicker, which I was certain was about to happen that very day*.

*It didn’t. I’m still just chugging along, waiting for Baby #2 to make their appearance.*

So, my fine readers, what to take from this? Learn to listen to your body and say, “NO!” Don’t allow the pressures of society dictate how and when you’ve had enough—I’ll admit that there’s a fine line between taking advantage and pushing yourself beyond physical limits, one that I was way too conscious of. And this doesn’t just apply to pregnancy; this goes for everything! No on will advocate for you if you don’t advocate loudly for yourself.

And let’s be honest; getting through a normal pregnancy makes you Super Woman regardless.

That’s something I’ll be taking from this experience.

And maybe I’ll listen to my husband a bit more often ;/