Warning: this post includes chat about BOTTOMS.
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Champagne and caviar. Diamonds and pearls. Hemorrhoids and thrush. Oh yeah baby, being heavily pregnant is non-stop fucking glamour.
First of all, the stuff that matters – my latest appointment with Dr Spock has me and the baby exactly where we should be. The little one is head down and wriggling around, and now it seems we’re just in the ‘wait and see’ stage for the next few weeks. So that’s good.
But discomfort? Welcome home! Up until this week I was feeling pretty well. A little too big, a little too uncomfortable – but you know, I was definitely handling the third trimester with astounding levels – for me – of maturity (and maybe a touch of smugness too). And then over the past few days, the universe decided I’d become a little too laissez faire for my own good, and handballed me the humiliating double-whammy of hemorrhoids and thrush.
I’ve got creams, pessaries and suppositories coming out my whazoo (literally), but none are working and I am IN PAIN people.
The thrush I can deal with, like most women I’m pretty familiar with the odd C.anesten ritual, and I know it will pass. But the ‘roids? Oh sweet lord. I’ve never had them before and they hurt. like. a. mother. I can’t sit. I can’t walk. I can’t bend over. I certainly can’t go to the loo (which is working well for my 12-times-a-day-wee-habit). I feel like my productivity levels have been slashed to 5%. The smallest task now seems unachievable, because really, movement = pain. That, coupled with the sleep deprivation and the hip and back discomfort, had me in serious sob-town last night … how can something so pedestrian be so extraordinarily shit!?
Dr Spock gently told me the meds were unlikely to work, and the whole shebang will probably get worse after labour … so I’m trying to suck it up and get on with things.
This is the plan: I send this bum-based whinge out into the ether and then I shut the hell up about it. ‘Cos things could be worse and I need to keep focused on the prize at the end. OK? OK.