Incubator Me

The only possible explanation for the last three days of my life is that miniature aliens have invaded my body, moved into my digestive system, hated the current decorating scheme, and as such, cleared everything out in the most expeditious way possible. Attention all lurking nourishment: Head towards the nearest available orifice immediately. You are no longer welcome. Hey you...teaspoon of water! Yeah, we see you hiding down there in that dark corner of the lower intestine. Out you go. And don't even think about coming back.

Oh I know this is shaping up to be simple faaaaascinating. The only thing people care less about than what you had for lunch is what you failed at having for lunch.

There's something incredibly humbling about being sick when you're pregnant, especially for those of us type A's who believe we can push through any obstacle, accomplish any bit of work if we just focus hard enough on it. And so, with laptop on shaky knees over the blanket in bed, as sweaty palms grease the bottom of the keyboard, I try my damndest to focus on the gibberish in front of me on the computer screen. And fail.

Suddenly that sense of pride and martyrdom I might have otherwise felt turns to regret as I realize this isn't just about me anymore. I have this 25 week old fetus (oh, so that's who's been knocking around my uterus these days), who needs me to get some sleep and some liquids into my system more than she needs me to crank out ad copy at this very minute.

And so I drop the laptop to the floor and resume shivering in bed, tormented, torn between the worker bee me and the incubator me.

Incubator me is hard. Even the second time around, it's hard.