I was a mere five weeks into my first pregnancy when I found myself bent over in my in-law's bathroom, trying to quietly throw up my lunch. My mother-in-law nodded wisely, noting that this was a good sign, that nausea meant my body was chock-full of all the hormones necessary to keep that little zygote safe and sound. My husband drove me home, and I sipped on some ginger ale, knowing this was supposed to happen from time to time, and I'd feel up to eating real food sooner than later.
Except I didn't.
No matter what I tried, the ginger chews, the saltines, the ice water sips, the protein, the motion sickness bands, the electric shock pulse bands that cost me over $100, nothing worked. I puked until it felt like my stomach was being wrung out like a wet washcloth. If I was conscious, I was vomiting.
This was my first pregnancy and I wasn't due to see the obstetrician for a few weeks, so when I called for their help, I was told to go to the emergency room if I had to. When I felt like I might just die, I would drag myself into the ER, and after waiting for hours because I wasn't a high priority, they would do some tests, determine I was severely dehydrated, flood me with IV fluids, and send me home, saying, "morning sickness happens, it just means the baby is healthy!" with well-meaning sympathy plastered on their faces.
And every time I would feel human again for about a day or two, but then the fluids would wear off and I would end up back in the ER. I would wait again for several hours, get more fluids, some more well-meaning looks, and zero solutions. This happened four more times until it was finally time for my OB appointment. I had lost about 10 percent of my overall body weight, my clothes were hanging off of me, and my eyes were sunken into my ashen face.
My new doctor was skeptical. Was I just not good about nausea? Was I maybe exaggerating? Perhaps I should try to eat something right before I got out of bed. Maybe hard candies. Or crackers. What about ginger ale? If I had any energy, I might have screamed, but all I could do was slouch over lifelessly while my husband tried to explain that we'd tried all of the usual remedies and then some. Reluctantly, she prescribed some pills for the morning sickness and sent me on my way.
For the next week, I gave the pills a whirl, hopeful. The Phenergan pills at least knocked me out so I would sleep through more of the day than normal, but even so, the combination of Phenergan and Zofran did precious little to relieve my constant vomiting. I headed back to the ER. This time, the doctor found something called ketones in my urine, which meant my body was breaking down more of itself for energy than is safe. In other words, this was not me being a wimp about nausea. My body was patently rejecting anything I put in it on account of the pregnancy. The doctor on-call diagnosed me with Hyperemesis Gravidarum, a rare and life-threatening condition that affects about 2 percent of the population. It's the same sickness Kate Middleton has suffered from during all three of her pregnancies.
Now that I was being taken seriously, home health care was assigned and I was given a PICC line, a semi-permanent type of IV which goes through your arm and reaches almost to your heart. I was prescribed fluids and vitamin infusions 24 hours a day and taught how to inject medications into the line. Given through the IV, the Zofran worked.
In a couple of days, while still extremely weak, I was able to start hobbling around our apartment, tethered to my IV pole. A few days more, and I could stomach a plain turkey and cheese sandwich, but not much else. I needed assistance from the home health nurse to take a shower once a week.
Although the nausea and vomiting never fully went away, I was able to wean off of the PICC line and have it removed by my 20th week. I was able to transition at that time to the oral medications.
Since going through that first hellish pregnancy, I have become educated on Hyperemesis and was capable of advocating for myself during my subsequent pregnancies. Each time, I was hospitalized for a week in my first trimester, where I received proper medical attention. I am extremely fortunate that my current doctor knows I am not being dramatic because she herself is a fellow HG sufferer.
Without that one doctor who finally recognized what was happening, neither myself nor my four children would be here.
