To continue on our journey of, 'Really? Just, really?' There was a couple of weeks where Mr. Man (ok, I'll start calling him by his actual name, Dan) was shuttled back and forth between his mom's house and our house. This was because he really couldn't be left alone and I had to go to work. He couldn't do anything on his own. He needed someone there to get him food, water, help him to the bathroom, and bathing? Oof, that was an ordeal. Everything was a process. Going to bed at night was a process - pillows had to be propped and adjusted and the poor man couldn't even roll over without causing an earthquake. I should point out that Dan is a large man - 6'4" and not a bean-pole. I am almost exactly half his size. 5'6" and rather petitely framed. It took a good year for his leg to fully heal and it still aches on occasion. But those first few months after his surgery were quite hairy - did I mention I was newly pregnant? Yeah. In between shuttling, propping, and waiting hand and foot on gimpy, I was trying not to fall asleep in my dinner or throw up on my dinner or eat all the food in the house or cry because that car commercial was so poignant. Oh yes, one of the joys of being flooded with pregnancy hormones means that just about anything can make you sob giant tears or go into fits of hysteria. And I didn't realize it until recently, but I really wanted sympathy in those first few months. I wanted someone to give me a hug and say "Oh, honey, I'm sorry you feel like the ass end of a toilet." But everyone's sympathy was focused on Dan. And I suppose rightly so, he did break his leg after all. I'm sure my family would have been more sympathetic but because my parents were scheduled to come up for a visit, we had decided to wait and tell them in person and I couldn't tell anybody else in my family until I told my parents. Hence, no one felt for me.
So to sum up, my first trimester, sucked.
No comments:
Post a Comment