My Christmas

It all started on Christmas Eve. I wasn't feeling too bad when I went to bed, but I was worried about Christmas Day. It was taking me a long time (an hour or more) to get well enough to get out of bed in the mornings, and I knew our son would be up at the crack of dawn wanting to do stockings and then raid the pile under the tree. Me and my partner also do stockings for each other, so that was an awful lot of stuff to cope (or not) with when I woke up.

I lay down, and then I projectile-vomited all over the bedroom wall. The night went downhill from there. I barfed repeatedly all night, and continued to worry about the following day. I'd been worrying about Christmas for weeks. I'm pretty sure that's what tipped me over the edge.

Christmas Day I sort of coped with. I gritted my teeth and managed (mostly) not to vomit, I kept a brave face and tried to make sure my son enjoyed his day. It was a shame. I normally like Christmas, but God I felt so ill. Even the rustling of paper hurt. I tried to smile at all my presents, but I'm afraid I didn't really care. As soon as my son was in bed I threw up, and that was it for the next two days. By the 27th I'd stopped keeping any food or water down and was becoming dehydrated. I knew this because I was using a home testing kit to measure the ketones in my urine.

I didn't believe they would admit me to hospital because the ketone level was only "moderate" and because of our experiences in my first pregnancy, when we called the doctor after I hadn't kept anything down for a week. That time the doctor referred us to hospital, and the hospital sent us home because I wasn't dehydrated enough. I could barely walk. It was horrible.

No, I only called the doctor in the hope that they'd give me new meds, as the Stemetil clearly wasn't working. I hoped they'd just do a prescription over the phone, but they insisted I went to the surgery. Walking was difficult and I clutched a bowl all the way, and had to use it. The doctor had mentioned hospital admission on the phone. We did of course have that note from the doctor we saw at the 10-week scan, which said that I should have a low threshold for IV admittance, so we thought they might admit me, but I didn't dare hope they would. Last time the only thing which made a difference was IV fluids, so I really wanted to go in. We packed a bag, but I was pretty sure we'd be bringing it home again. I knew my ketones were only "moderate".

The doctor sent us to hospital, but that was no guarantee of anything. I threw up in the waiting room. And wet myself. I always wet myself when I vomit. It was awful.

We pointed out the "low threshold" note, and that IV fluids had worked so well before, and - hurrah! - they admitted me. I think they might have done anyway, even if we hadn't been so pushy. Ally says that last time he spoke to a consultant after I'd been admitted, and got the impression they thought they'd made a mistake. I never should have been sent home. The effect of that sending home was that we endured another fortnight of indescribably horrible illness before we tried the doctors again. Altogether I was horrendously ill for 6 weeks last time before we got to a hospital. This time it was only two days. My experience last time has been the cause of all this fear and dread, and maybe it could have been avoided. OK, I'm probably overstating it. Even with the early hospital admittance I've still had a hideous time in this pregnancy, but still.

Anyway. They took me in. They put me straight on a drip. They injected me with Stemetil and Cyclazine, alternately, every two hours (i.e. four hours between each individual drug). At first it made no diffference. That first night was unbearable. Hooked up to a drip which I had to unplug from the wall and drag with me every time I went to the loo, which was every hour because the drip was going straight to my bladder (or so it felt), terribly ill, vomiting 2 or 3 times an hour, an 82-yr-old senile woman shouting for her granny all night in the bed next to me, couldn't get comfortable, couldn't roll over cos of the drip, painful injections in the bum every two hours, but the following day I started to feel slightly better.

The second night was barely any better than the first and I ended up sobbing on a nurse's shoulder in the wee small hours because I was convinced that the drip and the drugs were making no difference at all and I was going to be stuck like this for weeks on end, and that they would end up sending me home no better than when I started. But the next day I was a little better again, and even kept a little food down. They gave me a new drip full of vitamins, and then put me on a potassium drip as my potassium levels were low. They also gave me thiamin and folic acid, in massive doses.

The third night was grim again, but not quite as bad as the first two, and the third day was not bad at all. They started a new drug, so that I was now on three - Stemetil, Cyclazine, and metachlorpromide (not sure about the spelling as I never saw it written down). The Cyclazine made me very groggy and drowsy, but every time I tried to sleep, I vomited.

The fourth night was the best yet - still vomiting, but sleeping for longer in between. I got them to stop giving me Cyclazine, because by now I was pretty sure that none of the anti-emetics made tthe blind bit of difference, and I hated the groggy feeling. I never felt better after any of the injections. The only thing which made me feel better was keeping food down, which is why I was better during the day - three free meals. No food available at night, and a long gap between tea time (5pm) and breakfast (8am). Also, the drip was working its magic. I got Ally (my partner) to bring food in for me to eat during the night, but I couldn't get my brain to work and couldn't think of anything suitable for keeping in a bedside cupboard. Everything he brought in just made me vomit.

There were a lot of problems with ths logistics of my care in hospital, including the business of food, how I got it, whether I was allowed it or not. I'm going to write a whole separate post on the standard of care received. The nurses as people, as smiles, as human carers who talked to me and tried to make me feel better, were wonderful. But the mechanical details of how they looked after me, the physical stuff, the organisational stuff, was pretty grim. I'll talk about that on my other blog.

By the fourth day, once the night was over and I could eat three bowls of rice crispies, I was feeling much better. And I was desperate to leave. I was sure that I could only get the nights under control if I was at home, had access to food 24 hours a day, could reject food with impunity, could control what, how and when I ate, didn't have a tube in my arm and could keep a potty by the bed so that I didn;t have to trundle a cumbersome drip down a corridor to a bathroom every time I needed the loo. Lack of food wasn't the only thing making me vomit at night. It was also that whole performance of going to the toilet. When I'm ill, I want to lie still. Getting up and moving about isn't helpful, particularly when it is stressful and difficult and complicated. I kept getting tangled up in my drip, and the drip stand barely fitted into the toilet cubicle, and they made me take a cardboard bedpan with me every time and fill it up, and then carry it out again. Whilst wheeling a drip stand. Not easy. I wanted to go home.

My ketone levels had been clear for over 24 hours by this time, and the only reason I was still there was because my potassium was still low and I had been a bit yellow and had tested abnormal on a liver function test. They scanned my liver (horrible experience) and it was fine, but they had sent a whole load of blood off for further tests and were waiting results.

When I felt so well on Monday morning (New Year's Eve, my fourth day in hospital), the nurse said I should be able to go home. But then they tested my blood and my potassium was still low, so she said I would probably have to stay for some more potassium drips. Fine, give me potassium. Oh no, we can't. You have to see the doctor, to get a prescription. But they'll be here any minute.

My potassium levels were only a bit low. I steeled myself for an argument with a doctor. I would promise to eat lots of bananas, explain why I thought I would be so much better at home.

That was at 8am. By 6pm, the doctor still hadn't appeared. So no prescription. No potassium. No discharge.

At 6.30pm, the sister in charge ran out of patience, had a curt phone conversation with a doctor, got them to agree to a discharge over the phone, told me to eat lots of bananas (and tomatoes, and oranges), and... Hallelujah! Sent me home!

New Year's Eve night was horrible (I've written about it on the other blog), with the same nightly pattern continuing from hospital. But at least it was my own bed and I didn't have to get up for the toilet. Subsequent nights have been increasingly better, and last night I didn't vomit at all! Hurrah!

I'm feeling so much better. Eating well, drinking well, and - oh miracle of miracles - have started to enjoy chocolate again. But am having to slap my hand away from the chocolate box. And the biscuit box. And the Jelly Babies packet.

I'm now thirteen weeks pregnant. Last time the acute HG lasted for 6 weeks, between my 10th and 16th weeks of pregnancy. During those six weeks I had tow respites, periods of two or three days when I felt exactly as I do now, only slightly nauseous, quite energetic, and dying to eat junk food. Last time I ran about madly and ate every piece of rubbish I could my hands on, so delighted was I to feel almost well again. And then got horribly ill again. So this time I'm trying to pace myself, trying to be sensible. Mostly managing it.

My aunt was admitted three times in her pregnancy. There was another woman in hospital with me who was there for the fourth time in eight weeks. I'm very aware that I might relapse. I'll feel a lot safer when I reach 16 weeks, and safer still when I reach 20, which is the point at which I felt wholly normal again last time. But I'm mildly optimistic. This pregnancy has been different all the way. I know more. And all through it's been less acute than last time.

So, you know. Fingers crossed and all that.

Can I have another Jelly Baby now?