Or, how I learned to stop worrying and love the Zofran.
Before I went on vacation, my OB prescribed me some just-in-case Zofran. A small bottle of tiny 4mg tablets. The anti-nausea wonder drug.
Mommy’s little helper. No, I
wasn’t throwing up. No, I don’t have what Kate Middleton had. But I AM A
GIANT WIMP was existing in a kind
of perma-nausea that made basic social interactions and eating anything outside
the cracker-spaghetti-oatmeal foodgroup a difficult chore. Also, I’m a wimp.
But I am a wimp with a strain of hippy-granola-anti-prescription-drug-ism. An intolerable hypocrite who has
regularly relied on all kinds of terrifying prescription drugs to keep my
Crohn’s disease in check. And, um, to like, get
pregnant. Hello Clomid, my old friend…etc.
What I’m getting at – bare with me now, we’re going deep – YOU GUYS I WAS CONFLICTED.
<Let the insufferable navel gazing begin!>
I had set up some kind of bizarre and convoluted
self-righteousness construct wherein nausea was my badge of
first-trimester-honor, despite no one giving me a sticker for my incessant
and everyone being sick of hearing about it. But in my head, taking Zofran was
for wimps. Especially the non-throwing-up kind of wimp.
What’s more, taking Zofran would create unnecessary risks for the microscopic
grain of rice pulsing its
little baby galoshes inside of me.
Zofran was weakness/failure/selfishness/the-first-indication-of-poor-parenting-to-come/judgment-judgment-judgment!/recklessness
On the other hand, there comes a moment when you are force-feeding yourself plain, cold, sticking-to-itself spaghetti out of a Tupperware in an airport lobby at 10 pm while gazing longingly at your sea bands, only able to respond to your husband’s sweet words of encouragement with a grunt – less of appreciation and much more of leave-me-alone-because-speaking-to-me-makes-me-want-to-vomit – that you begin to feel that there must be a better way.
And it was in that moment that I took my first Zofran. Melodramatic that I am, this was the song playing in my neurotic, musically-dysfunctional-crazy-brain as I swallowed that pill. (It totally works, amiright?).
Anyway. I still feel selfish, weak, judged and reckless. In total, I took the Zofran about 3-4 times. It didn’t remove the nausea completely – there persisted a sort of mild undercurrent of queasiness that I buried in anything-but-crackers-spaghetti-oatmeal. It also didn’t prevent the raging, fiery heartburn that followed my bold diet decisions. But the relief, the ability to feel human again, was truly unbelievable.
Unfortunately, so were the side effects. I’m gonna get real with you guys right now. Like, ruhl, real. I think you can handle it (though I barely can). As many an ultrasound-picture-filled-mommy-to-be-message-board (nauseating in themselves) will tell you, despite it not being one of the noted side effects, well, let’s just come out and say it: ZOFRAN MAKES YOU CONSTIPATED.
So there was that. I’ll spare you the gory details, but it was enough to hit the Zofran brakes and never look back. Meanwhile, whatever it was – the California sunshine, being totally unplugged from the stresses of work, near-daily hikes and sleeping in a tent, eating a lot of sour gummy peaches because MMM-MUST-HAVE-SOUR-NOW!, wait, is this my first craving? – the nausea dissipated. Even substantially for several days there in the middle. Sure, it came in small waves early in the morning and in the evening. But not in the I-don’t-feel-human way. It’s back now, sporadically. It just feels more, manageable?
So there you have it. My as-promised-Zofran-related-soap-box-ing. Now that you’ve removed the noose, curious to hear where you all fall on this prescription-drug-non-prescription-drug continuum. Thoughts from the group?
On an actually kind of related to the maybe-I’m-a-hypocrite note above, some of you may have noticed a new little ad space on the right hand side of Fallopian Groove. While I’m very happy to be invited into the BlogHer publishing network, the agreement does include pitching some BlogHer ads in my sidebar. So here are the answers to your burning questions, or at least the four that I could think of:
Do you make money off of this? Maybe. If by money you mean enough to buy a cup of coffee once a month. Then… that’s still a big maybe. I have officially seen zero dollars so far. Also, zero cents. And for the record, there’s still only like 50 people reading. Well, 49 plus my mom. Hi mom!
So what’s the point? I’m not totally sure yet but I do feel pretty psyched to potentially be part of the larger conversation (which is one of the most annoying phrases EVER) and be part of a group of smart women writing about important and also very, very irreverent things.
What if I hate your blog and I never want to read it again because you totally sold out? I’m sorry to hear that, but I understand. Please enjoy this video of a geriatric otter playing basketball.
But seriously, I saw an ad that I found totally offensive and I think that you’re THE WORST. Please let me know (preferably in a nice way, though I will also entertain hate mail). I was able to block some ads that I knew might offend – goodbye baby stuff! – but I want to know if you see something that you find offensive or in poor taste.
 If you picked up on the Dr. Strangelove reference, gold star!
 C, I’m looking at you. Please make it shiny.
 Right here, ladies and gentlemen!
 The interwebs are telling me that it is now the size of a grape. A grape with fingers. *cringe.* This is of course only if it’s still in there. Because, naturally, I have my doubts and will be COMPLETELY BLOWN AWAY if this thing like, you know, works.
 Which is apparently how I now describe “the heart.”
 I have just crossed a line. I have said “constipation” on the interwebs. There’s no going back now, party people.
 I pick this one. Like, almost exclusively this one.