Chapter 2 - My Pregnancy Became Difficult Before My Marriage Became Frightening
Ryan and I had been married six years when I became pregnant.
We had tried for:
almost two.
No major fertility diagnosis.
Just:
month after month
of disappointment.
When the test finally turned positive, Ryan cried harder than I did.
He picked me up.
Spun me around.
Then immediately put me down because:
“Wait, am I allowed to do that?”
That was Ryan before everything changed.
Funny.
Affectionate.
Anxious in a way I sometimes found sweet.
He worked as an independent residential contractor.
Small renovation business.
Bathrooms.
Kitchens.
Decks.
Basements.
I worked as a senior payroll analyst for a regional manufacturing company.
I made:
$96,000 a year.
Ryan’s income fluctuated.
Some years:
more than mine.
Some:
less.
We owned a two-bedroom townhouse in my name because I bought it eighteen months before we married.
After marriage, Ryan contributed toward:
mortgage,
utilities,
repairs.
It remained legally:
my separate premarital property.
That fact did not matter much for years.
Later it mattered a great deal.
My pregnancy went normally until week nine.
Then nausea became:
constant.
By week eleven, I was vomiting:
six,
eight,
sometimes twelve times a day.
I lost:
fourteen pounds.
My OB diagnosed:
hyperemesis gravidarum.
Medication helped somewhat.
Then stopped.
At sixteen weeks, I was hospitalized for:
dehydration,
electrolyte abnormalities,
malnutrition.
That was when Ryan called Judith.
She arrived before my sister.
Before my mother.
Before anyone.
Judith had spent twenty-seven years working as a medical assistant in various outpatient clinics.
Not a nurse.
Not a dietitian.
Not a physician.
But she knew enough medical language to sound authoritative around exhausted people.
At first, I was grateful.
Very grateful.
May you like
That would become part of the trap.
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