30
Titus
“You don’t look like you feel great.” The doctor is barely in the room before her lips tip into a frown. “Are you still struggling with morning sickness?”
My eyes move from Mariah to the doctor as I wait to see how she answers. It’s gotten more difficult to get her to drink the amount of fluids I know she needs every day. It doesn’t matter how many pretty cups I order or what I fill them with, I can’t convince her to empty any of them.
Eating isn’t going any better.
“I don’t feel sick as much.” Mariah presses her lips together, like she intends to only admit part of the truth. But then her eyes come to me, holding for a second before she spills the rest. “But if I eat or drink too much I start feeling bad again.”
The doctor’s brows lift. “So you’re not eating or drinking?”
Again, Mariah’s eyes come to me before she answers. “Not much. Nothing sounds good.”
“That’s not great.” The doctor turns to face the screen of the computer she rolled in with her. “You’ve lost more weight.” She pulls out the tape measure she keeps in her pocket. “Let’s see how you’re measuring.”
After laying Mariah back, she runs the flexiblestrip down Mariah’s middle, passing over the slight swell of her lower belly. I watch the whole thing without blinking, looking for any sign of worry on the doctor’s face. I breathe a little easier when she seems satisfied, but that stops when the doctor frowns at the screen of her computer.
“Your blood pressure is way too low today.” Her lips flatten as she gives Mariah another visual scan. “I think I’m going to send you in to get some IV fluids. See if we can get you feeling a little bit better.”
Mariah’s eyes widen. “Oh.” She goes even paler. “I was hoping things were getting better since I wasn’t throwing up as much.”
“Throwing up isn’t technically the problem. It’s not a pleasant experience, but the resulting dehydration is the primary issue.” The doctor gives her a stern look. “And not drinking enough liquid also results in dehydration.” She goes back to her computer. “And dehydration can lead to nausea, so the whole thing is a vicious cycle.”
“Will the IV fluids help stop the cycle?”
Both women turn to look at me as I ask the question, and I wonder if I’ve overstepped. I’ve tried to just be a silent supporter these two visits, but I want to take care of Mariah the best I can, and I need to understand what she’s really facing to be able to do that.
“They might not stop it, but they will definitely help her feel better.” The doctor gives me an encouraging smile. “The best thing she can do is eat and drink a little bit at a time, all day long.” She turns for the door. “Give me just a minute and I’ll have paperwork for you to take with you.”
When she leaves the room, Mariah’s eyes immediately start to fill with tears.
Shit.
I’m on my feet before the first one can fall, pulling her against me. “Don’t worry. IVs are easy and this is going to make you feel so much better.”
Mariah sniffs. “I’m not worried about the IV.” She buriesher face in my shirt. “I’m worried because I’m already a terrible mother.”
“You aren’t already a terrible mother.” The reassurance is easy to offer. “And you will never be a terrible mother.”
What she’s dealing with right now has nothing to do with the baby or the shitty parent genetics she’s worried were passed down, and everything to do with the fact that Mariah doesn’t put herself first. No matter how bad things get, she always just powers through, believing it will get better. And I fucking love that about her. It’s a big part of why I’m not still sitting behind a locked door.
But right now it’s making her sick, and I can’t let that continue.
“What we’re going to do is go to the hospital and get you hydrated. Then we’re going to go home and you are going to take a nap.” I reach down, lifting her chin until her eyes meet mine. “And then we’re going to come up with a plan to keep you feeling good and Peanut growing, okay?”
“Okay.” The word isn’t the resounding agreement I’d like for it to be, but it’s a good sign she’s not pretending she’s actually fine. That’s something that has happened less and less every day, but still occasionally occurs.
Luckily, I’m getting real fucking good at identifying it.
The nurse comes back, giving us our papers and directions for where to go once we arrive at the ER, and Mariah and I go on our way.
The process is surprisingly smooth, making me wonder if this is a pretty common occurrence. I don’t hope there are many women suffering like this, but the two pregnancies I’ve witnessed had this issue, so I have to assume it’s not rare.
Once Mariah is a bag of fluids heavier, I take her home, fully intending to tuck her into bed. But when my house comes into view, it becomes clear that might not be an option.
Mariah leans forward in her seat. “What in the heck is going on?”
