Don't Ever, EVER, Say This To A Pregnant Woman (Trust Me)

by Heather Shurina
Originally Published: 
Angry brown haired woman pointing her finger in the front with her mouth wide open
Compassionate Eye Foundation/David Oxberry/OJO Images Ltd/Getty

I threw a large container of Panera mac and cheese at my husband this morning.

I know what you’re thinking. That shit is expensive and delicious; how could I risk wasting it?

Let me rewind and give you a little back story as to how I got to chucking creamy pasta across the room at 7 a.m. Last week, at 27 weeks pregnant, I started getting sick again. I think it’s because this man child is causing so much indigestion that it feels like hot sauce is coming up my gullet, even when I’m standing straight up. Zantac, who was my bestie, has proven to be an unreliable friend at this point.

I’ve been sleeping sitting up, but sometimes I get a little too comfortable in my sleep and slide down into a cozy position. I then immediately wake up and run to the bathroom to dry heave and/or vomit.

Initially, this was only in the mornings, but it now has now crept into all hours of the night. So, needless to say, I’ve been juuuust a little agitated.

Over the weekend, I was getting so sick that it was difficult to eat or drink anything. By Monday morning, I had broken every single blood vessel in my face and eyes and couldn’t even peel myself off the bathroom floor. At this point, my husband was URGING me to call the doctor. I tried to convince myself I had caught a little bug or something, even though I knew this was a pregnancy thing.

Oh, in the midst of getting sick again, I completely threw out my back while vomiting. So, I was basically a shell of a human by this point, just crawling around the bathroom floor, moaning and feeling sorry for myself.

Once I talked to a nurse at my OB’s office, she encouraged me to head to the hospital for fear that I was dehydrated or that I had some sort of infection that was causing back pain and vomiting. While we were waiting for my in-laws to come watch Mickey, I finally slithered down the steps for the first time all day.

At this point, my daughter finally witnessed the red, puffy, bruised state my face was in. She immediately started growling at me like a monster and calling me “zombie.” She wasn’t off at all. I looked like a fucking zombie. Actually, I looked like I had survived a Zombie attack to the face.

I got the same looks when we got to the hospital. Mothers hid their children’s eyes from the sorry state I had become. Every single doctor I came in contact with asked me if I was sure I wasn’t having some sort of severe allergic reaction to something. Nope, Doc, that’s just my face.

I continued to throw up while they set me up with an IV of anti-nausea drugs, Tylenol and fluids. The problem was, once I was dehydrated, I simply could not stop getting sick. The flood gates had opened and there was no containing anything.

The nurse who initially administered my IV, who was an absolute nugget, unfortunately blew through my vein without realizing it. After about 30 minutes of feeling pretty uncomfortable, I looked down to see my arm had blown up like a water balloon. She came in and immediately pulled out the IV. After trying two other spots, we finally got a vein to work.

By this point, my test results came back. I had ketones in my urine. I’m honestly still not quite clear on what that means, but I do know it meant I’d need two liters of sugar in me before I was allowed to be sent home. I also know it meant that I was pretty freaking dehydrated.

After a few more hours, we got the green light to go home. I got a prescription for Zofran for nausea and a muscle relaxer for the back pain. And, very clear instructions to try my hardest not to get sick again, because I’d end up back in the hospital on an IV.

I made it almost two whole days without getting sick. I took Zofran the moment my eyes opened. I ate only broth and saltines. I slowly sipped Gatorade. I treated my body like it was a ticking time bomb.

And then I got cocky. I decided I was sick of resting, so I took Mickey to the mall to run around. After being out for a few hours, I came home, did laundry, and cleaned. And cleaned. And cleaned. I could feel my body getting tired, but I was just so sick of “taking it easy” that I kept on going.

By dinner time, I felt like a complete asshole. This is when I made a very, very grave mistake. After only eating toast, broth and crackers for three days, I decided I was feeling well enough for something more substantial. I ate half of Mickey’s heavy, creamy, cheesy, Panera mac and cheese. As soon as it hit my stomach, I knew I was in trouble.

Needless to say, I spent the rest of the night hunched over the toilet, crying.

This morning I felt extremely nauseated but quickly took my 8 mg. of Zofran with some ginger ale. I refused to get sick again. REFUSED.

My husband is a morning person. He’s one of those people who sits up and immediately starts talking about his day in a very loud, very awake voice. God bless him for being such a go-getter, but I needed him to be his enthusiastic self far, far away from me.

As I was packing our daughter’s lunch, he was trying to talk to me about work. Apparently I responded with something nasty and short. That’s when he made his first mistake. He asked, “Why are you being so cranky?”

I stared at him. Not stared–glared. My eyes melted through his soul. I tilted my head to the side, like I was possessed, and growled at him that I was sick.

This is when he made his second mistake. In an annoyed voice, he responded with, ‘‘Ugh. I know. You’re always sick.”

My arm immediately shot up and I HURLED a large portion of that fucking Panera mac and cheese at his head.

You better believe I had every intention of hitting him with it, but unfortunately I’m no athlete. It slammed off the kitchen floor, the lid flew off, and it went EVERYWHERE.

Without saying a word, I turned around and walked upstairs, leaving him to clean it up.

So, what’s the moral of the story? The moral of the story is that I don’t condone violence and I was 100% in the wrong for throwing anything at him, especially food. (I REPEAT: I do not condone violence in any form.)

BUT, the real moral of the story is also, under NO circumstance, EVER, ask a pregnant woman why she’s cranky. And when that pregnant woman tells you why she’s cranky, don’t ever, ever, make her feel that it’s an annoyance to you.

You’ve been warned.

This article was originally published on