elodieunderglass:

well TBF the first trimester of pregnancy is SHIT. it’s where you probably feel absolutely awful, but you don’t get a seat on public transportation because you don’t have a visible bump, so people won’t give you one. And if you take one then a lady with a cane looks at you pointedly and probably goes home and writes a thinkpiece about entitled millennials and you’re like “I’m pregnant,” defensively, head spinning, except you’re not supposed to tell anyone yet.

I mean, yeah, that sucks hard. It might get better. If it doesn’t, I have faith in you. If it gets to a point you can’t handle then trust your instincts, and get whatever partner(s) you have to help you, and get yourself to a medical institution of some sort and scream.

Many people have an experience where the first trimester is a challenge because of the hormonal and physiological and immunological fighting, but they have a nice experience in the second and/or third trimesters. Apparently one may get a “burst of energy” and the fabled “glow.” It’s when some birthgivers claim to become particularly interested in sex, and take photos of their cute little bumps, and take up pregnancy yoga or a childbirth class or some other thing that makes them feel excited/expectant/proud. I can’t promise you’ll feel any of that, but hopefully that’s something for you to feel curious about.

As for the end result, having the baby will be an entirely different country, but once you have it, you’ll be in that country! And before then, you can’t control it! So you may cultivate some serenity, or you may panic, or you may quietly arrange for paid help to come to your house for the first few weeks after the baby is born, to take care of you.

If you have the money I do recommend doing that. I didn’t have the money, but I had really planned to do it, because I didn’t have a scrap of family or anyone to come round and help, and I didn’t think I could do it. But the baby came early and I didn’t have the money but it turned out I could do it so it all worked out. I also had a very good birth partner in Dr Glass, who cooked me a steak that I still think about today.

If I’d had the money I would also have hired a doula. A doula is an experienced person, usually a woman, whose job is to be calm and comforting and wise and supportive for you during pregnancy and labor.

There are also many books on the topic, written by Actual Authorities on pregnancy and childbirth. They are authorities and I am not. “What to expect when you’re expecting” is a classic, and surprisingly, when you open it, it doesn’t just say “sickness pain, unending horribleness and pain and grim shit, THAT is what to expect, fuck off.” It’s actually an entire book about what you might expect! And it says things like “you may have a burst of energy.” So that can be nice. That book is like an antidote to Parenting Hyenas and their General Uselessness (“Expect to feel awful! Forever! Hahahaha”), although it is just full of Heterosexual Humor and stupid wordplay that made me feel violent. There are also books that get into the Science of Pregnancy, and they can be comforting.

I don’t know if you find The Science of Pregnancy comforting, but here is some to explain what you may be feeling, but there is a content warning for Pregnancy Loss. So if that feels too sensitive, then please stop here, and go with my best wishes. Send me another ask in a few months and tell me how it’s going, ok?

DO YOU KNOW ONE REASON WHY YOU PROBABLY FEEL SHIT, it’s because your body is at war with the fetus, testing it for weakness. If the fetus wins the fight, then it gets to develop. If it doesn’t, the pregnancy ends. Your body quite naturally has a tendency to regard the fetus as a foreign body, and the uterus is actually a harsh and unforgiving place, designed to flush out impurities (including flawed embryos) in a monthly blood sacrifice. The fetus, meanwhile, is fighting back hard.

“There is literally a foreign body inside us,” says your immune system suspiciously.

“Fuck offfff,” says the fetus, disabling any system that looks at it funny.

The sperm donor’s DNA is roiling and boiling and fighting hard: “KEEP MY DNA ALIVE AND INSIDE YOU,” it roars at your body.

Your own DNA contribution to the fetus is going “Calm down, body, this is one of ours, it’s totally part of us! Also, fetus, let’s not grow too big or too fast – we don’t want to harm the birthgiver.”

“GROW BIG AS FAST AS POSSIBLE TO MAKE IT SAFELY PAST THE FIRST TRIMESTER,” says the sperm donor DNA inside the fetus.

The sperm donor DNA is invested in the survival of the fetus, hoping to shape the best possible fetus. The birthgiver DNA is invested in the survival of the birthgiver. The birthgiver’s body will terminate threats if it identifies them in time. Somehow, in this competition, a human fetus is prepared. The first trimester – the window in which most pregnancies are lost – is a battleground.

The fetus and your own body are dashing about flipping switches. Your body is running a checklist of checks and balances to protect you from wasting investment in carrying a “flawed” fetus, or allowing the parasite to deplete your resources too much. The fetus is running about trying to flip all the switches back, trying to pass every test, and redirect all of the life support systems to itself.

Morning sickness is associated with stronger fetuses that are less likely to miscarry. By destroying your appetite, the fetus protects itself; you won’t be eating any bitter herbs or dangerous shellfish if you’re too sick to eat.

“But we can’t destroy our health,” your body shouts, fighting it. “We need food to live.”

“Live on your fat stores,” the fetus says sweetly, if it’s a powerful fetus, doing a manual override if it’s REALLY powerful, and preventing you from being anywhere near any form of meat. “That’s what they’re for. Me.”

“That’s not sustainable,” your body says, taking systems abruptly off autopilot and frantically trying to put passwords on them, so that you feel like shit and catch a horrible cold.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s sustainable,” says the fetus, “All that matters is my survival. I don’t NEED siblings,” it adds, changing the password for your immune system.

“What I DO need is all of your blood,” it goes on, politely putting in a request for increased blood supplies, with your own signature forged on it. The bureaucracy of your body glances at it and signs it off. You feel extremely faint, and take a seat on public transportation without actually meaning to, because it is already occupied. The lady with a cane sneers at you pointedly. And maybe you write to me. If it is of any comfort whatsoever: you are host to a battleground, at the beginning of a war. It is a war all of your foremothers – and you – won. Most gloriously.

and it is a LOT! It really is a huge amount, for something that is right now so very small. These are big feelings.