Please rant. DOWN WITH THE FUCKING PATRIARCHY TODAY. I’m the opposite of a smug pregnant lady and this is my damn rant:
I’m sick of being a woman today. SO SICK OF IT. It’s such a god damn privilege after all.
This week my husband has been on my shit list (he’s not right now because he’s cleaning my entire house and letting me watch The Crown on Netflix because I’m 36 weeks pregnant and sick). I got violently ill at work last week and was admitted the the hospital, then got to go back to work and worked a 12 hour and 11 hour day make up missed time. We have a MOUSE problem so I can’t sleep where I normally do (which is painful) and I’m terrified of everything. And then at my doctor’s appointment, I was told the baby was fine but I was just so defeated I begged to have the baby taken out. Because she’s healthy and I’m so fucking sick. I have a pain condition CAUSED by pregnancy in which I cannot walk or move without extreme agony. I’m still sick because I have HG (what Princess Kate had). I am miserable. My doctor says I’ve won the “fucking bad pregnancy Olympics” but she’s sure I’m strong as hell and we will get through this. Baby is still breech. We will find out in about a week whether I literally MUST have a c-section to get her out and since she’s measuring big (they think she may be 9 lbs by delivery at this rate) they will assess when at that next growth scan. If she’s still looking big, she will come sooner rather than later.
So we go home and husband tells me he’s sick. He’s so unable to do anything I will have to take care of him. I tell him “suck it up, buttercup” because I have literally been on death’s door for months and no one is taking care of me. I can’t take care of him, the dogs, and the mouse thing. I leave, come back, cry myself to sleep. I tell him if he doesn’t go to the doctor the following day, I am not coming home because he’s endangering me and the baby. He complains he “doesn’t want to wake up early” to go to urgent care and “doesn’t want to get a swab” for strep. I inform him I got a swab around my asshole the day before (good ol GBS test) and I don’t give a shit about it. He, wisely, goes to the doctor. I then come home having serious contractions later that day and get to spend the night sweating through them while taking care of him and listening to him whine about getting a steroid injection (which, BTW, I’ve had so often I couldn’t count because I had life-threatening asthma attacks as a child), watching the Cubs win a world series (which was fantastic) and then getting up to work a 12 hour day following to make up the time I missed on like 5 hours of sleep.
By Friday, I feel like shit. TOTAL SHIT. But I always do so I don’t care. I come home and pee glass. FUCKING UTI. They just tested me on Tuesday! I was GOOD. Husband runs out to get test strips and then drives me to the doctor this morning because not only do I get to work 12 hour days during the week, I have to get up at the ass crack of dawn to have a doctor tell me that, yes, I have an awful UTI and why don’t I look worse or have more pain. I’m like, “well, this pregnancy has been misery and I once rode 38 miles on a road bike in the heat with a backache that was, indeed, a kidney stone so such things rarely phase me”. The MALE doctor says, “I just find most women really complain about this.” Yes, because we are weak enough to cart around babies for months on end, take care of melodramatic husbands who have fucking sinus infections and whinge about steroid injections while we suffer contractions, and then go work a 12 hour day the next day because this country has no paid maternity leave. Yep, we are so fucking weak. *stabs*
I also had to address my miscarriage with both him and his nurse (also male) because they couldn’t read my chart and thought it was “funny” I remembered the exact first day of my LMP (my LMP was due to an early miscarriage and then we conceived our daughter). When I expressed concern about my concern about vomiting, the erudite doctor tells me “You shouldn’t still be sick at this stage so you can stop vomiting now.” Oh, good. Glad you said that, dude. Because that’s totally how it works. It was an awful day and it’s not even noon yet, folks. And now, as I explained to my husband who still has NO idea how good he has it, I will get to deal with the puking from the antibiotics and the inevitable yeast infection to come. He’s like, “but I won’t get one?” No, dear husband, you will not because you don’t posses a god damn vagina.
His response, “That’s some crazy male privilege.”
At least he gets it. Kind of.