If I have to pick one pregnancy ailment that vexes me above anything, it would be the heartburn.
Pregnancy heartburn is not run of the mill “Oh I shouldn’t have ate that burrito, better pop some Tums” heartburn. It is a vicious, predatory attack. It rears its ugly head as soon as I eat in the morning, and lasts until the middle of the night when I wake up coughing and gagging on my on reflux.
The causes are two-fold: a growing belly which rearranges every organ in your torso until your food literally has no where to go but up, and a hormone called “relaxin.” Relaxin is meant to relax your muscles and joints to make giving birth easier, but it unfortunately also relaxes the muscles that typically keep stomach acid from burning holes in your esophagus.
The mild blessing of heartburn is that it is a good distraction from the fact that my other, more metaphorical heart, is also constantly in distress.
Pregnancy is nine long months of not only physical, but also mental torture. “Is the baby okay? I can’t feel it yet. Should I be able to feel it? Am I big enough? Am I too big? Should I be working out more or resting more? What is every single ingredient in that cracker I just ate, and are they pregnancy safe? What? You aren’t supposed to eat flax seed now? Should I have been eating flax seed so often that I am now distressed to know this?”
Having someone so close to you, so intertwined with your body and soul, and yet being unable to guarantee their safety is the part of pregnancy I hate the most. I can’t guarantee if they are okay – I can’t even see if they are. But I can feel the weight of the responsibility all over me.
I often think it must have far easier to be an expectant mom in the 1950s. The list of things you weren’t supposed to do was far shorter – don’t lift your hands above your head and don’t wear a corset. None of this fretting about exactly how much kale you should eat if you want to guarantee your child is accepted at an Ivy League university.
That is, if I could eat anything without inciting a heartburn riot.
In an attempt to control the uncontrollable, I read everything I can find about having a healthy pregnancy. According to science, I should exercise regularly, eat six dates a day, eat fish but not too much fish and only the right types of fish but definitely more fish than I eat now just try not to think about the mercury levels if you eat the wrong fish. I can’t sleep on my back, must spend time in green spaces, and shouldn’t stress because that is also bad for the baby.
My husband likes to tell me I shouldn’t worry, because everything will turn out fine.
But there’s no guarantee of that. Things can go wrong. Horribly wrong. Ultrasound tech avoiding your eyes wrong. Doctor wringing his hands in the waiting room wrong. Hushed whispers whenever you enter a room wrong. There is no guarantee that they won’t, no matter how much I try to use every scientific study I’ve read to my advantage.
So my heart burns.
I try to placate it with cold glasses of almond milk, Zantac, and the knowledge I’m not in control. But for pregnancy related ailments, there are only temporary remedies.
The only known cure is birth.