Be forewarned: graphic descriptions of bodily functions in this post.

Ok, last night? Violent, projectile vomiting. WTF. I’m laying in bed, reading, la la la, and I get to feeling a little funktafied, so I turn off the light and plan to ride out this bout of queasiness while sleeping. I can’t describe the difference between queasiness (theoretical sickness) and the real thing, but after a few minutes, I realized that I was probably going to be sick.

Now, I think when I was little, I just barfed all over my bed and hollered for my mother. And when I threw up in college, it was beverage (ahem) induced and somewhat spontaneous. It seemed prudent to get up and wait for the inevitable in the bathroom, and I didn’t have to wait very long. It felt like everything I’d ever eaten was making its triumphant return. After several waves, I was left with the dry heaves. Is there anything worse than the dry heaves? (Probably childbirth.)

At some point, I kinda wondered if I was going to stop heaving, and I gave some serious thought to calling my mother. What I thought she could do for me, I don’t know. It occured to me that dry heaves are kind of a mental thing, like the gag reflex just gets going and doesn’t stop even when there isn’t any more material to heave. So I forced myself to swallow hard, take a deep breath and rinse out my mouth.

I have no idea what I ate or what I did to cause my system to react so violently. I notice that since my physical self is busy gestating the stowaway, it doesn’t not suffer fools gladly, which is to say, whatever I eat is digested in direct proportion to its nutritional value. If I eat something with very little nutritional value, my body wants to evacuate it pretty quickly. Last Friday, I was downtown, and wanted a slice of pepperoni pizza and a fizzy, cold fountain Pepsi. About a half hour after my indulgence, my digestive system, in so many words, said this is garbage. Away! And the thing about downtown Chicago is that it’s tough to find a public bathroom. I had to hike a block and a half to the closest one.

Predictably, the day has been less than stellar. Physically, I feel so yucky, so bad, I seriously wondered if I can really do this. I opted to be honest with a prospective employer about my pregnancy, and my honesty got me nowhere; the recruiter said they could come across with a verbal offer by the end of the day, and I haven’t heard from  her since. So, how does this work people? Do pregnant women not need jobs?

I took the dog for a long walk, and even took myself for a short bike ride in an effort to throw some endorphins at the problem, but I was still feeling very, very low. Just to keep things interesting, I decided to dwell on the absentee father for a bit, followed by a review of my shrinking wardrobe. I might own about 10 things total that fit, and I’m not exaggerating.

And I marvel at how alone I can feel when in fact, I am not alone at all.

About halfway through the bike ride, I thought, wow, I am sacrificing everything: my body, the luxury of selfishness, job opportunities, any chance at romance for the immediate future, and more than likely, it’s all for a kid who will spend the next 20 years trying to pretend they don’t know me. For the first time, I really let myself think about not going through with this, which made me cry. So, even if I did terminate, I would just spend the rest of my life dwelling on this anyway, mired in certain regret.