By Cindy Beck
"Lisa honey, are you saying you're never going to eat any animal again? What about bacon?"
~Dan Castellaneta, The Simpsons
Pregnant with my first and only child, I did the typical things — threw up as soon as I got out of bed in the morning, threw up at lunch, and threw up when anything smelled stronger than a saltine cracker. One sunny Sunday morning before I knew I was expecting, I decided to cook bacon. Bad, bad move. By the time the bacon had crisped in the frying pan, I'd raced to the bathroom more than once.
"Lisa honey, are you saying you're never going to eat any animal again? What about bacon?"
~Dan Castellaneta, The Simpsons
Pregnant with my first and only child, I did the typical things — threw up as soon as I got out of bed in the morning, threw up at lunch, and threw up when anything smelled stronger than a saltine cracker. One sunny Sunday morning before I knew I was expecting, I decided to cook bacon. Bad, bad move. By the time the bacon had crisped in the frying pan, I'd raced to the bathroom more than once.
Please understand that I'm a bacon lover. My heart sings at the sound of bacon crackling in the hot grease of a frying pan and at the smell of the meat's smoky scent wafting through the house. It takes me back to Saturday morning breakfasts long ago, when life seemed to be a ribbon-bedecked gift, waiting to be opened.
So, it's understandable that in my state of prenatal ignorance, I decided only one thing could cause me to feel that sick at the smell of bacon: an advanced disease. Something with a weird medical title, such as Second Stage Pork-inoma or Third Degree Baconitis.
The morning following the bacon fiasco, I felt fine. Odd disease, that Third Degree Baconitis — one minute my stomach felt great, the next I was driving the porcelain bus. Being late for work, I didn't have time to ponder the oddity of the symptoms. However, I'd learned my lesson, and there would be no leftover bacon for me that morning. Instead, I grabbed a handful of grapes and an opened, now fizzless root beer. When I got to the workplace, where I developed film for a cancer research company, I topped off my breakfast with a custard doughnut that sat on a plate on the receptionist's desk — last week's leftover doughnut.
It didn't take long before I lay curled up on the cold, linoleum floor in the darkroom, holding my nose with one hand to block the acrid scent of photo chemicals — a smell that only made the nausea worse — and rubbing my stomach with the other.
"This Third Stage Baconitis is advancing rapidly," I muttered to myself through gritted teeth. "I have to make an appointment immediately to see a doctor." Then I jumped up and dashed to the bathroom.
Several weeks later, the doctor confirmed it. No, not Third Stage Baconitis, but a three-month pregnancy. I walked out of her office elated. Now it all made sense. No disease, no treatments involving chemo or radiation, just six more months of waiting for a baby — a cute, sweet baby to fill our lives with joy.
I was so happy I didn't even wait until we arrived back at our little nest to tell my husband. I told him in the car… and then we drove home faster than the wind so I could go throw up again.
So, it's understandable that in my state of prenatal ignorance, I decided only one thing could cause me to feel that sick at the smell of bacon: an advanced disease. Something with a weird medical title, such as Second Stage Pork-inoma or Third Degree Baconitis.
The morning following the bacon fiasco, I felt fine. Odd disease, that Third Degree Baconitis — one minute my stomach felt great, the next I was driving the porcelain bus. Being late for work, I didn't have time to ponder the oddity of the symptoms. However, I'd learned my lesson, and there would be no leftover bacon for me that morning. Instead, I grabbed a handful of grapes and an opened, now fizzless root beer. When I got to the workplace, where I developed film for a cancer research company, I topped off my breakfast with a custard doughnut that sat on a plate on the receptionist's desk — last week's leftover doughnut.
It didn't take long before I lay curled up on the cold, linoleum floor in the darkroom, holding my nose with one hand to block the acrid scent of photo chemicals — a smell that only made the nausea worse — and rubbing my stomach with the other.
"This Third Stage Baconitis is advancing rapidly," I muttered to myself through gritted teeth. "I have to make an appointment immediately to see a doctor." Then I jumped up and dashed to the bathroom.
Several weeks later, the doctor confirmed it. No, not Third Stage Baconitis, but a three-month pregnancy. I walked out of her office elated. Now it all made sense. No disease, no treatments involving chemo or radiation, just six more months of waiting for a baby — a cute, sweet baby to fill our lives with joy.
I was so happy I didn't even wait until we arrived back at our little nest to tell my husband. I told him in the car… and then we drove home faster than the wind so I could go throw up again.
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