She Is My Hayaat

Chapter 42: Don't Give Myself Back To Me

***Warning: Mature Content In One Section. Strongly advise using caution!***

"I am yours. Don't give myself back to me." -Rumi

I was well into the sixteenth week of my pregnancy, and the symptoms only got worse. Whoever said that the sickness only lasted in the mornings had been fed the understatement of the year. I was fatigued, swollen in all the awful places, nauseous, dizzy and lightheaded, and had polyuria. The blood in my vomit had made an appearance all over again, and this time it was worse along with more than a five percent decrease in my weight.

My mood swings were a far stretch from each other. The smallest things made me cry, which was so unlikely for me. My cravings increased with the number of weeks, and I was changing. Well into my second trimester, I lost even more pounds. My appetite hadn't increased like the ob-gyn had mentioned, instead it had lowered immensely. The only time that I would be even remotely hungry was when a craving stroke me at the oddest and sometimes the most inconvenient of times. No matter the time and irrationality of some of my cravings, Izhar was quick to command my wishes.

But I felt different, I was different. My diet had gone out the window the minute I was throwing everything back out. My medicines increased along with the number of fluid intake as I got diagnosed with a mild case of hyperemesis gavidarum. It was a severe take on excessive morning sickness, but Alhamdullilah it was "just" a mild case. However, it could've been on its way to severe, in which there was danger of electrolyte imbalance, severe weight loss, hospitalization for both the baby and mother's sake, dehydration, and malnutrition. Usually such cases would be detected in the very first trimester; however, my doctors had laid it to the side, concluding that it was normal for a first or second pregnancy. The first time I had conceived, my morning sickness was bad, and I had lost some weight in the first trimester; yet, it wasn't nearly as horrifying as this.

Something told me that it may have been because I was stronger now, and I would fight the battle infinitely harder to keep my baby safe. I was being tested by Allah, and I would have to succeed for my baby, for Izhar, and for us. No matter how nervous I was about everything, I didn't let it discourage me. I would always find warmth in the verses of the Qur'an, or talk to the friend I had made who was so much alike me: the moon that watched everything calmly in the chilly folds of the moonlight as it sheltered the stars. I'd seek sanctuary in the beauty Allah (SWT) had provided, and sometimes I would even distract myself with Izhar and my family. It was nice to let things fall around like crumbling walls, only to find serenity and escape.

I wasn't going to give up. I had the rest of the second and third trimester left, and Nour never went down without a battle. After my experiences with my first pregnancy that resulted in a miscarriage, not only was I more nervous and worried, but I was determined to battle all the forces around me to save my baby from any harm as long as Allah (SWT) willed.

******

I heavily breathed in and out through my flaring nose with my mouth slightly ajar as I tried regaining my strength. My head hovered above the spherical glass sink in the bathroom, my cold and pale hands tightened around the basin of the sink, my breaths thick and thundering alongside the storm brewing in my pained and swollen chest. My eyes were closed shut as I took deep breaths, the sides prickling with flame of tears that threatened to spill over and burn down my cheeks.

My ears were unconsciously filled with water as I tried regaining my balance. My hair was clasped in a loose bun at the nape of my neck, stray strands delicately framing both sides of my face, accentuating my cheekbones. I took one final deep breath before slowly opening my eyes and meeting them in the mirror in front of me.