Now there’s a fun title.
Pregnancy comes with a set of indignities. Even the most put-together woman can be reduced to a vomiting, temperamental ball of gas the instant those two blue lines appear, not to mention those of us that were a bit all over the shop to begin with. (Having people play with your urine every other week isn’t exactly a highlight of life, either…)
Now, as a second time mother, I expected certain embarrassments… In late pregnancy. The issues that went hand in hand with my first first trimester were noticeably absent this time around and, as such, I smugly thought I’d gotten away with it. For a little longer, at least.
And then came the 20 week ultrasound.
Moving up and down and from side to side in order to get all of baby’s measurements (which we still didn’t manage, the stubborn mule) I was under the control of my surly sonographer until, at last, she told me I could clean the jelly off my bump, and sit up. And so I sat up. My stomach made the cone shape it’s been making for a while now, that I’ve never thought anything of, and SS said the following: ‘Ooh, looks like you’ve got some six pack separation there’
First of all, I don’t think I’ve ever been toned enough to have anything resembling a six pack in the whole of my life. Second of all, I asked: “Is there a way to fix it?”
To which she replied: “Physiotherapy when the baby arrives. Until then, instead of sitting up as normal, simply roll onto all fours and hoist.”
I’m sorry? Simply do what now?
With a print out in one hand and my notes in the other, we were all but physically pushed out of the room without time for further questions, heads spinning with the fact of another scan next week to achieve final measurements (all was well) the big gender reveal (a gentleman!) and, for me at least, the news of my medical deformity.
And then, when I got home, I googled.
And found the following:
‘Diastasis recti,’ as it is formally known, is a scary sounding condition, worsened by the repeated engagement of the stomach muscles, that is very common, and will do no harm to my unborn baby. If left untreated, however, what it will do harm to is my lower back (already hurting) pelvic floor (getting a cold the next week was an exercise in true terror) and may cause hernias. Which I don’t know anything about, really, beyond the fact that Joey Tribbiani had one, and he did not make it look much fun.
Any grace I had retained throughout this gestation period then, basically, was to be annihilated in the name of good health.
Brilliant.
But needs must, and I am not a rule breaker.
I began by experimenting with the tensing of my stomach muscles, trying to work out when, exactly, such a reaction might occur, and often resulting in odd, jerky movements as I got lost in the moment, forgetting my husband was in the room before me: ‘OK, now what if I do this‘ *twists to the side, leans over, makes an unusual noise that sounds like it should have an effect on such muscles but, shockingly, does not.*
I cradled my bump obsessively. Not to feel for baby kicking – although that’s a lovely feeling, when said kicks manage to make an impact through the placenta firmly planted in their way – to be clear, but to feel for coning whenever I did something new that I hadn’t yet felt for coning throughout. Which sounds fine, and I’m sure anyone that saw me doing it assumed I was just a loving mother, but that actually made some tasks quite difficult. Changing my existing child’s nappy, for example, became an ordeal when attempted -rather idiotically, I’ll be honest – one handed, and making mashed potato took on a surprisingly difficult twist
My arms took on a chicken wing-like formation each time I tried to hoist myself up from a deep armchair lean.
I started navigating the room on hands and knees after joining my son on the floor.
And, of course, there was the rolling. The grunting. The pinwheeling out of bed and onto the floor since, it has to be said, attempting such a manoeuvre comes with a certain amount of risk when carrying extra weight, and set at a certain angle.
I am a human cannonball now.
Things could be worse, I know. There is always something in this world that is worse than getting stuck on the sofa and having to cry out, repeatedly, for help.
But I have seen the ill-disguised laughter in my husband’s eyes when he watches me bust my new moves.
I have seen the confusion on my toddler’s face when mummy starts crabbing about the playmat, instead of sitting up.
And I did expect to hold onto my pride a little longer than I have managed, this time around. At least until the waddling begins. Which it will. Possibly quite soon, thanks to how quickly I’ve taken on the shape of a whale this time around.
… Pregnancy is cruel, guys
Please talk me out of going for baby #3.
{Bumpie taken, and post written, at 22+4, for the sake of historical accuracy}
Post to be taken with a pinch of salt – there are much worse things than diastasis recti, I know, and fully appreciate. But I do have to admit to feeling a little disgruntled about having to change my regularly programmed movements. In the midst of a minor panic about the topic I spoke with a lovely student midwife, also, who assured me it definitely is common, and can sometimes fix itself (and if not, can be fixed with physio, as noted), so not at all a concern long term, as I had feared after a friend exclaimed ‘oh no! doesn’t that leave you with a really deformed stomach?’ when it came up in conversation. (Not necessarily, apparently, which is grand news.) To find out more about diastasis recti, visit the healthline website, here. And if you’re here because you have the same problem, I’ve got your back. Us crab like preggo’s must stick together 😉
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