Since August of last year I have spent a good deal of my time huddled under my favorite flannel comforter, swathed in an array of mismatched sweatshirts and sweatpants, or shivering in a hot shower. Something about being preggo made me colder than I used to be (and that’s really saying something). To me it made no sense – after all, I was putting on layer after layer of clothing and adding a jiggly cushion of fat to my body, but I was still so chilled that my movements slowed to sloth-speed and I thought my fingers and toes would fall off from frostbite. Then, when I went to the hospital for preterm labor, everything changed.
My husband knew that there was something wrong with me that night because I was complaining about being hot when we were driving to the hospital. In the triage center I lay on the bed, hooked up to the monitors, sweating profusely. I could hear Huzzybee telling the nurses on the other side of the curtain “this is not normal…this never happens to her!”
“What’s not normal?
“She’s complaining about being too hot. Usually she complains about being too cold”
Notice that he acknowledges that in either case, I complain a lot.
Ever since that night I’ve been sweating like a freshman boy at a school dance. While driving me to my weekly doctor’s appointment my mother dutifully turned the heat all the way up in her big blue minivan (she is accustomed to my shivering). Within minutes I had the window down and was hanging my head out of the car, panting like a labrador. I walked into the doctor’s office with a sheen of perspiration on my cheeks and nose. Last night I slept with the window wide open, blankets thrown off, in a puddle of my own sweat. It was snowing outside.
I really want to feel like myself again: energetic, and cold to the touch.