I remember standing in front of the bathroom mirror at 3 a.m., clutching the edge of the sink. My nose was completely useless. Not stuffy. Not blocked. Sealed. Like someone had poured quick-drying cement up both nostrils. I tried to inhale. Nothing. I tried again, mouth clamped shut, desperate for a single wisp of air. My chest hitched. Panic bloomed hot in my stomach.
My husband looked over. “You okay?”
I smiled, tearful and cracked-lipped and utterly exhausted. “I can smell the cafeteria coffee from here.” severe congestion while pregnant
It started with a tickle. Just a little something at the back of my throat on a Tuesday morning. I was 28 weeks pregnant with my first, already waddling, already exhausted, and already sleeping in two-hour chunks because my bladder had become a tiny, tyrannical alarm clock. I remember standing in front of the bathroom mirror at 3 a
By day five, I was crying into a bowl of chicken soup. Not sad crying. Frustrated crying. The kind where you’re so tired and so air-starved that tears just leak out while you chew. My obstetrician had said, “Try Breathe Right strips and elevate your head.” Elevate my head. With what? I already had four pillows stacked like a ziggurat, and I still slid down in my sleep, waking up with my face flat on the mattress and zero oxygen. Not blocked
I called the nurse hotline at 2 a.m. on Saturday. “Is this normal?” I asked, nasally, barely understandable.