In the summer of 2020, I went to the doctor feeling unwell, completely unaware that I was about to face a nine-month battle for both my life and my daughter’s. After a brief 30-minute visit at urgent care, the doctor shared unexpected news: I was pregnant. The shock hit me immediately, but it was quickly replaced by a sense of joy and anticipation. After taking a moment to process, I called my boyfriend in and told him—I was pregnant. He was initially stunned, but soon shared my excitement, dreaming with me about our growing family. I was just three weeks along when I found out. At the time, I thought, This isn’t too bad, it will pass. I assumed my queasiness was early morning sickness—but I was about to learn just how cruel reality could be.
What started as vomiting roughly 20 times a day escalated quickly. Within weeks, I was vomiting more than 80 times daily. Dehydration landed me in the emergency room multiple times, often unable to keep even water down. Doctors and family members repeatedly offered the same suggestions: drink more water, eat crackers, try ginger. Nothing worked. Many assumed I was exaggerating or just couldn’t handle pregnancy. At seven weeks, desperate for answers, I saw a nurse practitioner. By then, I had already lost over twenty pounds. That appointment changed everything.
I was diagnosed with Hyperemesis Gravidarum (HG)—a rare and potentially life-threatening condition affecting only about 2% of pregnancies. Even with this diagnosis, proper treatment was slow to come. ER visits became a near-daily routine. Despite telling medical staff about my HG, I was often met with disbelief, degrading remarks, and dismissive attitudes. I became completely bedbound. Walking to the bathroom felt impossible. I lost a devastating 36% of my body weight—58 pounds—in a short period. My muscles atrophied, my bones weakened, and my body began to fail me.
The mistreatment didn’t end with weight loss. One day, after going over 24 hours without holding down any food or liquid, I returned to the ER. The doctor I saw dismissed me outright. “Time to cut the dramatics and drink some water,” he said, despite knowing my HG diagnosis. Later, as I signed discharge papers, he told me, “The emergency room is for emergencies only.” I left in tears, shattered and hopeless. That evening, my boyfriend came home, and I confided that I didn’t think I could endure another day. I cried myself to sleep, fearing what the next day might bring.
The very next day, my condition worsened. Following a nurse’s urgent advice, I returned to the ER, tachycardic and severely dehydrated. This visit led to my first hospital admission, where my medications were adjusted and I was placed on continuous IV fluids, including banana bags. It was the beginning of multiple hospitalizations, eventually establishing a regular infusion schedule. My infusion nurses became my lifeline—they cared for me with such compassion that they even hosted my baby shower. Over the course of my pregnancy, I spent more than 100 days in hospitals.
During this time, I endured 104 IVs before receiving a PICC line for fluids, medications, and nutrition. I suffered complications including a ruptured esophagus, severe anemia, early organ failure, and permanent heart damage at just 19 years old. I lost 58 pounds and faced relentless physical and emotional pain. I spent nearly every day confined to bed, staring at walls in hospitals or at home, wondering if either of us—my daughter or I—would survive. Some days, I prayed I wouldn’t wake up. Hyperemesis Gravidarum is devastating in ways that are almost impossible to describe to anyone who hasn’t lived it. It changes lives forever.
Finally, on March 16, 2021, my long and grueling battle ended. After 26 hours of labor, I welcomed my miracle baby girl, weighing a healthy 7.1 pounds. She was my reason for fighting through every IV, every tear, and every moment of despair. She and I survived together. My daughter is as much a survivor as I am, and every hardship we endured was worth it.
Today, I am a stay-at-home mom and an advocate for HG patients and survivors. I have regained nearly all the weight I lost, reversed my muscle atrophy, and while I still experience food and drink aversions, I am able to eat and drink normally again. Reflecting on my journey brings a flood of emotions—grief, relief, empowerment, and awe at how far we’ve come.
I share my story to raise awareness about HG. Every case matters, whether mild, moderate, or severe. Even women who have mild cases can face severe complications in subsequent pregnancies. Lack of proper medical care nearly cost both my life and my daughter’s, and tragically, many women still die from HG. Friends, family, and medical professionals must educate themselves, support those suffering, and take their symptoms seriously.
If you are caring for someone with HG, small remedies like crackers or ginger are not enough. Advocate fiercely, offer support, and ensure medical staff understand the severity. Those battling HG are warriors, facing a fight most cannot imagine. To my fellow survivors and current patients: you are extraordinary. To families who have lost loved ones to HG, my heart is with you. And to my HG sisters, along with your tougHGuys and tougHGirls—you are nothing short of warriors, and your strength is inspiring.
