Musings of a Little Girl Playing Grown-Up

So, I'll start off this post by giving away the ending. I'm fine; boo boo is fine, and he's still in my belly. But 36 hours ago I wasn't sure about any of that.

It started Wednesday night after an uneventful day. I went to bed, dreamed that my Birthing From Within teacher had decided to change routes and teach us Lamaze instead and would not refund us- and awoke at a quarter after 1 to a lot of wetness. I rushed to the toilet unsure if I had peed myself, if my water broke, or what had happened. When I turned on the bathroom light, I was surprised to see it was blood dripping on the floor and down my legs. Gerard and I were worried, but relatively calm as we drove to the hospital. I was crying and was sure it was bloody show and I was going into early labor. Not ideal, but at 34 weeks and change, it also wasn't necessarily terrible.

Anyway, we get there and the whole nine yards of testing. We got the good news that I wasn't dilated at all, so it didn't look like I was going into preterm labor just yet. But the first ultrasound showed a splotchy part on my placenta that appeared to indicate placental abruption. This led to talks about emergency c-section, long hospital stays of up to weeks on end, and lots of crying. I was told a neonatologist would come talk to me in the morning about the implications of a premie. A social worker should also come by and discuss me getting on disability. I then get wired to the bed with IVs and fetal monitors, and the whole mess led me unable to reposition on the bed by myself, much less go to the bathroom independently. It was awesome. I still had no idea what my fate would be and nothing about the situation was good. By the time things calmed down a bit, it approximated 4am, and I was tired. Nurses and doctors continued to prance in the room at all hours of the night and morning to take vitals, fix the monitors I had knocked off, and one even woke me up with the burning question of why Gerard hadn't gotten screened for cystic fibrosis. Lady, if you had waited until sunrise you could've seen he was black and that he doesn't have cystic fibrosis.

So, at 10:30am I get wheeled down to get a formal diagnostic ultrasound, with a bigger and fancier machine than previously used upon arrival. That was the most eventful thing of the day. Other than I sat there. Waiting. Lying in bed. Waiting. When the nurses came in I'd ask when a Dr. would come tell me what's going on, she'd tell me she'd go check on it, then I'd never see her again. A new nurse would come in next and I'd have to start the process over again. And ps- there is nothing on tv in the middle of the day. Nothing. It wasn't until that evening that I could stop continuous fetal monitoring, which meant I could now move around the bed all by myself! I also now only had to drag my IV drip along to the bathroom to pee. Even better than this was the fact that I could now eat. I was starving, and so looking forward to my first meal in almost 24 hours. That is, until I saw the microwave dinner on the tray presented to me. Now, I know that hospital food is supposed to be disgusting. It's like a law. But this was just uncalled for. I mustered down a few bites, and took refuge in the fact that I had a plum left to eat. At least something not drowning in preservatives. It didn't take a much closer look to see that the plum was actually half yellow from so much spotting, and its shape conformed to the touch of my thumb. Gag. Alas, I still had a slice of cake to look forward to. I managed to swallow one bite and though I would die. I can't even describe how bad it was. Like someone had frozen it for a year, taken it out and let it stale, then froze it again. Then someone poured an entire cup of water on it to feign moistness. Gerard was obviously ordered to bring me food.

So here we are...I hadn't had any more bleeding since the big event, boo boo looked fine (a hearty 5lb, 2 oz), and I was told I'd probably leave first thing in the morning if everything still looked good. I got moved to a new room in a different wing, which was a sign that I was stable. The bed was more comfortable, I was no longer on liquids, tho I had to leave the IV in, and an end was in sight. I mentioned to the nurses the neonatologist nor the social worker came to visit. They'd get right on that. So I try to get some sleep, annoyed that since arrival I hadn't spent more than 5 cumulative minuted with a Dr.- and each time it was a different one. They told me nothing about results from an tests they had run, told me contradictory things about what this would mean for the rest of my pregnancy (one told me everything would be a-ok, but without exercise, another told me I'd be on house arrest), and never really explained to me where we were going from here or what would happen next.

Gerard and I wake up at 12:30 to the lights being thrown on and a nurse loudly coming in to check my vitals. Not even pretending to be considerate about it. "Get some sleep; see you in 3 or 4 hours" she said as she left. I was woken up several more times throughout the night because apparently my blood pressure, heart rate and temperature are of vast interest at all hours of the night. By morning, I was sufficiently cranky and anxious for rounds so someone would tell me what was going on.

By 11:30am, rounds were still MIA, and I was pissed. When a resident finally pranced in after 1pm, I told her in no uncertain terms I was none too pleased. "You can't be mad at me," she says , "I've never even met you." Exactly! I've never seen the same Dr. twice or for more than 30 seconds, so who else am I supposed to pin my frustration on. She told me I'd be ready to be discharged after the neonatologist came to see me.... Excuse me? I was trapped in the hospital for an indefinite period of time waiting on a Dr. who was supposed to see me yesterday morning?! It was about this time I realized I had been there for over 36 hours and had not been given a change of gowns, socks or underwear, and hadn't even been given a toothbrush or shower or anything. Now I was really just pissed. The social worker came soon after the peak of my anger, and was appalled at the service I'd be given. She immediately got me towels, a change of clothes and a toothbrush, and informed me that the neonatologist was in surgery, but would see me when she got out. Finally, a woman with some answers.

So, after a very soothing, but soapless shower, brushed teeth, clean socks and underwear, and a visit from a neonatologist who told me nothing about NICUs or premies that I didn't already know being an SLP, I was finally discharged. They would not allow me to leave on foot; I had to go in the wheelchair, which is ridiculous. But I'm pretty much allowed to resume normal daily activities, minus exercising. Although she did say prenatal yoga was ok. I think she might assume my prenatal yoga is like the kind on DVDs where you stretch and chant and call it a day, and not like the actual real life workout that it is. But oh well. I'm home. And Gerard came to pick me up with my Kota girl in the car, and got me ice cream on the way home without me even having to ask for it. So things are looking up.

Wow, didn't realize it had been that long since I posted... It's been a very crazy couple of weeks. I've had to stay several hours late at work every single day trying to wrap up school's summer session, in addition to trying to tie together all of my clinical duties to prepare for maternity leave. Despite my efforts, I didn't finish; I have some reports to write from home this week and I'll have to swing by the office in the next couple days to make sure everything is ready for my absence. But, other than that... I'm free! Whohoo :)

So, in baby news.. I'm 34 weeks. 6 weeks today is my due date. It's crazy to me, because I know of so many babies that were born 36-37 weeks. It's comforting, because as a professional I know there are virtually no long-term complications from having a baby even at 34 weeks, especially 36. But guys, 36 weeks is, like, 2 weeks away... That's really really soon! I think we are more or less prepared... I mean, we don't have our bag packed, car seat installed, anything like that. But mentally, I think we could do this any day now. The nursery is suited up enough to support a baby, although I'm constantly moving around furniture trying to get the set-up just right. I still want a rug for it, which is on the to-do list.

The other update is that we finally chose a hospital. We'll be going down to Redwood City. Everyone seems to think this is a horrible idea, because Redwood City is 23 miles away, and the SF hospital is 4 miles away. But let's think about this rationally. It is 23 miles, but 22.75 of these miles are highway. It's half an hour drive, versus a 20 min 4 mile drive through the middle of the city. I'm pretty sure I'll take an extra 10 minutes in a smooth ride going straight, than a drive that is constantly stopping and turning and speeding and slamming on the brakes and cars cutting us off and horns honking and bikers going crazy and everything else that comes along with city driving. So no, I'm not concerned about the drive. And I'm not concerned that I won't have more than 30 minutes warning before having this baby. And, if I don't, then Gerard will deliver his 14th baby between 101 and the bay, and it'll be a great story to tell.