We are down to just two pregnant woman on our unit now. One got promoted - Amber had her twins on schedule, and I can vouch for their perfect little fingers and toes. Two got demoted - both Shana and Dawn disappeared from our unit. They are over in the OBICU, in labor too early. Shana is at 35 weeks, and just trying to hang on to one more week for her daughter. Dawn is 29 weeks and wondering what she did wrong to put her nieces in this precarious place.
I walk the unit each morning. Just checking to see who disappeared in the night, and trying to spy if anyone new has joined our ranks.
This morning I bled again. My 7th bleed. It was small, nothing to worry about. But every time I see any blood I flash to my plan for notifying a nurse and getting help as fast as possible just in case this is the big one. Now days I calm down pretty quickly when I realize it's just a small bleed. This morning I even went back to sleep while they hooked me up to the monitor to check for contractions during the bleed.
But I do wonder if I will ever get bumped to the OBICU for closer observation, or knocked all the way to the surgery suite. Mostly I just wonder what they would do with all of the pictures on my walls and decorations stuck on my shelves, curtains, and bed. One glance at my room would let you know that I'm not planning on going anywhere until Wyatt is good and ready.
My plans may not influence the outcome, but they do help me sleep better tonight and face another bleed with a bit more courage.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Small Things
A few small things that make a big difference to me.
To a room with a more interesting view.
2) Exchange my IV's for a PICC line. A PICC line is kind of like a long term IV. Like an IV, it provides access to my viens in case I need blood and/or surgery quickly. But there are several big advantages to a PICC line. For starters, the PICC line can stay in for my entire stay - which eliminates the painful starting of a new IV line every few days. The PICC line is also in a convenient location - my upper arm. The IV's inevitably ended up in my elbow, wrist, or hand. I felt like I had a travelling handicap as I gave up the use of my arm or wrist, depending on the location of the moment. And lastly, the PICC line is larger than an IV so they can pump more blood into me quicker.
1) A change of scene. After about a week here, I switched from a room with a bland view of a wall . . .
To a room with a more interesting view.
This picture is a bit dark, but the ground is covered with green, the windows off to the right look into an office, and the scaffolding supports a walkway. It might seem a boring view, but I get to see glimpses of people walking, talking, and living lives outside of my unit.
2) Exchange my IV's for a PICC line. A PICC line is kind of like a long term IV. Like an IV, it provides access to my viens in case I need blood and/or surgery quickly. But there are several big advantages to a PICC line. For starters, the PICC line can stay in for my entire stay - which eliminates the painful starting of a new IV line every few days. The PICC line is also in a convenient location - my upper arm. The IV's inevitably ended up in my elbow, wrist, or hand. I felt like I had a travelling handicap as I gave up the use of my arm or wrist, depending on the location of the moment. And lastly, the PICC line is larger than an IV so they can pump more blood into me quicker.
3) October 5 - Wyatt's scheduled birthday. Even though this date is at 36 1/2 weeks instead of my hoped for 36 weeks, it is amazing to me how relieved I am to have a concrete date to count down to. I can say with confidence that I will be at home or wrapping up my stay here at the hospital in 6 weeks.
4) Care packages, letters, messages, flowers, phone calls, and visits from family and friends. I've been overwhelmed and grateful for the love and support poured out to me and my family. I can't really describe how much it helps me to know that we are not alone. I'm one blessed woman to have you all.
5) The other pregnant ladies on my unit. An update on them . . . Amber had her twins yesterday. It is good for me to have a peek at the difference between her delivery at 34 weeks, and a full term delivery. She is back in her room, surrounded by family and friends - but no babies. They live over in the special care nursery. Her son has yet to see his sisters because no children are allowed in that nursery. If Wyatt hangs in there until 36.5 weeks, he probably will get to stay in my room like most babies. But he if does come earlier, it is good for me start adjusting my expectations now.
Little things add up to me settling in and surviving life here in the hospital. It's a strange life, but it is mine. And I think I can make it for another 6 weeks.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Introductions
Let me introduce you to the other pregnant women on my unit.
Amber - she's the long timer around here, with a stay of 5.5 weeks. This Friday she will deliver her twin girls via c-section. She gives us all hope that we might survive that long, meet our gestational goals, and get out of here. She is here because her babies share one sack and placenta. Her husband and 6 year old son live up near Chicago.
Shana - still a girl herself. She celebrated her 18th birthday here at the hospital a few weeks back. She says that the hardest part of all of this is being away from home - it is her first time away from her mom and brother. She sleeps with the door open at night because she is afraid of being alone. She is here because she is in preterm labor. Her family all live 2 hours away, so she doesn't get many visitors.
June - arrived 2 days ago. She is in the roughest spot of all of us. Her twins are only 28.5 weeks gestation. Before her water broke this week, she had already endure 2.5 months of bedrest and invitro surgery due to twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome. She has a 4 year old daughter and a 2 year old son like me.
Dawn - arrived yesterday. She went in for her regular appointment at 28 weeks, only to discover that she was in preterm labor and be checked into the hospital. Her husband and 2 year old daughter live an hour away. The twin girls she is carrying are her nieces, not her daughters.
As the two newest arrivals settle in, I find myself to be experienced at this - giving advice on cafeteria food, finding storage space in our rooms, and negotiating with the doctors. And I see myself in their teary eyes and overwhelmed faces.
For me, the tears and fears have faded. My heart still pounds when I have a bleed and don't yet know if it is small like my past bleeds, or big enough to rush me to surgery. But in between I'm kind of getting used to my new strange life.
And I'm glad that I can help other women know that they are not alone in their strange new lives. I hope that I can also be living proof that they too can survive here. And one day maybe I, like Amber, will meet my gestational goal and get out of here too.
But maybe I'll take some new friendships with me.
Amber - she's the long timer around here, with a stay of 5.5 weeks. This Friday she will deliver her twin girls via c-section. She gives us all hope that we might survive that long, meet our gestational goals, and get out of here. She is here because her babies share one sack and placenta. Her husband and 6 year old son live up near Chicago.
Shana - still a girl herself. She celebrated her 18th birthday here at the hospital a few weeks back. She says that the hardest part of all of this is being away from home - it is her first time away from her mom and brother. She sleeps with the door open at night because she is afraid of being alone. She is here because she is in preterm labor. Her family all live 2 hours away, so she doesn't get many visitors.
June - arrived 2 days ago. She is in the roughest spot of all of us. Her twins are only 28.5 weeks gestation. Before her water broke this week, she had already endure 2.5 months of bedrest and invitro surgery due to twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome. She has a 4 year old daughter and a 2 year old son like me.
Dawn - arrived yesterday. She went in for her regular appointment at 28 weeks, only to discover that she was in preterm labor and be checked into the hospital. Her husband and 2 year old daughter live an hour away. The twin girls she is carrying are her nieces, not her daughters.
As the two newest arrivals settle in, I find myself to be experienced at this - giving advice on cafeteria food, finding storage space in our rooms, and negotiating with the doctors. And I see myself in their teary eyes and overwhelmed faces.
For me, the tears and fears have faded. My heart still pounds when I have a bleed and don't yet know if it is small like my past bleeds, or big enough to rush me to surgery. But in between I'm kind of getting used to my new strange life.
And I'm glad that I can help other women know that they are not alone in their strange new lives. I hope that I can also be living proof that they too can survive here. And one day maybe I, like Amber, will meet my gestational goal and get out of here too.
But maybe I'll take some new friendships with me.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Confessions
I confess to:
Asking Elise if she wants to feel the baby kick, then faking kicks by jiggling my belly.
Using my status as a strange vegetarian to get special food privileges.
Grinning when Zion falls because I know that I'll get to hold and comfort him.
Sneaking through hospital computer security filters to reach facebook.
Handing out "snuggle snacks" that can only be eaten while snuggling with Mommy =)
Shirking poopy diaper changes when my IV gets in the way.
Asking Elise if she wants to feel the baby kick, then faking kicks by jiggling my belly.
Using my status as a strange vegetarian to get special food privileges.
Grinning when Zion falls because I know that I'll get to hold and comfort him.
Sneaking through hospital computer security filters to reach facebook.
Handing out "snuggle snacks" that can only be eaten while snuggling with Mommy =)
Shirking poopy diaper changes when my IV gets in the way.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Escape
The sky is blue today. My kids are playing at the fair. Cows. Sheep. Rides. Fun.
And I'm living vicariously through their fun. I'm picturing Elise jumping for an hour in the bounce house, and Jeffrey struggling to get her out. I'm imagining Zion copying her every move. Are they smelling hay? Is it noisy? Will they eat some sweet and greesy funnel cake?
I can imagine. I've never been to a state fair before. I'd like to go someday. But more than that, I really, really, really just want to escape.
Today I missed my 15 minutes of outside time. I'd asked my nurse if she would wheel me out and be my medical chaperone when she had some free time. But I never heard back.
And so I considered going out on my own. I thought of how good it would feel to have no glass between that big blue sky and me. And what a relief it would be to sit unnoticed amongst a group of people. Amongst the action and life. To be free again.
I pictured myself walking right through the lobby and out of here. And I didn't think the nurses would even notice.
Before my mom, who reads this blog, freaks out I should tell you that at this point the sane part of me began to argue back.
Me: "Really, what are the chances of something going wrong in 15 minutes?"
Sane me: "Hmm, I think it is actually pretty low. But still . . ."
Me: "The doctor did say that I could go out for 15 minutes with the nurse, and that's not much safer than by myself."
Sane me: "True, but she could wheel you back quickly if something happened."
Me: "Have you seen that blue sky? If I don't go now, the sun will set and I will spend the next 4 hours like I spent the last 7, and then I go to sleep. All in the same room."
Sane me: "How about a stroll around the unit? That's a change of scene. Will that make you happy?"
Me: "Sure, why don't I just put on my shoes and we'll start with a walk around the unit and talk more about this."
Sane me: "No! No shoes allowed or you might just walk on out of here. Socks only."
Me: "Okay, fine."
So I opened my door while clad in socks, the sane side of me ready for a walk around the unit and my other half still hoping for an escape outside. And there my nurse stood in the doorway, smiling and asking, "are you trying to escape?"
Caught. Caught in the act. Well, not really in the act - more like caught contemplating the act of escape.
Then any trace of a smile faded from her face and she told me she wanted to talk with me about that.
What followed was a heart felt lecture about the danger of me leaving the unit, at all, nurse or no nurs e, no matter what resident was informed, or which doctor said it was okay. She has seen a woman suddenly gush blood and need to be under the knife in minutes. It scared her pretty good - scared her enough for her to deliver a pretty scary and convincing lecture to me.
This seems to be just a part of my life now - me relaxing and feeling secure, and then someone hitting me over the head with reality. I don't know yet whether I'll head her warning or take the tidbits of freedom offered to me by my doctor. But no matter what, I can still imagine the feel of fresh air on my skin and the smell of hay at the state fair.
Or at I can least look at the pictures, and dream.
And I'm living vicariously through their fun. I'm picturing Elise jumping for an hour in the bounce house, and Jeffrey struggling to get her out. I'm imagining Zion copying her every move. Are they smelling hay? Is it noisy? Will they eat some sweet and greesy funnel cake?
I can imagine. I've never been to a state fair before. I'd like to go someday. But more than that, I really, really, really just want to escape.
Today I missed my 15 minutes of outside time. I'd asked my nurse if she would wheel me out and be my medical chaperone when she had some free time. But I never heard back.
And so I considered going out on my own. I thought of how good it would feel to have no glass between that big blue sky and me. And what a relief it would be to sit unnoticed amongst a group of people. Amongst the action and life. To be free again.
I pictured myself walking right through the lobby and out of here. And I didn't think the nurses would even notice.
Before my mom, who reads this blog, freaks out I should tell you that at this point the sane part of me began to argue back.
Me: "Really, what are the chances of something going wrong in 15 minutes?"
Sane me: "Hmm, I think it is actually pretty low. But still . . ."
Me: "The doctor did say that I could go out for 15 minutes with the nurse, and that's not much safer than by myself."
Sane me: "True, but she could wheel you back quickly if something happened."
Me: "Have you seen that blue sky? If I don't go now, the sun will set and I will spend the next 4 hours like I spent the last 7, and then I go to sleep. All in the same room."
Sane me: "How about a stroll around the unit? That's a change of scene. Will that make you happy?"
Me: "Sure, why don't I just put on my shoes and we'll start with a walk around the unit and talk more about this."
Sane me: "No! No shoes allowed or you might just walk on out of here. Socks only."
Me: "Okay, fine."
So I opened my door while clad in socks, the sane side of me ready for a walk around the unit and my other half still hoping for an escape outside. And there my nurse stood in the doorway, smiling and asking, "are you trying to escape?"
Caught. Caught in the act. Well, not really in the act - more like caught contemplating the act of escape.
Then any trace of a smile faded from her face and she told me she wanted to talk with me about that.
What followed was a heart felt lecture about the danger of me leaving the unit, at all, nurse or no nurs e, no matter what resident was informed, or which doctor said it was okay. She has seen a woman suddenly gush blood and need to be under the knife in minutes. It scared her pretty good - scared her enough for her to deliver a pretty scary and convincing lecture to me.
This seems to be just a part of my life now - me relaxing and feeling secure, and then someone hitting me over the head with reality. I don't know yet whether I'll head her warning or take the tidbits of freedom offered to me by my doctor. But no matter what, I can still imagine the feel of fresh air on my skin and the smell of hay at the state fair.
Or at I can least look at the pictures, and dream.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Hope
I've been thinking a lot lately about hope.
Through out the course of this pregnancy, we have hoped for many things.
Hope that my placenta previa would go away.
Hope that I wouldn't develop placenta accreta.
Hope that I wouldn't be put on bedrest.
Hope that I wouldn't bleed.
Hope that I wouldn't be hospitalized.
Hope that my uterus could be spared.
In each case, our hope has been smashed and denied.
Now we hope that I won't hemorrhage. Hope that Wyatt will stay in the womb long enough. Hope that he will be healthy. Hope that my surgery will go well.
As you can see, I don't have a great history for getting what I've hoped for. So putting my hope in good outcomes is a shaky, scary thing.
But while I do hope for good outcomes, my hope doesn't rest in good outcomes.
Psalms 25:3, "No one whose hope is in You will ever be put to shame."
My hope is in God. My hope rests in the one who sacrificed his son so my kids' future has no limit outside of this earth. My hope rests in a God who will carry me, whatever the outcome of this scary pregnancy. My hope doesn't rest in getting the healthy little baby that I used to expect. My hope is simply in the Lord.
So even if my remaining hopes are dashed - my hope, my faith, and my future are secure. And that is something in which my hope can really rest.
Through out the course of this pregnancy, we have hoped for many things.
Hope that my placenta previa would go away.
Hope that I wouldn't develop placenta accreta.
Hope that I wouldn't be put on bedrest.
Hope that I wouldn't bleed.
Hope that I wouldn't be hospitalized.
Hope that my uterus could be spared.
In each case, our hope has been smashed and denied.
Now we hope that I won't hemorrhage. Hope that Wyatt will stay in the womb long enough. Hope that he will be healthy. Hope that my surgery will go well.
As you can see, I don't have a great history for getting what I've hoped for. So putting my hope in good outcomes is a shaky, scary thing.
But while I do hope for good outcomes, my hope doesn't rest in good outcomes.
Psalms 25:3, "No one whose hope is in You will ever be put to shame."
My hope is in God. My hope rests in the one who sacrificed his son so my kids' future has no limit outside of this earth. My hope rests in a God who will carry me, whatever the outcome of this scary pregnancy. My hope doesn't rest in getting the healthy little baby that I used to expect. My hope is simply in the Lord.
So even if my remaining hopes are dashed - my hope, my faith, and my future are secure. And that is something in which my hope can really rest.
Better Day
Today was a better day.
1 visit from a friend
3 non-hospital food meals
2 flower deliveries
7 people I spoke with on the phone
1-on-1 time with each of my kids
1 family dinner with my hubby, kids, and mom-in-law
30 minutes outside
3 care packages
0 bleeding
A good day.
My room is covered with pictures, cards, flowers, and the new additions of Hawaii and Zion National Park decor. Each thing reminds me that I am not alone.
1 visit from a friend
3 non-hospital food meals
2 flower deliveries
7 people I spoke with on the phone
1-on-1 time with each of my kids
1 family dinner with my hubby, kids, and mom-in-law
30 minutes outside
3 care packages
0 bleeding
A good day.
My room is covered with pictures, cards, flowers, and the new additions of Hawaii and Zion National Park decor. Each thing reminds me that I am not alone.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Normal?
Sometimes I wonder if my kids are I are normal.
With the exception of 7 days, I have spent the last 3.75 years entirely with my children. I've been there every morning to give them sippy cups, read a book, and snuggle. I'm there every breakfast, lunch and supper to feed them and clean their sticky faces. They run to me when they are hurt, sad, or scared. I have sometimes wished that I wasn't sooo important to them - that they'd call out for Daddy in the middle of the night instead of me.
And now I live here in my hospital room, and they wake every morning to Daddy or Grammi. Not me.
So here is why I wonder if I am normal, and if they are normal too: when they visit, neither they nor I act like anything is different or wrong at all. They aren't more clingy. In fact, I haven't had more than a 5 second snuggle from Zion since I got here. Elise doesn't ask me when I'm coming home. They want to know if they can ride the train here or go up and down on the escalator.
When it is time to go, no one has tears. I have to practically force them to give me a hug goodbye before they head out the door.
Of course I'm glad they are adjusting just fine without me. It would be so painful if I knew they were sad without me.
But it does make me wonder if I ever was all that important to begin with. And if I'll ever have that same bond with them again.
I suppose I should have seen this coming. During the three weekends I've ever been away from them, they were perfectly content without me. And all of Elise's fantasy worlds include Zion, but not me or Jeffrey. I use to see them as secure, well adjusted kids. Now I wonder if I'm not a normal mom, but have done something wrong to have turned out two sweet little kids who don't miss me.
For those of you who chat with me on the phone, next time we talk let's just pretend I didn't tell you any of this. Let's just pretend that I'm normal, and my kids are normal and it doesn't hurt this much.
With the exception of 7 days, I have spent the last 3.75 years entirely with my children. I've been there every morning to give them sippy cups, read a book, and snuggle. I'm there every breakfast, lunch and supper to feed them and clean their sticky faces. They run to me when they are hurt, sad, or scared. I have sometimes wished that I wasn't sooo important to them - that they'd call out for Daddy in the middle of the night instead of me.
And now I live here in my hospital room, and they wake every morning to Daddy or Grammi. Not me.
So here is why I wonder if I am normal, and if they are normal too: when they visit, neither they nor I act like anything is different or wrong at all. They aren't more clingy. In fact, I haven't had more than a 5 second snuggle from Zion since I got here. Elise doesn't ask me when I'm coming home. They want to know if they can ride the train here or go up and down on the escalator.
When it is time to go, no one has tears. I have to practically force them to give me a hug goodbye before they head out the door.
Of course I'm glad they are adjusting just fine without me. It would be so painful if I knew they were sad without me.
But it does make me wonder if I ever was all that important to begin with. And if I'll ever have that same bond with them again.
I suppose I should have seen this coming. During the three weekends I've ever been away from them, they were perfectly content without me. And all of Elise's fantasy worlds include Zion, but not me or Jeffrey. I use to see them as secure, well adjusted kids. Now I wonder if I'm not a normal mom, but have done something wrong to have turned out two sweet little kids who don't miss me.
For those of you who chat with me on the phone, next time we talk let's just pretend I didn't tell you any of this. Let's just pretend that I'm normal, and my kids are normal and it doesn't hurt this much.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Precautions
Yesterday I wrote a post that I will not share. It was a morbid tale of how it feels to know that I could bleed really badly at any time and have to rush off to surgery to deliver this little (29 wks) guy. The day I wrote that piece, I saw everything as dark and scary. That is a true picture, it is dark and scary.
But all of the drama is also kind of funny.
I am a perfectly healthy woman. I feel fine. Without the work of caring for my home and kids, I don't even have the aching back and sore feet typical of pregnancy.
And yet I seem to warrant a lot of excitement around here. For example . . .
I have to live with an IV in my arm - because the 2 minutes it takes to put one in before surgery is just too long.
The only place I can walk to outside my unit is across the hall to the Labor & Delivery / OBICU unit that houses the operating rooms.
If I go to Labor & Deliver, not only do I have to tell my nurse, but they have to call over to let the nurses know in L&D - just in case.
It took me almost a week to negotiate a little freedom - I can now be wheeled outside, by a nurse, once a day, for 15 minutes.
I also negotiated a daily trip downstairs to the cafeteria. But I must be wheeled by my family, stay only 30 minutes, carry a cell phone with the number of the charge nurse, and let the resident know where I am.
Today all of the excitement over me is kind of funny.
But I must admit, it is still a little scary too.
Sorry if I scared you - just be glad I didn't post what I wrote yesterday.
But all of the drama is also kind of funny.
I am a perfectly healthy woman. I feel fine. Without the work of caring for my home and kids, I don't even have the aching back and sore feet typical of pregnancy.
And yet I seem to warrant a lot of excitement around here. For example . . .
I have to live with an IV in my arm - because the 2 minutes it takes to put one in before surgery is just too long.
The only place I can walk to outside my unit is across the hall to the Labor & Delivery / OBICU unit that houses the operating rooms.
If I go to Labor & Deliver, not only do I have to tell my nurse, but they have to call over to let the nurses know in L&D - just in case.
It took me almost a week to negotiate a little freedom - I can now be wheeled outside, by a nurse, once a day, for 15 minutes.
I also negotiated a daily trip downstairs to the cafeteria. But I must be wheeled by my family, stay only 30 minutes, carry a cell phone with the number of the charge nurse, and let the resident know where I am.
Today all of the excitement over me is kind of funny.
But I must admit, it is still a little scary too.
Sorry if I scared you - just be glad I didn't post what I wrote yesterday.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Freedoms Gained and Lost
These days when the doctors round in the morning, I don't even ask about my condition, or what to expect in the future. Those answers have already been given, and haven't changed.
For the last two mornings my question has only been this:
"What exactly are my restrictions?"
I am on modified bedrest. But what exactly does that mean?
The first 2 days, that meant I was allowed to walk around in my room, but must be wheeled everywhere else. Jeffrey, the kids and I went on long walks/rides around the hospital. We zoomed up and down in the glass elevators. We ate in the courtyard outside. But most of the day, when my hubby wasn't here to spring me from my room, I was stuck.
Yesterday, day 3, modified bedrest meant that I could walk "less than 30 minutes". Fantastic! I was now allowed to walk the 5 minutes down to lobby all by myself. I read books and chatted on the phone while looking at flower gardens and surrounded by the life and energy of other people.
Today, day 4, modified bedrest means that can walk some, and rest a lot. That is not too different than last week. But I have a new attending in charge of me this week. And he threw in a big, new restriction on top of "modified bedrest". I am not allowed to leave the OB unit for more than 15 minutes at a time, even if I have another adult with me. Not even with my physician husband - believe me, I tried to play that card.
Yikes! No more wheels around the hospital. No more hanging out near windows that look at more than a wall. No chance to play with the kids over in the fun lobby of the Childrens' hospital. Now I really am trapped here.
And I can't even argue. I mean, I suppose I could, but his reasoning is this: I need to be within minutes of an OR just in case I start to gush blood and endanger my life, and that of my baby.
Now how can I argue with that?
So I'm reluctantly waving goodbye to another precious piece of freedom.
For the last two mornings my question has only been this:
"What exactly are my restrictions?"
I am on modified bedrest. But what exactly does that mean?
The first 2 days, that meant I was allowed to walk around in my room, but must be wheeled everywhere else. Jeffrey, the kids and I went on long walks/rides around the hospital. We zoomed up and down in the glass elevators. We ate in the courtyard outside. But most of the day, when my hubby wasn't here to spring me from my room, I was stuck.
Yesterday, day 3, modified bedrest meant that I could walk "less than 30 minutes". Fantastic! I was now allowed to walk the 5 minutes down to lobby all by myself. I read books and chatted on the phone while looking at flower gardens and surrounded by the life and energy of other people.
Today, day 4, modified bedrest means that can walk some, and rest a lot. That is not too different than last week. But I have a new attending in charge of me this week. And he threw in a big, new restriction on top of "modified bedrest". I am not allowed to leave the OB unit for more than 15 minutes at a time, even if I have another adult with me. Not even with my physician husband - believe me, I tried to play that card.
Yikes! No more wheels around the hospital. No more hanging out near windows that look at more than a wall. No chance to play with the kids over in the fun lobby of the Childrens' hospital. Now I really am trapped here.
And I can't even argue. I mean, I suppose I could, but his reasoning is this: I need to be within minutes of an OR just in case I start to gush blood and endanger my life, and that of my baby.
Now how can I argue with that?
So I'm reluctantly waving goodbye to another precious piece of freedom.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Jeffrey's Day
Jeffrey's day:
2 loads of laundry to wash 2 pee accidents on Elise's bed
2 hours at the Children's Science Museum
3 rides around the carousel
3 fits of tears upon exiting the carousel
5 minutes total of kid nap time
1 diaper and 2 socks lying outside of Zion's crib
0 diapers on Zion inside the crib
1 big puddle of pee on the floor by the crib
1 train ride on the hospital people mover
4 poopy diapers
The sum of it all, 1 tired Daddy and 1 grateful Mommy.
2 loads of laundry to wash 2 pee accidents on Elise's bed
2 hours at the Children's Science Museum
3 rides around the carousel
3 fits of tears upon exiting the carousel
5 minutes total of kid nap time
1 diaper and 2 socks lying outside of Zion's crib
0 diapers on Zion inside the crib
1 big puddle of pee on the floor by the crib
1 train ride on the hospital people mover
4 poopy diapers
The sum of it all, 1 tired Daddy and 1 grateful Mommy.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Day 3
Day 3 in the hospital.
Things that make me smile:
Jeffrey getting to discover how cuddly Zion is after his afternoon nap, now that I'm not home to monopolize them.
My OB resident, who's last name I will try to learn but who I only think of a Virginia. She is on this rotation for 9 weeks, so I know she will be here through my journey. As an OB resident physician, I see her as more of a knowledgable friend than a distant, authoratative doctor. I suppose I like her partly because so many of the people that I care about and who care about me have worn that white coat.
Knowing that friends spread across the country are praying for me, my baby, and my family. And knowing that the God who hears those prayers is good, powerful, and wise.
The willingness of old friends, sisters, and my mother-in-law to stop their owns lives to fly across the country to take care of my kids.
Getting to up my cool mom status by giving my kids rides in my wheel chair.
Appreciating the irony of switching roles from a stroller pusher to sitting back and letting Zion and Elise push me in my grown-up stroller.
Realizing that I'm here because of the blessing of another precious child growing in me, and not because I'm seriously ill. I can't think of a more positive reason to be layed up in the hospital for months.
Things that make me sad:
Thinking of Tatu coming too early.
Thinking of Elise and Zion having "milky snuggle" time without me.
The view out my window - it is about 30 feet of gravel and then a windowless building.
The IV port in my arm. It hurts, gets caught on things, and just reminds me why I'm here - because I might suddenly gush blood and endanger my child so much that he is safer on the outside, even at only 28 weeks.
Knowing that I can't keep my baby boy safe.
Next time I need to start with the sads and end with the smiles. So here is one smile to end on.
Things that make me smile . . .
The pictures in my room of my family, and my husband who gathered them off of the walls at home and brought them to me without me even having to ask. Likewise the peanut butter M&Ms he brought me make me smile and realize how extremely blessed I am to have him holding our little world together while I take care of me and our little baby.
Things that make me smile:
Jeffrey getting to discover how cuddly Zion is after his afternoon nap, now that I'm not home to monopolize them.
My OB resident, who's last name I will try to learn but who I only think of a Virginia. She is on this rotation for 9 weeks, so I know she will be here through my journey. As an OB resident physician, I see her as more of a knowledgable friend than a distant, authoratative doctor. I suppose I like her partly because so many of the people that I care about and who care about me have worn that white coat.
Knowing that friends spread across the country are praying for me, my baby, and my family. And knowing that the God who hears those prayers is good, powerful, and wise.
The willingness of old friends, sisters, and my mother-in-law to stop their owns lives to fly across the country to take care of my kids.
Getting to up my cool mom status by giving my kids rides in my wheel chair.
Appreciating the irony of switching roles from a stroller pusher to sitting back and letting Zion and Elise push me in my grown-up stroller.
Realizing that I'm here because of the blessing of another precious child growing in me, and not because I'm seriously ill. I can't think of a more positive reason to be layed up in the hospital for months.
Things that make me sad:
Thinking of Tatu coming too early.
Thinking of Elise and Zion having "milky snuggle" time without me.
The view out my window - it is about 30 feet of gravel and then a windowless building.
The IV port in my arm. It hurts, gets caught on things, and just reminds me why I'm here - because I might suddenly gush blood and endanger my child so much that he is safer on the outside, even at only 28 weeks.
Knowing that I can't keep my baby boy safe.
Next time I need to start with the sads and end with the smiles. So here is one smile to end on.
Things that make me smile . . .
The pictures in my room of my family, and my husband who gathered them off of the walls at home and brought them to me without me even having to ask. Likewise the peanut butter M&Ms he brought me make me smile and realize how extremely blessed I am to have him holding our little world together while I take care of me and our little baby.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Taking It Easy
Upon returning home from our first weekend in the hospital, many friends and family wished us well and told me to "take it easy". I tried. But this is what "taking it easy" for the mother of two toddlers really looked like.
Sunday, I was discharged from the hospital. We celebrated with lunch at the Spaghetti Factory. Elise had an accident in the bathroom. Our car battery was dead. We called mall security and were promised a jump-start. We waited in the car for 30 minutes for the mall security to arrive. They never showed. We called again. We learned that not only had the security staff changed shifts and not told the new shift of our predicament, but it is against policy for security to jump start a car. But I discovered that my big belly and exhausted face gathers sympathy and we are offered a jump from a sympathetic driver.
Monday, I tried to distract myself from my sorrows by joining a friend for an afternoon at the splash park. We returned to find the house filled with that familiar rotten egg odor. I called the gas company. They advised us to vacate our home and wait for an inspector to arrive. It was 6:30 pm when I made the call. The kids were super hungry, but we couldn't eat inside because of the gas and we couldn't go get food because we had to be on site to let the gas company inside. Furthermore, the kids were in their swim suits and I was in a little tank top and shorts. These clothes were great for the park, but not so great as mosquitoes arrived along with dusk.
Jeffrey was unable to bring us some dinner because he was finding us a minivan. We needed to buy one before Tatu is born, and really wanted to buy it before I was stuck in the hospital and unable to help pick it out. So Jeffrey trooped all over town to find good choices for me to view tomorrow - but that night I was on my own.
At 7:15 pm the gas man arrived. It turned out that the rotten smell was not gas, but only our duplex mates pouring nasty cleanser down their drains.
We are allowed back in our house. At this point the kids should have been getting ready for bed, but instead I was rushing to feed them dinner. Part way though dinner, Zion started to squirm and say that he had to go poo-poo. He wanted to try and go on the potty, so I let him give it a try. Five minutes later, he hadn't had any success. So, I lifted him off on the potty and back on the floor. Then he peed. I sent him out of the bathroom so he wouldn't step in the mess while I cleaned it up. I wiped it up then walked out to the kitchen where he was now pooping on the floor. While I fetched paper towels to scoop up the poo, he peed on the side of the table. While cleaned it all up, I sent the kids upstairs so I ccould meet them up there to put a diaper on Zion and get them ready for bed.
Upstairs, I found Zion standing in front of Elise's doll cradle and a puddle in the cradle. Finally I got a break between mopping up messes and was able to get a diaper on Zion. He kept talking about making more poo-poo. I searched the room thoroughly and couldn't find any - so I figured he was referring to the pee. At last I got them to bed - a full hour after their bedtime.
Exhausted, I crashed on the couch and finally tried to "take it easy". I heard Jeffrey's key in the lock. My hero had arrived!
And then I saw it. The missing pile of poo sat right in front of the door. Time slid into slow motion as I stumbled forward, paper towel in hand ready to scoop it up. But before I got there, the door openned. Jeffrey stepped in and his foot landed smack in the pile of poop.
The trouble didn't stop there. In my haste to clean up all of the mess, I accidentally plugged up the toilet with dirty paper towels. We agreed to let it sit and hope it was easier to unplug the next day.
Flash to the next evening. We bought a minivan! I got to drive it home from the dealer. At home the toilet appeared to be unclogged. So Jeffrey tried a flush. But instead of the water going down, it overflowed all over the bathroom floor. As we piled towels to sop up the mess, Jeffrey mentioned that we ought to take a look in the basement underneath the bathroom.
The basement was a disaster. In that corner of the room, we had piled storage boxes, a stereo, and my grandparents' fancy dining room table. It looked like it had been hosed in waste water.
More sopping up of messes. More wet towels piled on the floor.
At this point it was 11 pm. We crashed into bed and hoped tomorrow would be better and we'd finally be able to "take it easy".
But instead of relaxation, the next morning brought bleeding, another trip to the hospital, and the beginning of enforced bed rest. And now that I'm here with plenty of rest and time on my hands, I wish that I was back cleaning up poo and taking care of my family.
Sunday, I was discharged from the hospital. We celebrated with lunch at the Spaghetti Factory. Elise had an accident in the bathroom. Our car battery was dead. We called mall security and were promised a jump-start. We waited in the car for 30 minutes for the mall security to arrive. They never showed. We called again. We learned that not only had the security staff changed shifts and not told the new shift of our predicament, but it is against policy for security to jump start a car. But I discovered that my big belly and exhausted face gathers sympathy and we are offered a jump from a sympathetic driver.
Monday, I tried to distract myself from my sorrows by joining a friend for an afternoon at the splash park. We returned to find the house filled with that familiar rotten egg odor. I called the gas company. They advised us to vacate our home and wait for an inspector to arrive. It was 6:30 pm when I made the call. The kids were super hungry, but we couldn't eat inside because of the gas and we couldn't go get food because we had to be on site to let the gas company inside. Furthermore, the kids were in their swim suits and I was in a little tank top and shorts. These clothes were great for the park, but not so great as mosquitoes arrived along with dusk.
Jeffrey was unable to bring us some dinner because he was finding us a minivan. We needed to buy one before Tatu is born, and really wanted to buy it before I was stuck in the hospital and unable to help pick it out. So Jeffrey trooped all over town to find good choices for me to view tomorrow - but that night I was on my own.
At 7:15 pm the gas man arrived. It turned out that the rotten smell was not gas, but only our duplex mates pouring nasty cleanser down their drains.
We are allowed back in our house. At this point the kids should have been getting ready for bed, but instead I was rushing to feed them dinner. Part way though dinner, Zion started to squirm and say that he had to go poo-poo. He wanted to try and go on the potty, so I let him give it a try. Five minutes later, he hadn't had any success. So, I lifted him off on the potty and back on the floor. Then he peed. I sent him out of the bathroom so he wouldn't step in the mess while I cleaned it up. I wiped it up then walked out to the kitchen where he was now pooping on the floor. While I fetched paper towels to scoop up the poo, he peed on the side of the table. While cleaned it all up, I sent the kids upstairs so I ccould meet them up there to put a diaper on Zion and get them ready for bed.
Upstairs, I found Zion standing in front of Elise's doll cradle and a puddle in the cradle. Finally I got a break between mopping up messes and was able to get a diaper on Zion. He kept talking about making more poo-poo. I searched the room thoroughly and couldn't find any - so I figured he was referring to the pee. At last I got them to bed - a full hour after their bedtime.
Exhausted, I crashed on the couch and finally tried to "take it easy". I heard Jeffrey's key in the lock. My hero had arrived!
And then I saw it. The missing pile of poo sat right in front of the door. Time slid into slow motion as I stumbled forward, paper towel in hand ready to scoop it up. But before I got there, the door openned. Jeffrey stepped in and his foot landed smack in the pile of poop.
The trouble didn't stop there. In my haste to clean up all of the mess, I accidentally plugged up the toilet with dirty paper towels. We agreed to let it sit and hope it was easier to unplug the next day.
Flash to the next evening. We bought a minivan! I got to drive it home from the dealer. At home the toilet appeared to be unclogged. So Jeffrey tried a flush. But instead of the water going down, it overflowed all over the bathroom floor. As we piled towels to sop up the mess, Jeffrey mentioned that we ought to take a look in the basement underneath the bathroom.
The basement was a disaster. In that corner of the room, we had piled storage boxes, a stereo, and my grandparents' fancy dining room table. It looked like it had been hosed in waste water.
More sopping up of messes. More wet towels piled on the floor.
At this point it was 11 pm. We crashed into bed and hoped tomorrow would be better and we'd finally be able to "take it easy".
But instead of relaxation, the next morning brought bleeding, another trip to the hospital, and the beginning of enforced bed rest. And now that I'm here with plenty of rest and time on my hands, I wish that I was back cleaning up poo and taking care of my family.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Timeline
I now live in a hospital.
This morning I packed my suitcase, left my home, and moved into a private room at Indiana University Hospital. At some point I hope to go back and fill in the details of the past week, but for now I will jot down a time line before more excitement washes away my thoughts today.
17 wks - I have a small bleed. I am diagnosed with placenta previa. But assured that 90% of these move and therefore don't cause a problem. We also have a scare of a shortened cervix and a uterine hematoma. I'm put on bedrest for a week.
The shortened cervix was never actually short, and the hematoma was absorbed over time. But my placenta previa persisted.
22 wks - our baby's heart gave us a very big scare by slowing down repeatedly. I was told to seek out a high risk OB (MFM - Maternal Health Medicine) before I get to Indianapolis.
A specialist took a closer look at my baby's perfect little heart, and pronounced it absolutely healthy.
We sigh with relief, but my placenta previa held on.
23 wks - my first ultrasound in Indy not only reveals a placenta that is not going to move from its position right over my cervix, but it also looks suspicious that I have placenta accreta. Placenta accreta is an invasion of the wall of my uterus by the placenta. This would mean a hysterectomy for me.
I'm warned that if I'm going to bleed, it will likely occur around 28 to 30 weeks. I earnestly start seeking out new friends in Indianapolis so my kids will have someone to care for them if I do have a sudden bleed.
My OB predicts that I will either sail through this smoothly with no bleeding, or be a "complete, bloody mess." We start praying for smooth sailing.
27 wks - another ultrasound confirms suspicion of placenta accreta. It is highly unlikely that I will get to keep my uterus after delivering Tatu.
I cry for the loss of kiddo #4 that I'd wanted, but will never have. New in town for less than a month, it is my next door neighbor, practically a stranger to me, who comforts me while I cry.
27 wks + 2 days, 5 days short of the 28 weeks of freedom that I anticipated, and exactly 1 month after our move in Indy, I start to bleed.
Blood loss was very little, but I'm admitted to the OBICU overnight for observation. Too many scary possibilities are discussed by doctors. I sign away consent to deliver my baby and remove my uterus whenever the bleeding is too heavy.
I go home. But I'm warned that if I bleed again, they won't let me go back home. We start gathering names of friends willing to fly in to watch our kids in case I'm stuck in the hospital. We try to plan out enough care to cover us if I am hospitalized at 30 weeks.
28 wks, I bleed again. And I'm in for good.
This morning I packed my suitcase, left my home, and moved into a private room at Indiana University Hospital. At some point I hope to go back and fill in the details of the past week, but for now I will jot down a time line before more excitement washes away my thoughts today.
17 wks - I have a small bleed. I am diagnosed with placenta previa. But assured that 90% of these move and therefore don't cause a problem. We also have a scare of a shortened cervix and a uterine hematoma. I'm put on bedrest for a week.
The shortened cervix was never actually short, and the hematoma was absorbed over time. But my placenta previa persisted.
22 wks - our baby's heart gave us a very big scare by slowing down repeatedly. I was told to seek out a high risk OB (MFM - Maternal Health Medicine) before I get to Indianapolis.
A specialist took a closer look at my baby's perfect little heart, and pronounced it absolutely healthy.
We sigh with relief, but my placenta previa held on.
23 wks - my first ultrasound in Indy not only reveals a placenta that is not going to move from its position right over my cervix, but it also looks suspicious that I have placenta accreta. Placenta accreta is an invasion of the wall of my uterus by the placenta. This would mean a hysterectomy for me.
I'm warned that if I'm going to bleed, it will likely occur around 28 to 30 weeks. I earnestly start seeking out new friends in Indianapolis so my kids will have someone to care for them if I do have a sudden bleed.
My OB predicts that I will either sail through this smoothly with no bleeding, or be a "complete, bloody mess." We start praying for smooth sailing.
27 wks - another ultrasound confirms suspicion of placenta accreta. It is highly unlikely that I will get to keep my uterus after delivering Tatu.
I cry for the loss of kiddo #4 that I'd wanted, but will never have. New in town for less than a month, it is my next door neighbor, practically a stranger to me, who comforts me while I cry.
27 wks + 2 days, 5 days short of the 28 weeks of freedom that I anticipated, and exactly 1 month after our move in Indy, I start to bleed.
Blood loss was very little, but I'm admitted to the OBICU overnight for observation. Too many scary possibilities are discussed by doctors. I sign away consent to deliver my baby and remove my uterus whenever the bleeding is too heavy.
I go home. But I'm warned that if I bleed again, they won't let me go back home. We start gathering names of friends willing to fly in to watch our kids in case I'm stuck in the hospital. We try to plan out enough care to cover us if I am hospitalized at 30 weeks.
28 wks, I bleed again. And I'm in for good.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Journal - First Indy Bleed
It is 4 am and I can’t sleep. I’m in the hospital, trying to keep my 27 + 2 week gestation little Tatu safe in my womb. And trying to keep me safe too.
I started bleeding yesterday morning. I woke up for a common pregnant pee, and felt something fall out of me instead. A ball of blood. A clot of red lying there in the toilet. Immediately my heart started to pound. Was that all of the blood or was that just the dam letting loose?
Fortunately, and I think providentially it was the weekend and Jeffrey was home. He helped to calm me down while we called the OB’s emergency number. They told me to head straight to the emergency room then up to the OB unit where they would be waiting for me. Even at our fastest, it would still take 20 minutes to get the kids up and out the door. So we decided that I should head to the hospital right away and Jeffrey would get the kids ready.
I wished that I was still a small child, relying on my daddy to take care of me. But I’m not. I’m a grown woman. A mother. So I gathered up my courage to make the drive alone with the hopes of collapsing into the capable hands on the OB doctors.
The signs on the road lead me to the ER. Once inside, the triage nurse sent me straight up to the OB unit. I sighed with relief that I’d made it to hospital and was finally safe.
But relief was far, far away. As I trooped up to the OB front desk, instead of meeting the care of a nurse, the nurse pointed to a clock and said, “you’ll have to wait until 8 am, this is not a 24 facility.” What!!? Here I stood, potentially hemoraging and the tell me they won’t see me until 8 am? Then he said that unless I was 20+ weeks I would just have to wait. I stammered that I’m 27 weeks! He laughed at my belly that had been partially hidden behind the counter. I did not laugh. He lead me back to registration waiting room.
Next came questions about my insurance and registration. I thought it was a bit strange that I wasn’t wisked off to be examined and hooked up to an IV. It was also odd that they didn’t ask me any questions about my symptoms or why I was there. But I figured that they had said over the phone that they would be expecting me, so maybe they didn’t need any more information yet.
Finally a nurse called me to her office. We started to chat, and in the midst of our exchange of information, she gave me a funny look and said, “Why honey, I think your at the wrong hospital!” Huh? How could I be at the wrong hospital? I followed directions that the nurse had given me over the phone, and I knew that I was at the right campus – Jeffrey works here.
Um, well, she was right. I was at the wrong hospital. There are 4 different hospitals on the same campus. I’m just fortunate I didn’t end up at the VA hospital! But instead of the university hospital, I was at the county hospital.
It got worse from there. She then said, “Well if your contractions aren’t too bad, you can walk the 2 blocks to the right hospital.”
What contractions?
It hits me. Not only do they have no idea of the danger I’m in, but I’ve just wasted a precious hour while my bleeding could be getting worse and threatening the life of me and my baby.
Through my tears I stammer that I’m not in labor, I have placenta previa and I’m bleeding. She seems to begin to grasp the seriousness of the situation and informs me that the certainly cannot allow me to leave now in my precarious condition.
So there I was, longing to be safe but instead I was stuck in the wrong hospital with people who hadn’t even bother to ask my why I showed up at their front desk.
I was still on my own. On the phone with Jeffrey, I explain through my tears the mess that I’m gotten myself into. I stammer apologies, fearful that our insurance company won’t cover my stay. He hushes my worries and just wants to know if the bleeding has stopped, if I’m okay, and if our baby is okay.
I am okay. And so is the baby. A listen to his heartbeat and an exam of me reveal that he is healthy and my bleeding has almost stopped. Physicians from both hospitals agree that I’m stable, but that I should be transferred to the university hospital where I’ll be closer to the MFM specialist.
But even though I’m stable, they still won’t let me walk or ever ride a wheel chair over to the university hospital. Nope. I have to ride in an ambulance. Once again I groan and imagine the bill for this mess.
But now there seems no way around it. So I ride the 2 blocks to the university hospital in style.
And even my worst fears of the bill almost seem worth the relief I found when I was welcomed into the university hospital OB unit. Here they did have a bed waiting for me and doctors ready with questions and exams.
Sweet relief! Quality care. Comfy conditions. I was as safe as I could be under the circumstances. And I was hungry. It was 2 pm now, and I hadn’t been allowed to eat anything that day – just in case I was rushed to surgery. I hadn’t even been able to grab a quick bite to eat before leaving my home because my personal physician, Jeffrey, wouldn’t let me. Ugh. What a morning.
But the doctor’s didn’t care that was exhausted and hungry. They just pushed that aside and focused on other things – like whether or not I this baby would be born too early or make it a bit longer. And so I pushed aside my hunger and my intense desire to collapse and cry and instead answered questions and submitted to IV needles and exams.
Even after Jeffrey arrived I couldn’t fall into his strong arms because they were holding onto the hands of my kids. I didn’t want my kids to be scared or worried, so I held it together a little bit longer. I put on a smile and held them in my hospital bed. But when nighttime drew near and they had to go, or course Jeffrey had to go with them. So I never got to be held. To be protected. To let go of this burden and cry with the man that I love.
In fact, I haven’t really cried yet. I suppose that’s why I am passing the early hours of the morning recording narrative and events instead of sleeping. I’m wondering where this all will lead, and slowly accepting that we are headed farther and farther away from the smooth, healthy pregnancy and baby that I was anticipating. But I don’t know yet whether his will be a fairly healthy 36 week baby and big surgery for me, or the birth of a premie with high risk to me and permanent damage to my internal organs.
They might let me go home today. ********************************
I started bleeding yesterday morning. I woke up for a common pregnant pee, and felt something fall out of me instead. A ball of blood. A clot of red lying there in the toilet. Immediately my heart started to pound. Was that all of the blood or was that just the dam letting loose?
Fortunately, and I think providentially it was the weekend and Jeffrey was home. He helped to calm me down while we called the OB’s emergency number. They told me to head straight to the emergency room then up to the OB unit where they would be waiting for me. Even at our fastest, it would still take 20 minutes to get the kids up and out the door. So we decided that I should head to the hospital right away and Jeffrey would get the kids ready.
I wished that I was still a small child, relying on my daddy to take care of me. But I’m not. I’m a grown woman. A mother. So I gathered up my courage to make the drive alone with the hopes of collapsing into the capable hands on the OB doctors.
The signs on the road lead me to the ER. Once inside, the triage nurse sent me straight up to the OB unit. I sighed with relief that I’d made it to hospital and was finally safe.
But relief was far, far away. As I trooped up to the OB front desk, instead of meeting the care of a nurse, the nurse pointed to a clock and said, “you’ll have to wait until 8 am, this is not a 24 facility.” What!!? Here I stood, potentially hemoraging and the tell me they won’t see me until 8 am? Then he said that unless I was 20+ weeks I would just have to wait. I stammered that I’m 27 weeks! He laughed at my belly that had been partially hidden behind the counter. I did not laugh. He lead me back to registration waiting room.
Next came questions about my insurance and registration. I thought it was a bit strange that I wasn’t wisked off to be examined and hooked up to an IV. It was also odd that they didn’t ask me any questions about my symptoms or why I was there. But I figured that they had said over the phone that they would be expecting me, so maybe they didn’t need any more information yet.
Finally a nurse called me to her office. We started to chat, and in the midst of our exchange of information, she gave me a funny look and said, “Why honey, I think your at the wrong hospital!” Huh? How could I be at the wrong hospital? I followed directions that the nurse had given me over the phone, and I knew that I was at the right campus – Jeffrey works here.
Um, well, she was right. I was at the wrong hospital. There are 4 different hospitals on the same campus. I’m just fortunate I didn’t end up at the VA hospital! But instead of the university hospital, I was at the county hospital.
It got worse from there. She then said, “Well if your contractions aren’t too bad, you can walk the 2 blocks to the right hospital.”
What contractions?
It hits me. Not only do they have no idea of the danger I’m in, but I’ve just wasted a precious hour while my bleeding could be getting worse and threatening the life of me and my baby.
Through my tears I stammer that I’m not in labor, I have placenta previa and I’m bleeding. She seems to begin to grasp the seriousness of the situation and informs me that the certainly cannot allow me to leave now in my precarious condition.
So there I was, longing to be safe but instead I was stuck in the wrong hospital with people who hadn’t even bother to ask my why I showed up at their front desk.
I was still on my own. On the phone with Jeffrey, I explain through my tears the mess that I’m gotten myself into. I stammer apologies, fearful that our insurance company won’t cover my stay. He hushes my worries and just wants to know if the bleeding has stopped, if I’m okay, and if our baby is okay.
I am okay. And so is the baby. A listen to his heartbeat and an exam of me reveal that he is healthy and my bleeding has almost stopped. Physicians from both hospitals agree that I’m stable, but that I should be transferred to the university hospital where I’ll be closer to the MFM specialist.
But even though I’m stable, they still won’t let me walk or ever ride a wheel chair over to the university hospital. Nope. I have to ride in an ambulance. Once again I groan and imagine the bill for this mess.
But now there seems no way around it. So I ride the 2 blocks to the university hospital in style.
And even my worst fears of the bill almost seem worth the relief I found when I was welcomed into the university hospital OB unit. Here they did have a bed waiting for me and doctors ready with questions and exams.
Sweet relief! Quality care. Comfy conditions. I was as safe as I could be under the circumstances. And I was hungry. It was 2 pm now, and I hadn’t been allowed to eat anything that day – just in case I was rushed to surgery. I hadn’t even been able to grab a quick bite to eat before leaving my home because my personal physician, Jeffrey, wouldn’t let me. Ugh. What a morning.
But the doctor’s didn’t care that was exhausted and hungry. They just pushed that aside and focused on other things – like whether or not I this baby would be born too early or make it a bit longer. And so I pushed aside my hunger and my intense desire to collapse and cry and instead answered questions and submitted to IV needles and exams.
Even after Jeffrey arrived I couldn’t fall into his strong arms because they were holding onto the hands of my kids. I didn’t want my kids to be scared or worried, so I held it together a little bit longer. I put on a smile and held them in my hospital bed. But when nighttime drew near and they had to go, or course Jeffrey had to go with them. So I never got to be held. To be protected. To let go of this burden and cry with the man that I love.
In fact, I haven’t really cried yet. I suppose that’s why I am passing the early hours of the morning recording narrative and events instead of sleeping. I’m wondering where this all will lead, and slowly accepting that we are headed farther and farther away from the smooth, healthy pregnancy and baby that I was anticipating. But I don’t know yet whether his will be a fairly healthy 36 week baby and big surgery for me, or the birth of a premie with high risk to me and permanent damage to my internal organs.
They might let me go home today. ********************************
Journal - Neonatologist's Visit
A neonatologist came by to help prepare me for the outcome of a 27 week premie. She gave the “good news” that 80% of those babies survive. And there is even a slim chance that he would have only a few long term effects. She thought that was good news. Instead of good news, I heard that instead of the 100% chance of having a healthy baby that I anticipated a day ago, I now have a 20% of loosing this child, and almost certainty of long term affects if he is born now. Instead of my holding a newborn to my breast, I could be looking at him through the plastic of a warming box. Instead stroking his soft skin, I could be watching him suffer as underdeveloped nerves bear the pain of IVs and tubes. Instead of nursing my son, I could be watching him gag on a feeding tube, all the while hoping his intestines are ready to work and don’t perforate. Watching. Not holding. Not rocking him safe in my arms. But watching him lying in a warming box, breathing with a ventilator and sprouting wires. Just watching and hoping he isn’t one of the 20% who die.
Now the tears have started to fall.
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