30 Weeks: The End-of-the-Road Blues

I just got back from my 30 Week check at the doctor's office. Good Lord!

I'm trying to stay positive, so first of all, Yay!. Hooray for 30 weeks. Another milestone reached and another week closer to a healthy baby. But...

I didn't blog about this over the weekend because, well, I just didn't feel like dwellng on it. The progesterone shots every 5 days were seeming to work. I have not had to go back to the hospital in 2 weeks, which is a small victory. But Friday, I started to have breakthrough contractions--every 3 minutes, to be exact. We got them stopped with the monitor-bolus-monitor routine, without me having to report to L&D. Then nothing but mild crampiness on Saturday. But Sunday? Phew! Every 2-3 minutes again, for literally hours. They increased my brethine infusion rate and my doctor allowed me to stay home when, after 4 hours, we got them slowed to 6 contractions per hour. Then I went for my appointment this morning...

First, the doctor walks in the room and says "So! How is your uterus doing?", which I find absolutely hilarious. We talked a bit because I am starting to worry about reaching the same point I did in E's pregnancy where the meds just stopped working and I never stopped contracting. He asked how many boluses it took to get them stopped yesterday, and said that if it gets any worse, they are just going to put me in the hospital until I deliver. His exact words? "If the boluses stop working, pack your bags!" I reminded him that mag sulfate didn't even stop them last time, and he agreed, but pointed out that I am nearing the time where I was when I ended up finally delivering E. So instead of my being further along serving to reassure, it is just causing me to be labeled as a giant time bomb. As in we're getting to that point, where no one knows if the contractions will be able to be stopped, and the only way to ensure that I don't have a baby in my house is to keep me in the hospital under close watch. It's like my uterus is the Boy Who Cried Wolf. So many trips into the hospital, contracting worse than a woman in the final stages of labor, with no cervical changes. So many days at home doing the same thing, and we all assume it is all okay because,well, it's me! There really is no way of knowing when it all stops being okay, so I understand the rationale behind his statement, but would pretty much rather have a lobotomy than spend weeks in the hospital.

So I'm trying to hang on. I'm getting really exhausted from all of this, and have that Woe-Is-Me attitude. I'm so tired of needles and painful contractions, of financial difficulties and mounting medical bills. I want to have the I-just-want-a-healthy-baby outlook on all of this. I do, because I really do want a healthy baby. But this is where the rubber meets the road in one of my pregnancies--it gets harder and harder to hang on, harder and harder to endure. This is the stage where I want to scream from the rooftops, "But what about me? Doesn't my well-being matter, too?" I don't, because I am a mother. It is my job to be completely selfless for my children. There have been countless times where their needs come before mine and I do not whine because that is the job for which I signed up from the minute I decided to have children.

But here? On this blog? I feel like I can whine all I want. Because this is really, really difficult, both emotionally and physically. And because this is the main reason I started this blog in the first place- a documentation of what happens, of how I feel, of the process I endure to bring a child into the world.

I'm ready. I'm ready to give this baby the food off my plate, the clothes off of my back. I'm ready to work endless hours to pay for his education or go without something I truly need to give him something he truly wants. I'm ready to be that crazy woman you see lined up in the cold at Christmas to get The Toy of the Year, freezing just to see a my child smile. I don't care about sleepless nights in steamy bathrooms to relieve croup or stopping what I am doing to mend skinned knees. It doesn't bother me to balance a textbook on one knee while rocking a colicky baby to sleep. I've done all of that and more. It's my job.

But I'm also ready to have my body back, and to be free from pain.

Just a few more weeks.