An Update, a Correction, and the Aftermath

I lied. Zach's birth story was not my last post.

First, the correction:
I later discovered that my due date was off by several days. Zach was not born at 36 wks, 3 days like we thought. Instead, he was born at 33 wks, 5 days. Which means everything I blogged was off, too. Sorry. I have since gone back and tried to adjust the dates, but some of it will still be off. We didn't know this until I went for my postpartum check-up.

The Update:
Zach is now 3 months old--13 weeks chronologically, 8 weeks old with the adjustment for his prematurity. And he is absolutely perfect. Our angel. The easiest baby ever! He ended up having a few issues from his prematurity, such as an abnormal newborn thyroid screen. He also had a few feeding issues where he would mix up the suck-swallow-breathe routine and sputter and choke while eating. And difficulties latching on. We are continuing to work through all of it. Developmentally speaking, he is just a couple of weeks behind on his milestones, but that is to be expected.

He lights up our world with his beautiful smiles, loves to be "worn", and is the apple of his big brother's eye. We cannot even remember what life was like before he came into our lives.

The Aftermath:
It turns out that my relief I felt at the end of the pregnancy would be false. Instead, I find myself having difficulties with coping with the pregnancy. I feel like I am a failure as a woman as a result of the whole experience and have a bitterness I did not expect to feel once I held my baby in my arms. This is not something that has interfered with my ability to mother my children or carry on with my life, but rather serves as a sort of hang-up. Not really postpartum depression and not a simple case of the baby blues, it has no label. About the closest thing I can find is "Traumatic Birth Experience", in that the pregnancy and birth served as a sort of emotional trauma. I find myself resentful toward other pregnant women who get to have a positive experience, which in turn makes me feel guilty for feeling the way I do. And I simply have not been able to let it go. And despite all of the pain I felt in the last months leading to Zach's birth, I wish I could go back and do it all over again. Only this second time, things would go as they are supposed to. I would get to leisurely shop for the baby, not be in the hospital over and over. Maybe even have a baby shower. I would be able to spend more quality time with E before Zach's arrival instead of having such physical limitations or being submerged in the fuzziness of painkillers to get me through. I would be able to bond with my baby through a more natural childbirth instead of the cold and calculated world that is a scheduled c-section. And it would all be perfect.
As for the mathematical aftermath: My pregnancy cost my insurance company over $484,000. Thank God for Humana. My family's share? $15,000. By the time I delivered, I had exhausted every resource I had to compensate me for maternity leave. My FMLA job protection had long-since run out, and the only reason I had a job to which to return was because my supervisor likes me. I ended up returning to work at 5 weeks postpartum, just 3 days after my due date, simply because I was worried for my job and also because I needed the financial compensation of my full salary. We were scraping the bottom of the barrel. That in itself was a source of emotional difficulty: I simply was not ready to leave my baby yet. We still needed each other.

I have been back to work about 2 months now. I still run into people in the halls of the hospital who ask me where I have been. I was off of work for 21 weeks, from start to finish, and when I tell people this, they always reply the same way: "That must've been nice!" And then I want to scream. No. There was nothing nice about it. Not the needles, the pain, the hospitalizations, the tests, the bills, the fear, the tears. I honestly cannot think of one positive thing other than the gift I was given when Zach was finally born on May 13th. Not one thing. I don't tell these people the details. They don't want to know. The details are my burden to carry. Instead, I just smile the fakest smile in the world, and hope that they never have to endure what I did.

34 Wks, 4 Days: A Little More Freedom

One More Week. (Is this getting annoying or what?)

Yesterday I did my monitoring as required. It really is futile, as they do nothing about the contractions anymore. The nurse called back and told me that the strip looked like any other of mine, and actually told me to stop monitoring. I don't know how many contractions I had, but it must have been bad. How can I not know? Well, I don't count anymore, and it has gotten to the point where my uterus is in a state of relaxation less than it is a state of contracting. One after the other after the other. The scariest ones for me are the ones that seem to build on top of each other: I'll be having a contraction, and before anything has had a chance to relax, another one starts and builds on top of the last one. Here lately, Zachary hs started flailing his little appendages in there with the contractions, which hurts like hell. I think he is getting tired of being squeezed. Sometimes, just having the monitor on my belly is enough to set him off, as if to say, "Hey! Something is pressing on me!"

So anyhow, I am now free from the monitor. Unless something feels different, then I can do it as needed. So the 17P shots are done and the monitoring is done. Now I just have to lose the brethine pump. I think that is happening Thursday when I go in to get my amnio results and pre-op instructions. Since a c-section bypasses nature and the uterus doesn't contract down to size on its own like in a vaginal delivery, they give you pitocin afterwards. I cannot imagine they would want me on a tocolytic before they do the deed. Which means Thursday night, if they do stop the pump, is going to be awful for me. I doubt the contractions can get any more frequent, but they can get stronger without the brethine infusion my body has been getting all along. Ugh!

Which leads me to the dreading of the pitocin. That was by far the worst part of E's delivery. I cannot even remember how long it was that they kept me on it, but that was very painful. Imagine contracting against a fresh wound, when your muscle is completely worn out from all of the contracting done beforehand. I didn't rely on pain meds a lot after having E, but I do remember that I spent those hours in a narcotic-induced fog.

But regardless, today starts my official last week of pregnancy. It's very surreal knowing when it will all end. It has its advantages and disadvantages. I can be completely ready, with bags packed, nursery ready, and more. But I also have time beforehand to think about what is going to happen, to dread the bad parts. And while having a plan made me feel better at first, now it is having the opposite effect. When the pain gets to be too much, I can't help but think that it is just a week away, and wish for them to just do it already. And it is frustrating not knowing a time, but they won't give me one yet. They are worried that the amnio on Wednesday will do me in. I have a high level of fluid, a big baby, and a worn-out uterus that is distended beyond where it should be. Inserting a needle in there at this point could have the same effect as putting one in a balloon overly-filled with water. If that is the case, I will be having him Wednesday. Or Thursday. Thus, no official time planned. Just a date.

34 Wks, 2 Days: Just Waiting

Waiting waiting waiting. 9 More Days.

I am having terrible hip pain today and had the hardest time getting out of bed. I'm not even supposed to be out of bed yet, but whatever! I'm having him next week, so I don't even care anymore as long as the baby is safe. Unfortunately, the pain is keeping me from doing what it is that I really want to do. And tonight I get my last ever progesterone injection! WooHoo! Those suckers really do hurt, even though my home nurse is the best at giving them. I've had one where I had to get it in the doctor's office, and one where I had to get it in the hospital, and I will take her technique over theirs anyday! The concoction is thick and oily, and so once the medicine starts to spread in the tissue of my hip, a simultaneous burn and ache spreads down my entire leg on whatever side she is injecting. Sometimes the burning is intense and lingers for hours, at which point J laughs at me because I will literally sit with an ice pack on my bum. But no more after tonight. I cannot complain. Something has kept Zachary in there, and I really think these were the answer.

Other than the hip pain, I am just feeling anticipation. What will Little Booger look like? Will he have J's eyes or mine? My petite nose or J's angular, straight one? Will he be quiet and peaceful or will he be high-strung and spirited like E? How big will he be? I'm predicting a little over 7 pounds because of the last full ultrasound I had done where he was measuring 5 lbs. 5 oz. a few weeks ago. Most importantly, will he be okay? Is he as ready as I am?

Zachary, You're Scaring Mommy!

Zachary hasn't been moving. The last time I felt a lot of movement, which is normal for him, was when I monitored at noon yesterday. Then? Nothing. I figured he was just sleeping. He's entitled to that.

I tried everything last night, and managed to get a little kick here and there. Nowhere near what they want though. I told myself that all was fine though, and went to bed. I planned to wait and see what he was doing this morning before I made any calls. I woke up, allowed myself caffeinated coffee instead of the normal pregnancy decaf, and waited. I blogged. I laid back down. Nothing. I drank apple juice, and that brought on a couple of kicks, but that's it.

I'm getting really worried. This isn't normal. This baby is very active. On top of the decreased movement, I have also been having some abdominal pain in the area between my diaphragm and belly button. It's been going on for 2 days now, and I just assumed it was from the vomiting the other day. I don't do dainty little urps. I violently heave when I throw up, leaving my face peppered with broken capillaries and everything. So that is what I figured the pain was from. But I also know that my placenta is in that region where the pain is, so this, combined with Zachary's level of calm, is rather frightening.

So....I am going into the office today for an NST. I'm a little worried. The doctors don't usually see my contractions. They get reports fom L&D nurses and the home health company about how many I have in an hour. But I am going to be on a monitor in their office and they are getting ready to see firsthand what it is that I do. I hope this does not turn into a hospitalization, and that Zachary is okay.

UPDATE:

Zachary is just fine. Little stinker. He still isn't moving a lot, but his heartrate was nice and reactive. I told the nurse as she was strapping me up to the monitor that she was not allowed to freak out about what she saw. Apparently someone had warned her in advance, because she kept looking at my strip (which was behind my back) and saying "Wow! They weren't lyin'." everytime. I was worried about the doctor who would read it until Dr. Surfer Boy stuck his head in the door and said "We're talking about you out here!" Then he saw with his own eyes for the first time and was almost child-like in his wonder. "Look At YOU! Amazing!", as he snuck a peak at the monitor. I had 18 contractions in 20 minutes' worth of recording. Wave upon wave upon wave. He also saw J out in the waiting area and talked to him briefly--I don't think he is going to change plans now, as he mentioned to J that it would be here before I knew it.

I feel better knowing Zachary is okay. And I sort of feel better that they now see what the nurses have been calling them about all along. They know I'm not a hypochondriac now. And at least he let me go back home instead of to the hospital. After all, I'm not even feeling these today. Just feeling an overall crampiness. It also got me off the hook for monitoring, as I just called the nurse and told her where I had been and knew what my uterus was doing.

33 Wks, 4 Days: Not Enough Food in the World

I am seriously bummed about this. I think I mentioned in a previous post, or posts, about my weight gain and loss during the pregnancy. It fluctuates every week. I'll gain a pound or so, then lose 3 by the next time. Same scale, etc. Well, the last time, I had lost 5, finally putting me below my pre-pregnancy weight. Or at least below the weight I was when I first went to my OB at 8 weeks of pregnancy. I've never gotten caught up in weight, but instead worry about my measurements. I've always been a sturdy build. I've got huge muscles in places most women do not from years of competitive swimming, so if I went by "ideal weight" for my height, I would always be very depressed.

None of the people in my little healthcare mafia are concerned with this. The baby is growing by leaps and bounds, so who cares? That tells us he is getting enough nutrition. And I am not actively trying to lose weight. Well, at least not until after the delivery. I just haven't been able to eat between the big baby taking up space in my abdominal cavity, the heartburn and indigestion of the last trimester, all of the contractions, and more. No biggie. But I must admit that I was a little excited. If I am below my pre-pregnancy weight now, then by the time I deliver a 7-pound baby, along with placenta, and all of the extra fluid, I will leave the hospital with a healthy start on my weight loss goals for after the pregnancy. Plus nursing will help me lose even more, as will my return to work. Sweet.

Not anymore. Over the past couple of days, I have been ravenously hungry. And I have this weird attraction to Arby's roast beef sandwiches. They must have swiss cheese added, of course, because they couldn't possibly have been fattening enough on their own. And soft serve ice cream. That too. The ice cream is more difficult for J to satisfy. It has to be soft serve vanilla in a cone, so he has been trying to navigate traffic while holding this enormous ice cream cone, without taking a single lick because of his new-found status as a diabetic. I don't know where this has come from. I should be past the cravings stage. But J does his best to provide what I want. This, of course, is despite the fact that I have turned into a sort of culinary Sybil. Yesterday, I told him to bring home food from some random errand he was running. He went and got me a sub. But he got me the slim-pickings, healthy crap I would have eaten before this stage. And I was so looking forward to my fat fest that my heart fell when I saw what he had brought. And I couldn't eat it. It just didn't taste good to me. Poor J.

This all reminds me of the first trimester. J was so sweet. I was still working. And I would go in at about 6 PM because I was almost always charge/ team leader, and would have to make work assignments for all of the other therapists that night, as well as deal with staffing for my shift and the one immediately after mine. First rounds would always be busy,but right around the time they would be over, I would be starving. We have a fairly decent cafeteria at work, as far as hospital cafeterias go. But it closes at 8 PM, then reopens at 2 AM for third-shifters like me. So at 10:30 or 11, when done with my rounds, they would be closed. Without fail, J would wait for my phone call telling him what I wanted from any of the area restaurants that were open. And at 11 PM, he would be out bringing me food. Often, he would even take orders for all of the other therapists stuck there in the overnight time-warp with me. Of course by that time of night, he would have to come in through the security night entrance, and I would always be too busy to wait for him, so he had to constantly give them my name and tell them to beep my pager. As a result,the security staff at the hospital began to tease us, and even got to the point where they knew he would be bringing food and would make their own requests. So the end result is that J ran his own little Meals on Wheels operation for night hospital staff. Priceless. What a guy!

So anyway, my new little love affair with food is going to ruin my goals and I am bummed. Not bummed enough where I am going to do anything about it, though. I figure these last couple of weeks are the last where I can eat what I want and not feel bad about it. After all, I will never be pregnant again. But if I go into the doctor on Tuesday and have gained it all back, I know what is to blame.

33 Wks, 2 Days: A Dream of Zachary

Yep, I'm awake at 3 AM...Again!

Last night, J and I were watching tv when I smelled the most noxious smell coming from my beloved husband. I literally gagged, and got so sick. I haven't done that in at least a month. The pukey part of this pregnancy has long since ended. But I was sick, so I ended up in bed after ensuring that our Cincinnati boy, Chad, was still safe on Dancing with the Stars. (I won't refer to him by his last name. I still cannot believe he changed his last name to a Spanish number because that was what all of us Cincy people called him. What a goofy thing to do!) But once in bed, I intended to read, and ended up waking up at 3 AM with the lights out an J snoring softly beside me.

What woke me was a dream I had of Zachary. We were bringing him home from the hospital. Nothing eventful happened. We were just bringing him home. He was nestled into his carseat, with his tiny baby legs curled up like newborns do, and he was so sweet and small and cute. My baby. I don't have anything profound to write about the dream. I think it has just hammered home that this is really happening. I am going to have two boys. One would think I would have gotten used to the idea somehwere in the past 33 weeks or so, but I haven't. Zachary will probably be E's age before I finally do. I have to cut myself some slack on this one: E has been an only-child for almost 9 years. (He'll turn 9 on September 1st!)

I cannot wait to meet this little guy. I don't know how much I believe in miracles. I simply have learned too much about science and medicine. But if miracles do exist, both of my boys are examples of them. E was supposed to be a miscarriage at 18 weeks, and Zachary probably would not have survived when I first went into labor at 21 weeks. Either God or the Marvels of Modern Medicine, whichever, is the reason behind both of them.

I'm reminded of my favorite quote from Cormac McCarthy's The Road. "If he is not the word of God then God never spoke." That may be a complete misquote, with puctuation or one or two words off, but I am recalling it off the top of my head. I remember when I read it, I thought of E. If God exists, there is no better evidence than the presence of my son in my life. Now I can say my sons, plural.

33 Wks, 1 Day: Relief

Yesterday,on what was to mark my 33 rd week of pregnancy, I went to see my doctor. It all started like it normally does--I went into the little vestibule where they check weight and blood pressure. I got on the scale, and the nurse got concerned, made me step off and back on again. I had lost 5 pounds since last week. Same scale, roughly the same clothing. And I know it wasn't all water weight because I was never really swollen to begin with. I told her it was probably right, that I haven't been able to eat all week. Which prompted the question: "What's wrong?" And so the floodgates opened. I told her a brief synopsis of everything, and as I was sitting there, the high-risk clinic nurse, who sees only us problem patients, came walking in, saw me crying, and got in on the conversation. Before I knew what was happening, they were crying too from my story.

So we go into the exam room, and she hands me the little disposable sheet, to which I just handed it back to her, telling her no, I'm sorry, I just cannot tolerate an exam right now, as I am in too much pain. She agrees and in less than 2 minutes, the doctor comes in. It's the one I like, and he comes through the door with a hearty "Duuuuuuude, what's UP????" This is why the L& D nurses refer to him as "Surfer Boy". He's young, and blond and tan, to go along with that personality. But he is also the one who listens to me, who promised me I would not suffer any longer than necessary, who finally offered me pain relief.

So we talk. I tell him I am miserable, as the tears start again. By the way, I think this is the first time he has seen me cry in all of this. We talked about the ridiculous number of trips to the hospital, the brethine pump's future with all of this tachycardia, and more. As soon as he said "36 weeks", I started crying yet again, and told him no, that I couldn't. Because then when I come back at 36 weeks, someone else would change it to 38 weeks, and so on.

Then he looked at me and said "No, I'll do it!" At which point the nurse handed him a calendar. I heard something about amnio, then something else about the next day. Huh? It has really been a long time. I remember the amnio with E taking almost a week to get back. I literally started laughing at this point. Amnio at 36 weeks, then c-section the same week? I could deal with that. 3 weeks.

Then he started explaining. We think of lung maturity, because that is the biggie at this stage in the game. But we want his brain to be developed, too. And his bowels. Nectrotizing enterocolitis is a big one in preemies. I agreed. "Plus," he said, "Little Dude wouldn't be able to eat yet!" At which point I laughed again. This is honestly the first time someone has referred to Zachary as "Little Dude" instead of the "baby" or "fetus".

He wanted the amnio on May 13th, but the perinatologist is unavailable on that day, so it was scheduled for the 12th instead. I was going to have my c-section, assuming amnio results are favorable, on the 14th, but now we aren't sure. I asked him after the date was changed, and he said they would call me, that he had to look at his schedule, that he should be able to find an hour in there somewhere. That was almost comical and completely strange to me: something this big and life-changing on my end is just a spare hour to him. Weird.

So the bottom line is that I am staying on all of this junk: the brethine pump, the monitor, etc., until then. He admitted that the pump isn't doing the trick, but that he is afraid it will be even worse for me without it. He refilled the pain meds and told me to continue taking them, that I was fine so long as I used discretion. I told him that was not a problem,that a few years ago, I had to have my knee reconstructed, and I am so leary of pain meds that I took about 10 total through that entire process, but that I was actually needing them now.

He ended the converstaion with this: "Please tell me you aren't having any more!" No, I'm not. But they all keep telling me this, and I wonder if it is a concern for my well-being or a concern for them, not wanting to deal with another of my pregnancies. They cannot say I didn't warn them--I had been telling them, as early as my first appointment, that it would get bad, long before it actually did. I consider that fair warning.

So in a little over 3 weeks, I will be holding my youngest son in my arms. Somehow, since finding this out, I have been able to relax a little. I'm still hurting and exhausted, but this knowledge has instantly made it more tolerable.

32 Wks, 6 Days: Again

Back to the hospital. It went like this:

I got them to change my orders on my monitor. Instead of 6 or more contractions in an hour, they changed it to 6 or more painful or overly strong contractions in an hour. In other words, unless I hit the little marker on the monitor 6 times, I should not have to go to the hospital.

Or so I thought.

All day yesterday, I was hurting pretty badly. I took some pain medication and slept most of the day, then woke up to do my required monitoring. The nurse called me back, very concerned, saying that I had 36 true contractions, and that while she realized my orders had been changed and I didn't mark any of the contractions, she felt like she had to call my doctor. The same doctor who told me only painful contractions would count, that we would wait until 37 weeks, that they didn't care was the same doctor on call yesterday. So I thought I was safe. I understood her concern and told her to go ahead and call if she had to, but that I expected him to dismiss it.

He didn't.

They had me go in. Gave me a liter of fluid, but this time, the nurses felt so bad for me that instead of treating me like a pin cushion, they called IV Therapy. Iv Therapy makes up the Kings and Queens of Vascular Access in our hospital, and she got my IV on the first stick. I actually got my hopes up when the nurse told her to put an 18-gauge in me "in case we end up sectioning her". They also had me stop my pump while there for heartrate again.

Of course the contractions didn't stop. They called the doctor back, and he said it was okay for me to go home. Per the request of the home monitoring nurse, I called her to let her know I was home. She tried to remain professional, but could not even try to hide the exasperation in her voice. She told me her day job is still to be a L&D nurse at a large high-risk OB hospital, and that she has never seen them send someone home who was contracting over 30 times an hour. The poor woman was so flabbergasted that she was literally stammering on the phone. I found myself feeling sorry for her--she knew I didn't want to go to the hospital and was so apologetic about sending me, but was honestly concerned, only to have her worries and professional opinion completely disregarded.

And now? Now I am in complete pain. The weight of my ever-growing uterus has done things to my body that are too embarrassing to mention, and this was exacerbated by the pelvic exam and laying in a hard stretcher for hours last night. I didn't sleep last night. Finally, at about 4 AM,I took 2 pain pills and dozed for about 2 hours, only to be awakened by more pain. That's it.

I've been taking the pain meds religiously every 6 hours today, and have not even been able to move until now. Still, I cannot cough, sneeze, strain, laugh, or switch positions without this pitiful whimper that escapes my lips no matter how hard I try to control it. Each time, J and E come running to check on me. The nurse who is on today called to check on me, and told me she could hear the misery in my voice without even laying eyes on me. All I could hear was pity in hers, which I hate. I told her I would not be monitoring today. All that would do would be to put her in the professional dilemma of calling when I didn't want her to, or of being completely complacent like my doctors, against her better judgement. I don't think I could tolerate that bed again, or another pelvic exam with this pain, so I want to avoid another trip to the hospital at almost any cost. I think the only thing that could get me there now would be if I honestly thought Zachary was in some sort of danger.

32 Wks, 2 Days: Can I Call It or What?

I hit the 32-week mark Monday, and I was excited. Until they sent me to the hospital again. That was the 4th time in roughly the past week. It seems my brethine pump is doing strange things to my heart, and the insane contractions of Saturday still have not stopped. Again, not dilating. So I follow-up in the office Tuesday as planned, and the doctor I saw pretty much told me that, while he did not want to sound heartless, it doesn't matter how miserable or uncomfortable I am, so long as baby is fine. So now they are saying 37 weeks. I knew it would happen. I've been to this show before and I know how it ends.

Tuesday afternoon, I did my required monitoring, and of course my uterus was doing insane tricks, so the nurse had to call my doctor, and of course my doctor had to tell me to go back to L&D. Trip number 5 in 8 days. I begged and pleaded, and tried to "respectfully decline" to go, at which point I was told I would be labeled a non-compliant patient, which would cause issues with my insurance company. I had no choice but to go. In the process, they had me stop my pump temporarily because my heartrate was 136, a contraindication of brethine. Nothing changed. Everything was the same, except the contractions were bigger and badder, but still not causing me to dilate. They tried giving me a one-time dose of Procardia (nifedipine) which did nothing other than cause my blood pressure to lower and gave me a raging headache that lasted into this morning. I was sent home with the same instructions I got Saturday, Monday, Sunday, and at the office on Tuesday morning.

So what are my instructions? I have been thoroughly educated on the symptoms of uterine rupture, as it seems I am a prime candidate right now with all of these contractions. I also found out by complete accident that, while my external incision from E's delivery was transverse, my actual uterine incision is classical. If you aren't well-versed in c-section lingo, this is bad. A classical incision is straight up and down and an even higher risk for rupture. I didn't know this until someone mentioned it in conversation. Apparently they got it from the OR report from E's delivery.

In a nutshell? I am still at home, having over 40 contractions per hour, on narcotic painkillers that are no longer working, and waiting for a crisis. A crisis that could kill me and the baby. My home nurse told me today to not even monitor, as the doctors don't seem to be doing anything about it and it is completely futile at this point. The only result will be that I will have to rush to the hospital again. They keep having me temporarily suspend my brethine infusion for heartrate, then start it back up when my pulse is again under 120. My nurse from the call center, my home health nurse who administers my progesterone injections, and even my case manager from Humana are all infuriated that this is being permitted to continue, that not only is it permitted, but they are actually prolonging the pregnancy. But they are not my doctors and can essentially do nothing. They will not even do the amnio at this point. When asked why, he said "Why risk infection?"

Why. Risk. Infection????

Because I do not want to die. Because I do not want lose my unborn son. Because I don't want to ruin my heart with the medications. Because I am tired of disrupting E's life. Because I cannot stand the pain anymore. Because after steroids and the best prenatal care money can buy, odds are that Zachary is okay now. I am not anymore, on the other hand.

A simple course of antibiotics can cure an infection. There is no simple cure for anything mentioned above.

31 Wks, 6 Days: Crunching Some Numbers

2: The number of times they made me monitor yesterday.

34: The number of contractions I had in the first hour of monitoring.

3: The number of brethine boluses I got between attempts at monitoring.

54: The number of contractions on the second strip. Yeah, that's right. Not a typo. The OB nurse at the call center said she has never seen anything like it in her 25 year as an OB nurse. And yes, I felt them all.

4: The number of nurses at the hospital that it took to get my IV.

13: The number of sticks it took the 4 nurses to get my IV.

2: The number of IV bags they gave me. Also the number of Percocet it took for them to get me to be able to sleep.

5: The number of hours I slept once I got home.

36: The number of hours this has been going on. They will not stop. And so long as I am not dilating, they do not care. I wonder if my uterus could spontaneously combust. If it could, at this point, I am sure it would. Today, I actually had 0 contractions. Great right? Nope. Because now they are so frequent, that they don't even last long enough to be considered contractions. Just very frequent waves on a monitor strip, which resembles an EKG more than it does uterine activity, according to my husband. Just wave after painful wave. As soon as one stops, another starts, to the point that I cannot even feel distinct contractions anymore, but rather this wrenching feeling like my guts are being ripped from my body.

They offered me morphine at the hospital yesterday. I should have taken it instead of the weaker Percocet. But there is honestly something wrong when the pain is so bad that they offer me morphine. Me, a pregnant woman. The offer makes me realize that they realize how miserable I am. If they know am that miserable, isn't it time to act?

But nobody cares. My home health company doesn't even care anymore. I ran the strip today like a good girl, and since I was seen yesterday and the doctor on call didn't care, they don't either.

I have no faith in the 34 week mark anymore. I have a feeling they will change it once I get there. As in, "Well, you made it this far. Let's see if you can make it to 36 or 37."

And I will lose my mind.

I am a prisoner in my own body, and I cannot endure another day of this.

31 Wks, 3 Days: Feathering the Nest

Somewhere over the past few days, the nesting instinct has kicked in, big time! I have made J work his tail off! If I could tolerate it, I would be up and doing everything. J and I were talking and realized that I have about 2 and a half weeks (after today) before I am 34 weeks and they stop my drugs. If things go as predicted, Baby Zachary could be here in that little amont of time. I just feel like I have to have everything ready.

Over the past few days, we have managed to clean the basement, clean E's room, organize everything upstairs, clean out the car. Well, J has. I just perch somewhere with a cold drink and watch and direct. There are still a few more things to do. The kitchen cabinets need to be organized to find a space for Zachary's bottles, bowls, spoons, etc. And all of his clothes need to be laundered. I have those piled in baskets and ready to go in the wash, but cannot carry them to the laundry room, so J wil be doing that today.

We got the Pack and Play assembled and it is ready to go. The stroller is put together. I still need to stock the changing station in the Pack and Play and organize the drawers of the big changing table. All of the supplies are there, having already been purchased, but they are all still in the packaging. J can do that today,as well.

J finally installed the carseat in the car yesterday after he cleaned it out. It is so surreal seeing a carseat there. I thought those days were long behind me, yet here we are. It was tricky maneuvering it in there and finding it a permanent home. When E was a baby, there was no LATCH system, so we had to cruise my car's manual to find out where in the heck the hooks were in my seat. And first we had it on the side, and realized this was not good because of the side curtain airbags. My car literally turns into a pillow on impact, as there are 8 airbags in it, so we had to find a space where Zachary's carseat would fit that was safe from all of them. This also was not on issue with E, as airbags then came in the standard dual ones in front. Wow, times have changed! And poor E is going to be squished against one of the sides. Also not a problem when E was little: he was the only one, so he could sit in his throne in the center of the backseat without it impacting everyone else. Of course once we got Zachary's carseat in there, I realized that, while it is fine now, about the time he switches to foward-facing big-dog carseats, we will need a bigger vehicle. Unless I choose to only transport one child at a time,which is not going to happen!

So hopefully, after today, everything will be done. We'll be ready for him. All we'll be missing at that point is the baby. I cannot wait to see him, to hold him. But I am also scared. J's sister's baby was about 6 months old at Christmas when we went down there to visit. It was the first time we had seen him, and when I held him, it felt so strange and awkward. It has been so long since I have held a tiny baby. My life has pretty much consisted of work and school for so long, and E has been a big boy for years and years--I just don't encounter the little ones these days. So I am out of practice. I know I will be okay. I wasn't a baby person when I had E, but I learned. And I know that it is really different when it is your own.

So anyway, now we just wait.

Rub My Head, Please!

Baby Zachary is like his mother, I think. J wants to deny this. E is more like me: a city kid, into reading and school, sensitive, and more. Not the tough-talking country boy like his Daddy. So J insists Zachary is the one who is going to take after him. But we know there is one thing he got from me.

When I was little, my mother would help me go to sleep by playing with my hair. Still, to this day, it makes me fall asleep. I doze off in salons, even. If I am having trouble falling asleep, J will play with my hair and it works everytime.

Last night, Zachary was kicking up a storm. And it was actually hurting, as this is not some little tiny zygote anymore, but a 5 1/2 pound baby boy. I could feel his little head, right there above my belly button. He's in there, curled up, with legs pointing down. So I just started rubbing the area where his little head is, and he stopped. When I stopped, he started up again. We did this a few times, and finally I just sat there rubbing my belly for a while. Not long after, I stopped feeling movement other than a few twitches. I really think I put him to sleep by rubbing his head! It was so stinikin' cute that I could barely stand it.

My Nightmare

Yesterday morning, I was awakened at 3 AM by a nightmare I had. I've been thinking about it ever since. Aren't dreams supposed to you subconscious in action? I'm wondering what this says about me.

In the dream, I was at the hospital, in the OR, having Zachary. The surgical drape was in place, and I had been given my anesthetic. My lower body was numb, so I couldn't move. My doctor was starting the c-section when he got a call to a laboring woman in another area of L&D. And he left, telling me he would be back in a few minutes. The entire OR team followed him, leaving me alone, strapped to the table and unable to move. Whether from panic or anesthetic, I had an asthma attack. I thought I was going to die. I screamed for help and nobody came to my rescue. I didn't have an inhaler. Then I thought: epinephrine. We used to give epinephrine as an asthma drug, before they came up with safer options. And I knew that epinephrine is kept in the top drawer of our crash carts. There was a crash cart next to the anesthesiologist's area, right by my head, so I broke the little plastic lock on the cart and self-administered the epi. While I waited for it to work, I grabbed the Ambu bag from the anesthesiologist's cart. I knew it would be attached to oxygen and going, in preparation for it's emergent need. We always do that so it is ready should a patient crash on us. I held the mask loosely to my face, inhaling the oxygen, and praying someone would show up to help me.

I was there for what seemed like hours. The spinal wore off, and I could move my legs. I freed myself from the table, and felt around on my belly to see how far the doctor was into the surgery before he abandoned me. My belly was flayed open, and I had surgical retractors protruding from my abdomen. He got that far. My uterus was cut too, and you could see Zachary in the transparent balloon of amniotic fluid. I wailed as I tried to decide whether to leave him be or take him out. I knew I was trained in neonatal resuscitation, but did I know enough to save my own son? I am trusted with the loved ones of others, but do I trust myself with my own?

Finally, one of the night shift OB nurses showed up in the OR. I don't know why it was her. I'm not even that close with her. We are just acquaintances at work. But she told me there had been drama in L&D, that everyone was gone except for her, that they all got fired. I asked about my doctor, and she said he was gone, too. She told me one of his partners was on his way to finish me up. I asked her if anyone was on standby for the baby: "Is Children's on the way?" (When we have a baby that needs help beyond our abilities at my hospital, we call in a transport team from Children's Hospital. If we know before the delivery that there will be problems, we call so they are there and ready.)

She said yes, that I was only 31 weeks, so they are coming. And then I woke up.

I never have dreams that I can recall with such detail. Never.

So what does it mean???? First of all, my doctors are consummate professionals and would never do anything like this. To anyone. But is it because I am afraid of them not considering me? That just because I cannot dilate, they consider me to be second-class, coming behind women who do? And the details of work? J says I just need to go back, that I miss it even more than I realize. I think he's right.

31 Weeks, 1 Day: I Take It All Back

I have been a whiny baby lately, complaining about this pregnancy and how I am "done".

I lied. I'm not done. I wish it were easier, but I want him to be healthy. And be in there as close to full-term as possible.

I'm nervous. Today, I have to go back to the doctor to "check everything out". They're worried about my BP and pregnancy-induced hypertension. Not pre-eclampsia yet, as none of my lab values mesh with that. Urine, blood..everything was normal but my blood pressure. My BP has always been perfect. As a matter of fact, when pregnant with E, I was on Procardia for preterm labor and they had to stop it because it would cause my normal BP to drop, then when I would do anything that would cause it to lower more, I would randomly pass out. I had to take cold showers bcause the heat would cause me to vasodilate and John would hear a big thunk! where I would hit the floor. So when oral brethine didn't work this time, that is how I ended up on the pump. They didn't want to add nifidepine to the mix.

So yesterday, when they sent me to the hospital for PIH, I was the talk of L&D. From my stretcher in triage, I could hear the doctors and nurses at the nurses' station talking about it. "She's here for PIH and on a brethine pump!" They kept implying that it would have to be stopped, and the doctor that sent me to the hospital in the first place even said so much--that if BP became a problem, they would have to stop it.

Hmmm. Stopping the brethine pump.....

I've been fantasizing about this for weeks. What it would be like to sleep without worrying about rolling over on the tubing and occluding it. Of worrying about the syringe emptying in the middle of the night, causing me to miss a scheduled bolus and wake up contracting. To be able to take a hot bath because there is no catheter on my thigh that cannot be submerged in water. To be able to go to a doctor's appointment or anywhere else and not have to worry if I have enough batteries or meds to survive the trip without going into labor. About not having something constantly attached to my body.

And if they stop the pump,they are going to stop everything. My progesterone shots. Most likely my home monitor that works in conjunction with the pump. I'm getting scared.

The truth is that, while I have been getting really sick of this stuff, I also realize that there have been countless times where I have avoided hospitalization because of it. And as much as I hate it, I hate being in the hospital even more. And I know that, while they have spent months trying to find the delicate balance of injection frequencies and infusion rates to keep me from having breakthrough episodes of contractions, those breakthroughs would occur more frequently without the stuff. Or my contractions just won't stop, period. And my beloved son will be born too early. Or if he isn't, I will lay in misery in a hospital bed, contracting away, in pain, with my needs not being taken into consideration as I incubate him longer. Neither one is an option I can live with right now.

I'm really scared for myself. And terrified for Zachary.

31 Weeks: Back to the Hospital and Baby Ginormo

After having pain in my old c-section scar had me doubled over, I had to call my doctor to see if I needed to be seen today or not. Of course I was told to come into the office, so I went. My BP was 175/ 82, so I was immediately sent to L&D, where I went through the usual routine. But this time they did a full ultrasound to ensure that everything was okay. It was. My BP normalized, and the pain was deemed to be the result of scar tissue and adhesions in there.

But...
Zachary is measuring, at his current gestational age of 31 weeks, at 5 pounds, 4 ounces. His gestational age calculated by the ultrasound: 35 weeks, 1 day. Still huge.

We got some awesome pictures of him, though, and even got to see him yawn. J had gone to pick E up from school, so he got to be there to see his baby brother on the screen for the first time, instead of just looking at grainy pictures. He saw it all, the yawning, squirming precious baby boy, complete with the little heart beating away. A wonderful experience for him.

A perfect little leg, from thigh to toes.

And speaking of toes...

The sweet little profile

Angel face. We can see he looks like his brother.

This one required some explanation. The ultrasound tech gasped, "Look at all of that HAIR!" Apparently the white halo-like shadow around the top of his head is his hair, lilting in amniotic fluid, and he already has a head full!

Decisions, Part II: The Last Time?

Am I really ready for this phase of my life to be over? There is no feeling in the world like a child moving within your body. Of making a life with someone who was once a total stranger, and being there together as you bring a new life into the world. Of holding a warm bundle snuggled in a blanket, close to your heart. The buttermilk smell of a newborn's breath. Toothless smiles. The sound of little coos and grunts.

There is nothing in the world like watching a child learn. Lke seeing them reach milestones. Like witnessing first steps and first words. Like seeing a personality form before your very eyes. Expressions of glee at a new discovery. Sloppy toddler kisses. Chubby baby fingers learning to manipulate an adult world.

There is nothing like watching them get on the school bus for the first time. Like being there for their triumphs, as well as their defeats. Like mending skinned knees and wouded egos. Trepidation at sharing them with the rest of the world. Realizing that they do not belong only to you, but are going to make an impact on others as well.

Am I really ready to give it all up? For this to be the last time I have these experiences? I once was sure. I'm not anymore.

To make the decision, one has to consider the potential cost. I'm not speaking of dollars and cents. I'm speaking of the trials and tribulations of a pregnancy like this. When I became pregnant with Zachary, I had a glimmer of hope that this time would be different, that the old adage "every pregnancy is different" would ring true. It didn't. History does repeat itself. And while the details have changed, the situation has remained the same for me. Can I do it again?

They tell you that you will forget the pain you endure as soon as you hold your baby. I don't want to burst any bubbles for anyone, but I don't entirely agree with this. Because I remember. The pain took on a different shape and morphed into something much more tolerable when I first laid eyes on my newborn son, but it will never be forgotten. It will always be there, at the back of my memory, serving as a reminder of my love for someone I had yet to even meet. And instead of feeling resentment toward him as a result of the struggle, instead there is a deeper love. Because I endured pain and grief and heartache to bring him into the world, he is more precious to me than my own life.

So am I really finished being a Mommy after Zachary? I'm still not sure. I have to trust that time will tell. And I am not going through with the plan for any permanent prevention.

30 Wks, 5 Days: My Meltdown

I did my required monitoring strip in the early afternoon yesterday, and about 5 minutes after sending it, I got a call to tell me I had 26 contractions in one hour. I couldn't feel them, but just felt a constant tightness in my belly that was uncomfortable. The nurse had me give myself a bolus, then wait an hour and give myself another, then re-monitor. On the second strip, it actually worsened and I had 29 contractions. So they insist on calling my doctor.

Of course the nurse is still at the doctor's office, as it is during business hours, and she tells my home nurse to send me to the hospital....again. And that she will let the doctor on-call know I am going. I really don't want to go, and am concerned that the instruction to go is some knee-jerk reaction, that they aren't keeping in mind who this is, that I do this. So I call the doctor myself, and pretty much beg him to stay home. I'm worried that this is it--that I will get there and they will keep me until I deliver. He tells me this is not necessarily the case and says we will see if I am dilating any and go from there.

So I go, and of course I get a nurse who has never had me, but she is older and seasoned and has seen it all, so she doesn't panic. She is more worried that my blood pressure is up, as is my heart rate. I tell her the history of the pregnancy, how badly I wanted to stay home, and she understands.

They call my doctor, who gets one of his colleagues at the hospital to check me, and they want to do a fetal fibronectin. I'm not really happy about that. I know those can take forever to come back, and I also know that as I get further, with my history of preterm delivery, it is likely to be positive. So they check me afterwards, and of course am not dilated any but the doctor notes that my cervix is very soft. And after waiting, we find out the fetal fibronectin is negative. Good! They are calling my doctor at this point, and I am waiting for word that I can go home.

Wrong. He wants to keep me. "Just overnight, sweetie," the nurse says. He wants me to stay for observation overnight and IV fluids.

No. NoNoNoNoNo. NO! I start crying hysterically at this point. I know this song and dance. and I have a complete meltdown on my poor nurse. This is what I tell her:

They'll put me in with "just IV fluids". And the monitor. And I will have contractions all night, because it's me we're talking about. And in the morning, another doctor will be on for my practice and will see that I am contracting, so then it will be mag sulfate. Then someone else will be on Sunday, and they will say, "Gee, you aren't quite 32 weeks, so let's ship you to another hospital." And so it goes.

And I would be fine with all of it if I were feeling the contractions, or even if the mag sulfate worked for me, but I know it won't. It didn't with E at this stage of the game, and it didn't the last time with this pregnancy.

I want to go home. I am not dilating, the FFN was negative, I am not in pain (other than back and hip pain from the way they keep making me lay on the uncomfortable stretcher in order to keep Zachary on the monitor).

No. I'm going home.

The nurse asks me if I will sign treatment refusal forms, and I cry and tell her yes. I don't want to upset my doctor, as I respect him too much and understand why he wants me to stay, but I have to go. I just keep telling the nurse, "I'm DONE. I'm sorry, but I'm just DONE!"

I want to be home with my husband and son in these last days of the pregnancy. I want to sleep where I am comfortable and be able to eat. I want to be able to bathe. If I stay, I tell them, it is because they are going to deliver this baby. I've had enough.

This has been going on for 11 weeks. Painful injections, first every 7 days and then every 5. Having to stick myself with needles every 2 days for my pump. Heart palpitations from the medicine. Lowered blood pressure from the medicine. Hospitalizations, both inpatient and outpatient. Scars all over my arms and legs from needles. Probable nerve damage in my left hip from the time someone gave me my shot wrong. The times in the hospital where they wouldn't even let me bathe myself, one of the most basic of human needs. $2K worth of just insurance copays per month. Medical bills piling up- a $500 copay for every inpatient stay. My most-likely-lost job. My abandoned education. J's abandoned education. Being alienated from everyone I know.

But you want a healthy baby, don't you?

You're damned right I do! I have done all of this for no one but him. I have had no benefit. J has had no benefit. And E most certainly has not had any benefit from this horrendous pregnancy. And I will endure more. More contractions, more painful injections and needle sticks. More of everything as the pregnancy reaches it's end.

But I am finished. And I am going home.

I don't know what happened from there. I know she called my doctor again and told him what had to say about the probable chain of events. That I was willing to sign papers stating I was leaving against medical advice. She said his response was , "And she is probably right". So he agreed to let me go, without signing papers, so insurance would pay.

Now I'm worried. I'm afraid I have upset my doctor, whom I absolutely love. Or the L&D nurses I work with and rely on. I'm afraid that, since I couldn't feel these contractions, that when I do my required monitoring, the whole process will start over again later today. That I will have to do this over and over before I finally deliver.

30 Wks, 4 Days: Surely Not

J and I were sitting in the living room last night. Well, I wasn't sitting, but reclining. We had eaten dinner, and I had that feeling I get these days after I eat anything. There is no more room in my body. But this time, it felt even worse, so I hitched up my t-shirt to look, and J and I found the top of my uterus, which should be between 5 to 6 inches from my belly button at this stage in the game.

Hmmmmm. Between excess amniotic fluid and a big baby, I knew I was measuring big for dates--about 3 weeks ahead to be exact. But this?

We measured, and got about 9 and a half inches. NINE!!!!! If you picture 9 and a half inches from your belly button, you would think this is impossible. I assure you, I am not exaggerating. So the convo went like this:

J: "The doctor is gonna deliver you next week!"

Me: "Nah....He's big, but he isn't ready yet. And besides, some of this is excess fluid."

J: "He would if he were the one having to carry that around! No wonder you can't eat anymore. Or breathe." (He's sounding really worried, bless his heart!)

Me: "Well,this is what happens. I didn't carry like this with E, so you didn't notice then."

J: "But Andrea..."

Me: "Well, it's not like I'm going to spontaneously explode or anything, right?"

At this point, Diet Dr. Pepper comes shooting out of J's nose as he cracks up laughing.

Me: "I mean, it's not like I'm a container of Jiffy Pop and the foil covering is going to burst if I keep it cooking.... I'm going to ask the doctor at my appointment on Tuesday."

J: "You do that, and I am going to leave you there!"

So now I am wondering, since I am a repeat c-section, does it matter? I mean, it's not like he's going to come out down there. But then again, can a too-big uterus cause my old scar to split? Can I literally burst?

30 Wks, 3 Days: I've Been a Bad Girl, But I Have Excuses

For someone who is on bedrest, I have been horrible this week. I have done entirely too much, but with good reason.

First was the fiasco to cash my check on Monday, and we all know how that went.

On Tuesday, I get it in my head that I am going to go to the store and purchase the remainder of the baby items we need. I shouldn't have, but I figure I can use the little scooter. I got in the car, with J driving, and off we went. But I didn't feel well from the start. I had eaten a salad and a slice of pizza for lunch that sat on my stomach like a ton of bricks. But a friend who has just had a baby got tons of duplicates at her shower, and informed me that she had taken some of the never-used items to a consignment shop, and I was trying to get there and snatch them up. I'm hesitant to buy anything used, but these were brand new. We go to the store and of course her items are already gone. But then I think that maybe she meant another store, so we try to head there. Ha. About halfway there, I am too sick to continue, and we turn around and head home empty-handed.

And Wednesday? Wednesday was just a mess. J has not been feeling well for a while now. Nothing specific, just feeling blah. Looking back, I feel bad because I assumed that he was pulling a fast one to get out of cleaning while I am unable. But then I noticed that he was short of breath when coming up the stairs from doing laundry. This is my Marine husband--the one who used to run 5 miles twice a day for fun! Yes, he has allowed himself to get out of shape, but really? Up one flight of stairs? This is when I kick into Respiratory Therapist Mode. I listen to his lungs, thinking maybe the years he spent as a smoker have finally caught up with him, even though he quit some time ago....No wheezes, though that is the most action my top-of-the-line stethoscope has seen in months. So if it isn't his lungs, it has to be cardiac, and then I get really worried. He calls to make an appointment, and tells the receptionist he wants to be seen right away, but they are booked, so she is going to have to call back. Instead a nurse calls us back and talks to me, as J is asleep, taking one of the naps he can't seem to function without these days. I tell her what I am worried about, and she agrees with me on the course of action, and sends him for labs yesterday morning, first thing, then schedules an appointment for yesterday afternoon. I wasn't going to go with him for either, but instead gave him a pep talk about being sure to tell the doctor everything he is feeling instead of assuming the symptoms are all unrelated. At this point, I don't care what she orders as a result, as we have good insurance. Very good. But then, about 3 hours after he has his fasting labs drawn, one of the other doctors in the practice calls to inform us of his lab values and to make sure he is being seen pronto!

Of course by this time there is no question: I am going with him to the doctor. It turns out J is very, very, very diabetic. Normal fasting blood sugar should be 80 to 100, and J's is 368. What's more is he is also hypertensive. So we meet with the doctor, who is one of the third-year residents I work with. I love seeing the residents for uncomplicated stuff--they know me professionally, as we have spent years together in the trenches, working codes together in the middle of the night. They know that I know how to do my job well, and so they listen to me. The one J sees in particular. She does everything for my husband that I would have wanted. We know J can probably fix a great deal of this by losing the weight he has gained, but he is too far gone to wait, and she puts him on meds to control it while he is working on the weight loss. J tells her about the dyspnea on exertion, but when I tell her I noticed it, she gets concerned. She brings a nurse in to do the bedside pulmonary function test, and we all get a laugh when the doctor tells her to be sure to do a good job, as the patient's wife is a "pulmonary guru". J has a hard time doing the test as both the nurse and I bark instructions at him, as he is laughing too much. But it turns out his lungs are perfect, which I already knew. So I mention something about his blood pressure and the doctor raises her eyebrows as she is typing away on her computer. She asks what it was, we tell her, and she tells me to take it again for her, as the nurse has already left the room to print his PFT results. I do, and it is still high, so we add a script for an anti-hypertensive to the list, along with the glucometer, testing supplies, and diabetes medication. She also refers us to a diabetes educator, which I love. I was going to take it upon myself to schedule us a meeting with a dietician, but she says this will be better, serving to educate J about diabetes as well as any diet restrictions. And when I pointed to my burgeoning belly and told her I am a time bomb, she devised a plan to see J weekly to get this under conrol before Zachary makes his entrance into the world. Perfect!

So today, we have to go to the pharmacy and schedule the diabetes education. I need to go to both. As a medical professional, everyone in the family relies on me to keep abreast of all of the medical issues, to make informed decisions. I feel like I have to be there for J.

On a side note, I'm glad I went with J to the appointment. I have been feeling down about the work situation, knowing that I run out of FMLA job protection here in a few weeks,and knowing that my employer can post my job if desired. The doctor and I were talking about some of the newer RT's in the department, and she said that she had written one up who was "bitchy". Later, I guess she was telling some of the other residents about it, and they asked if it was me. Instead of being offended, I laughed. Because, yes, I can be bitchy. Residents may be doctors, but by all rights, they are also students. In order to get my credentials, I studied nothing but lungs and heart for years. So when I am working with them, and I think they are messing up in any way, I speak up. I can become a pitbull in an instant for one of my patients, especially in a critical situation. Well, she confirmed this for me. She said she told them that "Andrea is a good type of bitchy". That I'm funny, and if I am truly "bitching", they need to listen because I know what I'm talking about. I started to have images in my head of spending downtime with the residents, teaching them how I interpret blood gases or explaining the different modes of mechanical vntilation and why method A would be better for a particular patient than method B. And I realized that, in the event I find myself looking for another job at the end of this ordeal, I have a team of professionals from which to draw references. That there is an entire group of people in the hospital who trust me over the others. That I have done what I set out to do: gain professional respect. It's a really great feeling to have at a time when my professional life hangs in the balance.

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.