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.

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.

27 wks, 6 days:Can a Girl Just Sleep, Already?

Yesterday, I felt horrible. I had a stressful day worrying about bills, my job, my insurance. I cried a lot and got one of those raging headaches I get after hours of crying. I felt dizzy and nauseous, and after having J check my blood pressure, laid down to rest. I slept off the nausea and dizziness, but then the contractions started.

I put myself on my monitor at about 11 PM. I was feeling crampy on top of it. I wanted to see what I was doing. I know what the process is like, so I should've known better.

I had 14 contraction from 11 PM to 12 AM. The nurse calls and tells me to give myself a bolus and re-monitor for an hour, starting at about 12:30 to allow the bolus to work. I do, and monitor from 12:30 to 1:30. This time I had 10 contractions. Better, but not good enough. Another bolus, wait 15 minutes and re-monitor from 12:45 AM to 1:45 AM. 7 contractions. Another bolus, then re-monitor from 2 AM to 3 AM. Wait for the nurse to call, which happens at about 3:20. 4 contractions. I am finally allowed to sleep.

Of course by this point, J has been awake a long time, since he had clinicals yesterday and had to leave earlier in the morning than usual. He and are both exhausted. I cannot sleep from the contractions and the monitoring, along with the jitteriness that goes along with 3 brethine boluses. I am laying on the sofa, and he is in the recliner. And he keeps snoring so loudly. This gets to me more than anything.

I know this pregnancy hasn't been easy on anyone in the family. Of course it hasn't. But I feel that for someone who shared an equal part in the creation of this baby, he has had to make minimal sacrifices. He's only missed 2 days of school, while I had to drop out completely. I had to surrender my career temporarily, which meant the world to me. I am the one who has to endure the pain. I worry about the bills and other financial aspects. Other than driving me to appointments and to and from the hospital, when needed, his life has remained largely intact. The fact that he could not just suck it up and be there for me was too much to handle, and I went off on him. It may have been unfair--he did get substantially less sleep than me yesterday--but now I am awake, contracting again, and he is snoring away the bad night we had last night. I can only wish for sleep. Then he is going to wake up and study all weekend for exams, while I just watch. This makes me jealous, as I want more than anything to go back to my life.

25 wks, 1 day, still: A New One at the Call Center?

Ha! Hahaha!

I have to run at least one strip on my home monitor once a day, no matter how I am feeling. By now, I am sure they know when I am having a good day, because my strip is usually transmitted in the evening. More like an afterthought to a good day. As in "Oh, I haven't contracted like crazy today and they are probably wondering where I am...."

Tonight was one of those nights. J and I worked together in the kitchen to cook some penne, then the three of us stuffed our faces to the point that I felt like I had no room to breathe between Zachary's delicious little squirms and kicks, and my full-to-bursting stomach. Then I strapped myself to the monitor as I lay on the sofa, waiting anxiously for the long beeeeeeeep that tells me the hour is up. So I could move, and find a better position for breathing. (Note to self: stop eating so much when it makes you feel so miserable!)

So J transmits the recording for me while I get comfy, and the nurse from the call center telephones to let me know she has reviewed the strip. She seems alarmed that I had 2 moderate contractions. That's all. 2. I giggle at this and explain that 2 in an hour is wonderful for me, and serves as further proof that it has indeed been a good day. And I joke that as long as they aren't more numerous and coming every 2 to 3 minutes, we are good. I don't think she knows how to take me. She keeps asking if I feel okay, and seems puzzled when I tell her I feel great. I decide that she must be new. Or she hasn't seen one of my strips or heard of me before.

J and I get a good laugh out of this. We probably shouldn't. It really isn't funny. But we have to find some humor in it. In the crazy rollercoaster ride. If not, we will go insane.

24 wks, 3 days: Terror and Good Coworkers

Sunday morning, I was trying to sleep the day away in preparation for a night shift that night. I had to run a one-hour strip on my monitor like I do everyday, so I plugged myself in and let it do the work while I dozed. I remember it beeping, and in a sleepy haze, handing it to J to transmit the recording to the company. A few minutes later, J is waking me up, thrusting a phone at my face. It's the home health nurse, and she wants to know my pulse. So I wake up and count it for her. But then I can't go back to sleep. So I get up. Errrrr, I tried to get up.

What happened next was so quick it was a blur. I remember my toes getting caught on a rug beside the bed. I know I sailed through the air, landing flat on my belly, my head just inches from the closed bedroom door. J and E both barge in, wondering what the awful sound was, only to find me there, still on the floor. It wasn't a big deal at that instant. Pregnancy makes the most graceful of us become foddering and clumsy. When I was pregnant with E, my favorite pasttime was falling down stairs. We've since joked about it because it happened so often that I would automatically shout out "I'm okay!" from my landing at the bottom, to keep J from panicking. This hasn't happened during this pregnancy. Or at least it hadn't.

J was frantic. He rushed to get E dressed, and was running around the house like a mad man, explaining to E that Mommy would have to go to the hospital. I kept telling him I didn't, that I was fine. I just felt like I was being punched in the stomach, but it wasn't the excruciating pain that marks a placental abruption, which is what one would worry about in a time like that. (In truth, I don't know what it feels like to be punched in the stomach, but I imagine it to feel like I did!) I called my doctor more to appease J than I did out of concern.

The doctor calmly asked my blood type, and told me to go to the hospital, where they would be expecting me. He explained that they would do some blood work and just check things out. So we went.

They drew labs, something called a KB Test. I had no idea what this was, but I was okay and the baby seemed to be okay. As a matter of fact, I giggled at the sounds of him swimming around in there. He was happy as a lark. They said the test would take about 2 hours to come back. Okay. Whatever. But of course, this is me we are talking about. I should wear one of those "Hello, my name is..." stickers afixed to my chest, but instead of A, for the time being, it should instead say "Obstetrical Anomaly". Of course I was contracting and of course the nurse had to report it to my doctor. And thus my relationship with magnesium sulfate (for this pregnancy, anyway) started this past weekend. The poor nurse didn't even have to tell me what she was going to do. She came back from speaking with the doc, and just frowned. I knew what that meant. "He ordered mag.", I said. She just nodded.

If you have never been on mag sulfate, it is hard to describe. The minute the stuff starts hitting you, you feel like you have an intense sunburn, with heat trapped beneath your skin, unable to escape. Some people get weak. Some people vomit. I don't do either of those, but just feel miserable, generally. And hot. Very, very hot. But I've been down this road before. I know it is the big dog for preterm labor. I was on and off of it for a month with E. It is, by all rights, familiar territory for me. I consent to it, but tell them I want to able to eat. I am starving, after all. They let J come back to see me, and I give him a Mickey D's order, and send him running for it.

That is when it happened. Right then, when my husband was in some silly drive-thru getting me a stupid cheeseburger. Every nurse on staff in L &D (or so it seemed, as there were 5 of them) was suddenly at my bedside, clutching at my wrist to check my pulse, feeling on my belly to find Zachary. His heart rate had decelerrated to a point where they could not distinguish between his slowed heartrate and my quickend one from the brethine pump. But my time in my profession, where I have been called on to resuscitate newborns has taught me enough. I knew a decel like that meant fetal distress. I was hysterical. J was getting a damned cheeseburger for me. And they were muttering sentences about "delivery". And me? I wasn't rational at that point. I got on the phone, in the midst of that flurry of activity, and called my department at the hospital to let them know I would not be there. I'm glad I did.

I don't know how long it took, but before I knew it, as I was sitting there with the nurses thinking Zachary was seriously in jeopardy, 3 calm and smiling faces popped up from behind the curtain. My coworkers. To check on me. The one I had spoken with on the phone had heard my tone of voice and had called in the troops to come and make sure I was okay. God bless those girls. They calmed me down and reassured me until J was there again.

Zachary was okay. Whatever had caused the decel went away and his heart rate picked back up. I was admitted on my mag sulfate drip. But for the first time in all of this, I really truly had to think that my baby was at risk. For a few minutes, I had to think that this was not just me being me, contracting like I do. This has been going on for over 5 weeks now, but I took for granted that I would deliver a healthy baby in the end, like happened with E. This experience showed me that nothing is a given.

24 wks, 1 day/ 2 days: Unrelenting

So on this day, I go back to work, and am assigned an ICU at the hospital. This has to be the favorite part of my job, as I get to really use my brain, to an extent. And this is the first time since all of these complications have started that I have had such an assignment. But an ICU assignment can either be easy or hard, and there is no way to tell from one day to the next which it is going to be. This one started easy. It didn't finish that way. I started with 3 ventilator patients and ended my shift with 9. The night was full of patient transports and receiving full arrests from other facilities and other areas of the hospital. I really gave the brethine pump a run for it's money. By about 4 AM, my belly felt so tight I could barely stand it. I couldn't feel any distinct contractions, just tightness and pain. So one of OB RN friends runs into me in the hall, and tells me how crappy I look. Somehow, I ended up on a monitor just to see, and was contracting every 3 minutes. Gah!

The contractions weren't the biggest issue though. My phone started ringing off the hook. This patient had blood coming out of his endotracheal tube. Another patient needed to go for a stat head CT. And they were relying on me. I could have put my foot down and called one of my coworkers to do it, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. After all, my problems are not their problems. I am so tired of feeling like a nuisance, like a non-contributory party. And no one has said anything to me to make me feel this way. I do on my own. I am so used to being independent that have a hard time asking for help that is not offered. Yeah, I talk a good game. I know that the baby comes first and all, but I cannot just suck it up when push comes to shove. In the end, it made for a very exhausting night at work, both physically and emotionally.

The night did have a slight silver lining, however, when I returned home contracting every 3 minutes. Through the home monitor and the brethine pump, and several phone calls between myself and a home health nurse, I was able to get everything stopped without having to go back to the hospital. She would have me run a strip, then call and have me give myself a bolus, then repeat. We did this until the contractions were completely stopped! Sweet!

21 wks, 3 days: Labor and Delivery is a Cruel Place

21 weeks, 3 days pregnant. The contractions start at 5 AM. I don't wake J. I take my brethine. I wait a couple of hours and take more, even though I probably shouldn't. I am supposed to go back to work today. Please, God, make them stop!

After 3 hours, I call the doctor. Take a hot bath, he recommends. I do. The water turns cold, and I shiver as I empty the tub and let it fill again with hot water. It turns cold again, and I empty it to fill it again. No more hot water. I wait for the water heater to do its job, and fill it yet again. Please, just stop. The contractions don't, but now I am having palpitations from all of the brethine. They do go from every five minutes to every seven minutes, to every ten minutes. I dry off and curl up in a warm bed, and sleep.

I wake up. It is 11 AM. I am still having contractions. Every seven minutes again. More brethine, and now my heartrate is in the 130's. I call the doctor's office, just to hear them tell me what I already know: go to labor and delivery. I do.

No they don't hurt. They don't physically hurt. The contractions are uncomfortable, andI know they are there. But my heart hurts. I was foolishly holding onto the idea that this time would be different, that the episode at 20 weeks would be the last. The doctor comes in, and we devise a plan. Meds. More brethine, this time intramuscular injections. An ultrasound to check baby. A cervical length. What's that? I didn't have that with E. Must be new. Turns out they jam this rod that looks like a torture device into places you don't want anything jammed when you are contracting. But the cervix looks good.

I get 3 doses of brethine before all is said and done. The doctor is threatening to send me to Good Sam, the OB mecca I stayed in for a month when pregnant with E. Not that place. I don't want to go. J calls my boss while I cry. And listen to the sounds of an OB unit of a hospital, which is where the title of this post comes into play.

I listen. I listen to the woman in the bed next to me as she is sent to her room to deliver her healthy full-term baby. I watch smiling loved ones as they stroll down the hall, clutching pink and baby blue teddy bears, holding aloft the "It's a BOY!" or "It's A GIRL!" balloons. I am wheeled to a hallway where I am to wait for my ultrasound, wearing a thin, flimsy hospital gown. Pregnant women come and go for outpatient stress tests and ultrasounds. They glow as they stroke their bellies. And me? I'm just tying to hold on. And I sit in my gown, in a wheelchair. Contractions five minutes apart. A woman in the room across the hall asks if I am okay. No, I tell her. I work here. This is my place of business, and I am only 21 weeks. I am heartbroken,embarrassed, ashamed. She puts me in a bed, puts me on a monitor and alarm paralyzes her face as she sees the waves of contractions on the monitor. She calls my nurse, who brings more brethine.

Somewhere in all of this, the contractions stop. I ask about work, and my doctor asks me if I'm crazy. I feel weak and can barely hold the pen as I sign the discharge papers. We leave, and by now J has picked up E from school. E is upset with me because there is a book fair at school. He wants to go, but there is no way to explain why mommy can't. He doesn't understand, and I don't want to force the issue for fear of raising resentment toward the new brother who has already rocked his little world. I have failed him, too.

20 wks: What You Aren't Supposed to Say

The contractions started while I was at work. I felt them. I knew they were there,but I didn't want to be a burden to coworkers. I remember feeling fear. Fear for my unborn baby. Fear that this, combined with my history with E's pregnancy, would end my ability to work. Which spawned fear for the financial well-being of my little family. Fear.

But we, as pregnant women, are not supposed to think of anything but the baby. After coworkers convinced me to go to L&D to get checked, all I could think is "this is it: there goes my life right before my eyes". All of the overtime worked to keep on top of bills. All of the hours of study-time logged to get me closer to my goal. My job. My house. My car. My ability to provide for E. All of it. Whoosh! There it goes.

They stopped the contractions and I was able to go home after a few hours. Home to bedrest until I could see my OB in the office. But something happened to me that night. I left the hospital feeling less adequate and faulty. What was wrong with me? I was supposed to be the selfless mother, concerned only with her baby. Who thinks of work, school, or others at a time like that? The answer is ME. I do.

Because what they DON'T tell you while you are laying there, strapped to monitors that are recording your body's dysfunction is that you are only human. And that while I have an obligation to be selfless for this baby that still needs to grow, I also have obligations to others in my life. E is young, and he needs me. J needs me. My coworkers rely on me to be there when scheduled. And my family relies on me to work to provide, to get my education to provide more in the future.

But I'm not supposed to say that. There is no "self" and there is noone else when you are pregnant. The world is supposed to stop. For the baby.