60 days after I checked in, Lexie was born.
Look how far we've come.
Showing posts with label hospital bedrest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hospital bedrest. Show all posts
Monday, November 16, 2009
Hospitalization: One Year Later
On this day last year I went into the hospital with preterm labor. I spent a terrifying Thanksgiving in the hospital, and a less-terrifying (but fairly depressing) Christmas there as time went on.
60 days after I checked in, Lexie was born.
Look how far we've come.
60 days after I checked in, Lexie was born.
Look how far we've come.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
This Time Last Year...
This time last year, I was into my second trimester and thinking maybe pregnancy wasn't so bad. I'd spent a weekend at Cape May with some college friends and had had a great time. My biweekly OB appointments were going well -- no signs of the preterm labor to come. Our 20-week scan had showed that we were having a girl, and that all was normal. I was having a busy time at work, but it was set to calm down in a couple of weeks. I enjoyed singing really loudly in my car during my commute and I imagined my little girl was enjoying the tunes.
Two weeks later, I was headed to the hospital with contractions and a short cervix, wide-eyed and terrified, where I would stay until January. I spent Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's Day in the hospital. I didn't leave my hospital room for weeks at a time, and left my bed only to use the bathroom. It was a dark, scary time, and normally I don't like to think about it.
But the time of year is making it impossible to push out of my mind.
Two weeks later, I was headed to the hospital with contractions and a short cervix, wide-eyed and terrified, where I would stay until January. I spent Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's Day in the hospital. I didn't leave my hospital room for weeks at a time, and left my bed only to use the bathroom. It was a dark, scary time, and normally I don't like to think about it.
But the time of year is making it impossible to push out of my mind.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
36 Weeks
Today Lexie reached the equivalent of 36 weeks gestation. This had been the goal when I checked into the hospital in November -- getting the pregnancy to 36 weeks. Obviously we didn't quite make it.
Last week Lexie was moved to yet another "step down" room for babies who just need to learn to eat and grow. It happens to be on the 6th floor (the regular NICU is on the 2nd floor). And it happens to be within spitting distance of the hospital room I lived in for so many weeks. Every day I see my old door at the end of the hallway. It's always closed. Inevitably, I've been thinking a lot about an alternate universe in which I am still behind that door. In that alternate universe, today I walked out the door on my own and headed home to wait out the rest of my pregnancy, instead of being quickly wheeled out, terrified, heading to the labor and delivery floor many weeks too early.
But things continue to improve in real life. Yesterday Lexie's feeding tube was removed. That's not entirely accurate -- it would be more accurate to say that Lexie pulled out her feeding tube again. And her doctor decided not to replace it as long as Lexie continues to eat enough on her own. So far, so good. She looks like a regular little baby now without the tube taped to her little face.
In other real-life news, we just received our copy of Lexie's birth certificate as well as her Social Security card. She's not even supposed to be born yet, and already she's just a number in the eyes of the government. Welcome to the world, kiddo. We're so glad you're here.
Last week Lexie was moved to yet another "step down" room for babies who just need to learn to eat and grow. It happens to be on the 6th floor (the regular NICU is on the 2nd floor). And it happens to be within spitting distance of the hospital room I lived in for so many weeks. Every day I see my old door at the end of the hallway. It's always closed. Inevitably, I've been thinking a lot about an alternate universe in which I am still behind that door. In that alternate universe, today I walked out the door on my own and headed home to wait out the rest of my pregnancy, instead of being quickly wheeled out, terrified, heading to the labor and delivery floor many weeks too early.
But things continue to improve in real life. Yesterday Lexie's feeding tube was removed. That's not entirely accurate -- it would be more accurate to say that Lexie pulled out her feeding tube again. And her doctor decided not to replace it as long as Lexie continues to eat enough on her own. So far, so good. She looks like a regular little baby now without the tube taped to her little face.
In other real-life news, we just received our copy of Lexie's birth certificate as well as her Social Security card. She's not even supposed to be born yet, and already she's just a number in the eyes of the government. Welcome to the world, kiddo. We're so glad you're here.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Nine Weeks in Exile
Now that I'm out of the hospital, the time I spent there seems like a vague bubble interrupting my life. In a normal life, a lot happens in nine weeks. Think about what can happen through nine weeks at work. Projects start and end. People start new jobs and begin to become one of the gang. Workplace dramas arise and subside.
Over nine weeks, Fall turns to Winter.
Relationships can begin and end.
Fortunes can be made and lost.
And in nine weeks, a tiny baby can be saved.
Over nine weeks, Fall turns to Winter.
Relationships can begin and end.
Fortunes can be made and lost.
And in nine weeks, a tiny baby can be saved.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Antisocial Hour
On Thursday, I made use of my 2 hours per week of wheelchair privileges to get rolled down to the weekly social hour/class for the women in my unit. I was excited to leave my room, and looked forward to meeting some women who could directly relate to the hospital bedrest experience.
So I roll in to the lounge, and see about 12 other women already sitting there in silence. I smile and pop out with a general, "Hi!"
No response. Very little eye contact. I try again.
"How's everybody doing?"
Crickets. I feel like a washed-up comic at a shabby Catskills resort. ("Is this thing on?")
I look around and decide, against my better judgment, to try one more time to get people talking. "So how long has everybody been here?"
This question produced a seriously uncomfortable silence. There seemed to be some very negative energy coming from the opposite side of the lounge -- from one woman in particular. I think she was poisoning the whole room's atmosphere. So I directly addressed one woman sitting next to me. "How about you?" She actually answered, and was fairly nice about it. It seemed like many of the women just weren't talking because nobody else was talking. I turned to the woman on the other side of me and asked the same question. She also answered. She'd been here 9 weeks and was going for another 9 with twins. Someone who'd already been here longer -- and would be here longer -- than me!
I was probably hyped up due to the excitement of leaving my room, so I tried the general discussion one more time. "Anybody been here longer than 9 weeks?"
No answer. I wouldn't be surprised if there were four or so women who had been here longer but refused to answer.
Finally daunted, I chatted quietly with my neighbors. (Meanwhile, NOBODY else talked among themselves.) Eventually, the class (on C-sections) ensued. Good information, but no socialization. I could have watched a video alone and gotten the same info. At the end of the class, a basket of giant brownies was passed around. I was one of only two women who weren't allowed to have one (brownies are incompatible with gestational diabetes). That sucked. I have to say, I wasn't sad to roll back to my room.
I'll try again next time. Maybe if I get there earlier and greet each person as they roll in... or maybe I should just go for the stony silence like the rest of them.
Eh, screw 'em. I'm going to talk anyway. Eventually someone will crack.
So I roll in to the lounge, and see about 12 other women already sitting there in silence. I smile and pop out with a general, "Hi!"
No response. Very little eye contact. I try again.
"How's everybody doing?"
Crickets. I feel like a washed-up comic at a shabby Catskills resort. ("Is this thing on?")
I look around and decide, against my better judgment, to try one more time to get people talking. "So how long has everybody been here?"
This question produced a seriously uncomfortable silence. There seemed to be some very negative energy coming from the opposite side of the lounge -- from one woman in particular. I think she was poisoning the whole room's atmosphere. So I directly addressed one woman sitting next to me. "How about you?" She actually answered, and was fairly nice about it. It seemed like many of the women just weren't talking because nobody else was talking. I turned to the woman on the other side of me and asked the same question. She also answered. She'd been here 9 weeks and was going for another 9 with twins. Someone who'd already been here longer -- and would be here longer -- than me!
I was probably hyped up due to the excitement of leaving my room, so I tried the general discussion one more time. "Anybody been here longer than 9 weeks?"
No answer. I wouldn't be surprised if there were four or so women who had been here longer but refused to answer.
Finally daunted, I chatted quietly with my neighbors. (Meanwhile, NOBODY else talked among themselves.) Eventually, the class (on C-sections) ensued. Good information, but no socialization. I could have watched a video alone and gotten the same info. At the end of the class, a basket of giant brownies was passed around. I was one of only two women who weren't allowed to have one (brownies are incompatible with gestational diabetes). That sucked. I have to say, I wasn't sad to roll back to my room.
I'll try again next time. Maybe if I get there earlier and greet each person as they roll in... or maybe I should just go for the stony silence like the rest of them.
Eh, screw 'em. I'm going to talk anyway. Eventually someone will crack.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
It's All Relative
One of the nurses recently told me that the unit sometimes has prisoners as patients. The prisoners get a private room and are handcuffed to the bed. They each have their own personal guard rotation; the guard sits in the recliner next to the bed and usually monopolizes the TV. Fascinating. I'd made comparisons between the hospital food and prison food, so I asked the nurse: "What do the prisoners think of the food here?"
"They think it's fantastic," she said.
So it's possible I may have been exaggerating the food's awfulness. It's not good, but most of the time it is edible. Occasionally it is tasty (maybe one meal every two weeks). Still, when it's time to eat most of the entrees I often end up talking to myself, trying to psych myself up for the task.
I sometimes feel that we've had really bad luck, especially compared to all the women who sail through their normal pregnancies and end up with a healthy baby every time. My first two pregnancies seemed like worst-case scenarios, ending in the first trimester. But now I understand that some things are much worse than that.
In the past few months, two friends of mine have lost their babies in the second trimester, delivering them too early for the babies to survive more than a couple of hours. I can't imagine how devastating that must be.
I've complained about the food here, and I've complained in general about my "confinement," but we now have a good chance of having a healthy baby.
In that respect, we are very lucky.
"They think it's fantastic," she said.
So it's possible I may have been exaggerating the food's awfulness. It's not good, but most of the time it is edible. Occasionally it is tasty (maybe one meal every two weeks). Still, when it's time to eat most of the entrees I often end up talking to myself, trying to psych myself up for the task.
Just eat it. It's not going to kill you.The good news is I've managed to get my weight back up and have gained about 4 pounds overall since I checked in more than 7 weeks ago. The contractions have kind of calmed down for the most part, although they still rear their head from time to time. Friday we will be at 30 weeks gestation. If we can get to 34, Baby Girl and I should be golden.
How bad can it be? Take one bite.
You're 34 years old. You aren't a picky kid anymore. You can eat this. Be a grown up.
It could be much worse. What if you were in a Mexican prison? That would have to be worse.
You're lucky that you even have food in the first place.
The sooner you start to eat it, the sooner you'll be finished and won't have to deal with the food for a few hours.
Just hurry up and swallow it and wash it down with some milk...
I sometimes feel that we've had really bad luck, especially compared to all the women who sail through their normal pregnancies and end up with a healthy baby every time. My first two pregnancies seemed like worst-case scenarios, ending in the first trimester. But now I understand that some things are much worse than that.
In the past few months, two friends of mine have lost their babies in the second trimester, delivering them too early for the babies to survive more than a couple of hours. I can't imagine how devastating that must be.
I've complained about the food here, and I've complained in general about my "confinement," but we now have a good chance of having a healthy baby.
In that respect, we are very lucky.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Happy New Year!
Unless something crazy happens today, Baby Girl will be born in 2009 after all. Definitely something to be thankful for. I am also thankful that my diabetes finger sticks are down to 2x daily instead of 4x, and that I will be getting wheelchair privileges for two hours a week (just around the unit, though, for now). And most importantly, I'm thankful for Steve and the rest of my family and friends who have all been so supportive.
Happy new year to all.
Happy new year to all.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
28 Weeks (and 2 Days)
Just wanted to post a quick update. Baby Girl is now past the critical 28-week mark, and on Wednesday weighed a solid 2 pounds, 7 ounces.
I also heard a rumor that some women in my unit get wheelchair privileges once a week and can go OUTSIDE. I need to investigate this. I have not been outside in a full 6 weeks and it freaks me out.
I also heard a rumor that some women in my unit get wheelchair privileges once a week and can go OUTSIDE. I need to investigate this. I have not been outside in a full 6 weeks and it freaks me out.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Institutionalized
These walls are kind of funny. First you hate 'em, then you get used to 'em. Enough time passes, gets so you depend on them. That's institutionalized.-- Shawshank Redemption
I wonder if this is happening to me. I haven't been allowed to leave my room in more than three weeks -- not even for an ultrasound -- and I'm starting to worry about how I'll deal with being out in the world again someday.
It's kind of disturbing.
It's kind of disturbing.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Good News and Bad News
The good news is we've reached 27 weeks. The bad news (for me) is that I do have gestational diabetes. It may not sound like a huge deal, but I was having enough trouble eating the hospital food, and now my options are limited that much more. Plus it won't be as easy for Steve to bring me dinner. I currently have a finger-prick blood sugar test four times a day. If my sugars stay fairly stable they'll switch to testing only a couple of times a week, which would be nice. But I've been having one test or so per day that is slightly over the official limit (even while following the diet religiously), so that makes me worried I'll have to take meds to control it or will be doing four blood tests a day indefinitely.
The diagnosis was a pretty big blow at first. Now I'm trying to get over it and just eat what they give me.
But I'm eating what I want on Christmas. Sugars be damned.
So now I have gestational diabetes, like my former roommate did. As long as I don't end up with preeclampsia or "the herpee" ...
The diagnosis was a pretty big blow at first. Now I'm trying to get over it and just eat what they give me.
But I'm eating what I want on Christmas. Sugars be damned.
So now I have gestational diabetes, like my former roommate did. As long as I don't end up with preeclampsia or "the herpee" ...
Sunday, December 14, 2008
26 Weeks and Counting
Still in the hospital after four weeks, and still pregnant. Also still not gaining weight, but I'm not eating the Magic Cup anymore. It's too depressing. The doctors are more encouraging these days about a positive outcome. The first couple of weeks they were very grave.
My dad said he and my mom were "canceling Christmas" this year. I think that's a bit excessive. I'm not a POW, nor is baby girl.
Today, Steve and I decorated a tiny fake tree our nice neighbor Judy gave him. It's on the windowsill now. I do think I'll skip the "High Risk Perinatal Unit Holiday Celebration" on Friday. I'm not allowed out of my room anyway. The nurses were all about having "Santa" come to me, but, um, no thanks. (I mean, really.)
I have my glucose tolerance test (this is a standard test for pregnant women) tomorrow to see if I have gestational diabetes (GD). I really feel like I have enough going on already and I seriously don't know if I could take it if I ended up with GD. I might have to freak out.
When I first checked in here, I had to share a "semi-private" room with another woman for 9 days. She was admitted for preeclampsia, but also had GD, a terrible cold, and (get this) herpes. She was Thai, and had a pretty thick accent, but Steve and I definitely heard her when the doctor said "Any STDs?" and she quietly replied "the herpee." (For a couple of weeks after that, Steve would periodically go totally serious and say: "the herpee." But I had to make him stop because laughing too hard can kick off contractions.)
My roommate was at 31 weeks, and as I listened to her hack up a lung for those nine days, I pondered whether I'd trade conditions with her if I could have a 31-week gestation baby, vs. the 22-weeker I checked in with. Tough choice. Luckily I won't ever have to make that decision.
If I do manage to keep this going to 36 weeks, I'll be in the hospital 14 weeks. Kind of like a semester. Maybe like a semester abroad.
Or a semester abed.
***
My dad said he and my mom were "canceling Christmas" this year. I think that's a bit excessive. I'm not a POW, nor is baby girl.
Today, Steve and I decorated a tiny fake tree our nice neighbor Judy gave him. It's on the windowsill now. I do think I'll skip the "High Risk Perinatal Unit Holiday Celebration" on Friday. I'm not allowed out of my room anyway. The nurses were all about having "Santa" come to me, but, um, no thanks. (I mean, really.)
***
I have my glucose tolerance test (this is a standard test for pregnant women) tomorrow to see if I have gestational diabetes (GD). I really feel like I have enough going on already and I seriously don't know if I could take it if I ended up with GD. I might have to freak out.
When I first checked in here, I had to share a "semi-private" room with another woman for 9 days. She was admitted for preeclampsia, but also had GD, a terrible cold, and (get this) herpes. She was Thai, and had a pretty thick accent, but Steve and I definitely heard her when the doctor said "Any STDs?" and she quietly replied "the herpee." (For a couple of weeks after that, Steve would periodically go totally serious and say: "the herpee." But I had to make him stop because laughing too hard can kick off contractions.)
My roommate was at 31 weeks, and as I listened to her hack up a lung for those nine days, I pondered whether I'd trade conditions with her if I could have a 31-week gestation baby, vs. the 22-weeker I checked in with. Tough choice. Luckily I won't ever have to make that decision.
If I do manage to keep this going to 36 weeks, I'll be in the hospital 14 weeks. Kind of like a semester. Maybe like a semester abroad.
Or a semester abed.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Still Plugging Along
I'm still here in the hospital, and I got a visit from the nutritionist yesterday to admonish me for not gaining any weight. Um, maybe if the food wasn't GROSS I would eat more of it. But today I made a concerted effort to eat more, to the extent that I felt kind of sick after lunch. A new addition to lunch and dinner: "Magic Cup," a weight gain ice cream made by Hormel. Its consistency is akin to a cross between pudding and animal fat. I think I have a weigh-in tomorrow, and I'm hoping I showed a gain from last week so I can skip the Magic.
Thanks to everyone for all the support -- it definitely helps keep my morale up.
Thanks to everyone for all the support -- it definitely helps keep my morale up.
Friday, December 5, 2008
25 Weeks Today
Today baby girl reached 25 weeks gestation, and with that her long-term odds start to improve dramatically. I'm starting to get a bit less terrified, but I'm still pretty anxious. Yesterday, I had a consult with a NICU doctor. He told me what to expect if I deliver soon. It's scary stuff, but every day makes a difference.
I'm happily IV-free today, but my hand feels like it was clocked with a hammer where one of the the last IV ports was placed, so it's still pretty tough to type. (The needle had apparently slipped out/through the vein and the day nurse didn't realize it.) For today, I'm off the IV meds. It's nice to be able to wash both of my hands fully when I go to the bathroom.
It's the little things.
It's actually been 9 days since I left my hospital room. On a normal day in a normal life, you have thousands of choices to make as you go about your business, and thousands of variables float in and out. But here, I probably have less than 50 choices to make throughout my day, and about 25 of them are "should I go to the bathroom now?" And the number of variables is very small, limited mainly to the level of competence of the nurse who shows up for the next shift and whether the kitchen forgets my dinner roll/tea/dessert/etc.
The other day I was staring out the window and saw a little red byplane happily looping around in the distance. I'm pretty sure it was a model, although it was impossible to tell the scale for sure. But it was a nice little reminder that surprising things can still happen to me while I'm in this room.
Steve brought me a book, The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, and he brought my iPod and speakers, so my long afternoons are going a little faster these days. My mom is sending that Twilight book some of you have recommended, so that is next on my list. My voice seems to be starting to come back (I have been hoarse for a few days) but talking on the phone is still hard. Things are still a bit too scary for me to have visitors other than my family, but I'm hoping to be here a while longer, and I figure if I make it to 28 weeks I might be ready to see more people. Maybe.
For now I just want to lie here quietly and gestate.
I'm happily IV-free today, but my hand feels like it was clocked with a hammer where one of the the last IV ports was placed, so it's still pretty tough to type. (The needle had apparently slipped out/through the vein and the day nurse didn't realize it.) For today, I'm off the IV meds. It's nice to be able to wash both of my hands fully when I go to the bathroom.
It's the little things.
It's actually been 9 days since I left my hospital room. On a normal day in a normal life, you have thousands of choices to make as you go about your business, and thousands of variables float in and out. But here, I probably have less than 50 choices to make throughout my day, and about 25 of them are "should I go to the bathroom now?" And the number of variables is very small, limited mainly to the level of competence of the nurse who shows up for the next shift and whether the kitchen forgets my dinner roll/tea/dessert/etc.
The other day I was staring out the window and saw a little red byplane happily looping around in the distance. I'm pretty sure it was a model, although it was impossible to tell the scale for sure. But it was a nice little reminder that surprising things can still happen to me while I'm in this room.
Steve brought me a book, The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, and he brought my iPod and speakers, so my long afternoons are going a little faster these days. My mom is sending that Twilight book some of you have recommended, so that is next on my list. My voice seems to be starting to come back (I have been hoarse for a few days) but talking on the phone is still hard. Things are still a bit too scary for me to have visitors other than my family, but I'm hoping to be here a while longer, and I figure if I make it to 28 weeks I might be ready to see more people. Maybe.
For now I just want to lie here quietly and gestate.
Monday, December 1, 2008
24+ Weeks
Baby Girl is 24 weeks, 3 days, today. Each day adds 3-4% to her likelihood of survival. Got the steroids last week for her lung development. If we can make it to 28 weeks, she'll have a really great chance, so I'm just lying here on my side gestating, getting shot up with drugs, eating bad hospital food, and watching lots of syndicated TV.
I can't believe I've been in the hospital for over two weeks now. There's definitely a rhythm to the days here, and it does get easier knowing how each day is going to go.
6 a.m.: Wake up for terbutaline, request water refill
7:30 a.m.: Wake up for good, lie in bed looking out window, wishing breakfast would come. Consider watching Today Show
8 - 9 a.m.: Parade of medical residents asking the same question ("Any bleeding, discharge or sudden gush of fluid?"); introduction to day nurse
9 a.m.: Breakfast arrives (not too bad -- rubber french toast, biscuit, maybe some fruit, cereal, decaf tea, milk)
10 a.m.-11 a.m.: Vital signs and contraction monitoring, additional meds if contractions are going strong (lately I haven't needed any extra meds in the morning), nursing assistant comes in to change the sheets, housekeeping comes in to clean the bathroom, parents might call on the phone
11 a.m.-12 p.m.: Shower (every other day) or feign sleep to avoid the Catholic chaplain ladies who want to give me Communion every day. I figure once or twice a week is plenty
12 p.m.: Terbutaline, water refill
1 p.m.: Greet lunch with dismay (today was meatloaf marinara, some sides, and a bottle of Ensure), hope I at least got my roll with butter, turn on All My Children
1:30 p.m.: Grudgingly eat some lunch, wishing I could have an Italian sub (not til after pregnancy because of listeria), chips, and a Dr. Pepper (caffeine can bring on contractions -- and I have enough of them on my own)
2 p.m.: Turn on Ellen, read a magazine
3 p.m.: Consider Dr. Phil, nurse arrives for more vital signs, water refill
4 -6 p.m.: Doze, zone out, flip channels, check out Oprah, wait for Steve to arrive
6 p.m.: Terbutaline
6 - 7:30 p.m.: Visit with Steve; if he did not bring some dinner, greet hospital dinner with dismay
8 - 9 p.m.: Introduction to night nurse; vital signs and contraction monitoring. Additional meds if contractions are too frequent. Shakes, dizziness, and increased heart rate then ensue
9 p.m.: Turn out light, watch random TV
10 p.m.: Ambien, water refill, random snack arrives, start trying to sleep
12 a.m.: Terbutaline
I take the terbutaline for five days, and then go on IV toradol for two. That's the cycle I'm on to avoid becoming desensitized to the meds too quickly. (Usually I have an IV port in my hand, which makes it really hard to type, but today I am blissfully free of the port. The IV port [and the dizziness/shaking] have deflated my earlier thoughts of writing short stories or the great American novel if I ended up on bed rest.)
People have asked if I get bored, but it would be hard to get bored here -- when you're in a constant state of low-level anxiety, boredom is a luxury you don't really have. But my brain is working hard to provide random amusements. I'll be staring out the window and a random memory will pop in my head -- sometimes from vacations or long-ago adventures, but sometimes just little snippets of normal life, like one memory that popped up of driving on a country road near my parents' house.
I'm trying my best to stay calm and patient, and hoping to stay pregnant at least a few weeks longer to give baby girl a good shot at being healthy.
I'd still love to hear those happy-ending stories if you've got any more -- it helps me keep a positive attitude.
I can't believe I've been in the hospital for over two weeks now. There's definitely a rhythm to the days here, and it does get easier knowing how each day is going to go.
6 a.m.: Wake up for terbutaline, request water refill
7:30 a.m.: Wake up for good, lie in bed looking out window, wishing breakfast would come. Consider watching Today Show
8 - 9 a.m.: Parade of medical residents asking the same question ("Any bleeding, discharge or sudden gush of fluid?"); introduction to day nurse
9 a.m.: Breakfast arrives (not too bad -- rubber french toast, biscuit, maybe some fruit, cereal, decaf tea, milk)
10 a.m.-11 a.m.: Vital signs and contraction monitoring, additional meds if contractions are going strong (lately I haven't needed any extra meds in the morning), nursing assistant comes in to change the sheets, housekeeping comes in to clean the bathroom, parents might call on the phone
11 a.m.-12 p.m.: Shower (every other day) or feign sleep to avoid the Catholic chaplain ladies who want to give me Communion every day. I figure once or twice a week is plenty
12 p.m.: Terbutaline, water refill
1 p.m.: Greet lunch with dismay (today was meatloaf marinara, some sides, and a bottle of Ensure), hope I at least got my roll with butter, turn on All My Children
1:30 p.m.: Grudgingly eat some lunch, wishing I could have an Italian sub (not til after pregnancy because of listeria), chips, and a Dr. Pepper (caffeine can bring on contractions -- and I have enough of them on my own)
2 p.m.: Turn on Ellen, read a magazine
3 p.m.: Consider Dr. Phil, nurse arrives for more vital signs, water refill
4 -6 p.m.: Doze, zone out, flip channels, check out Oprah, wait for Steve to arrive
6 p.m.: Terbutaline
6 - 7:30 p.m.: Visit with Steve; if he did not bring some dinner, greet hospital dinner with dismay
8 - 9 p.m.: Introduction to night nurse; vital signs and contraction monitoring. Additional meds if contractions are too frequent. Shakes, dizziness, and increased heart rate then ensue
9 p.m.: Turn out light, watch random TV
10 p.m.: Ambien, water refill, random snack arrives, start trying to sleep
12 a.m.: Terbutaline
I take the terbutaline for five days, and then go on IV toradol for two. That's the cycle I'm on to avoid becoming desensitized to the meds too quickly. (Usually I have an IV port in my hand, which makes it really hard to type, but today I am blissfully free of the port. The IV port [and the dizziness/shaking] have deflated my earlier thoughts of writing short stories or the great American novel if I ended up on bed rest.)
People have asked if I get bored, but it would be hard to get bored here -- when you're in a constant state of low-level anxiety, boredom is a luxury you don't really have. But my brain is working hard to provide random amusements. I'll be staring out the window and a random memory will pop in my head -- sometimes from vacations or long-ago adventures, but sometimes just little snippets of normal life, like one memory that popped up of driving on a country road near my parents' house.
I'm trying my best to stay calm and patient, and hoping to stay pregnant at least a few weeks longer to give baby girl a good shot at being healthy.
I'd still love to hear those happy-ending stories if you've got any more -- it helps me keep a positive attitude.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Ready, Set, Triage
It seems I spoke too soon.
On Sunday night, I went to the bathroom and noticed a small amount of unusual fluid on the TP. Placed a call to my OB answering service, and they told me to report to the hospital.
I've been there ever since, and it's going to be a while.
In triage the doctors found that I was having actual contractions (vs. Braxton Hicks) and I was admitted overnight until an appointment Monday morning with the transvaginal ultrasound, aka the hootchiecam. They found that my cervix was 1.6 cm, well below the danger threshold of 2.0 cm. Less than a week earlier my cervix had been holding steady at 3.4 cm.
So here I am. The first few days were really hard. At first I thought I might be able to go home at some point, and I felt devastated with each sign to the contrary. I could not remotely wrap my head around my fate -- I would lie here in my hospital bed thinking, "I cannot believe this is happening." Steve has been really supportive but it took a while for him to realize that I wasn't coming home, and I felt terrible to be leaving him on his own.
I kept trying to look for a silver lining, and I couldn't come up with one.
I'm feeling a little better about the situation now... I know this is the best place for me. This hospital is a great one with lots of experience in high-risk pregnancies and preemies. Whenever the contractions get too hard and fast, I get a shot of terbutaline and that calms them down for a while. The doctors will move up to a new drug regimen as each one stops working -- apparently most people desensitize to the drugs over time.
A lot of my friends have been really great, asking to come visit and bring food (thank god) but I'm not ready to see anyone yet except family. I'm hoping to get a private room in a week or so and that should make things a bit better. I'm still sad sometimes and scared about how this will all turn out. I wish I knew what was going to happen. I also selfishly wonder how long it will be before I get to go outside again.
If you know of stories like mine that turned out to have a happy ending, I'd love to hear about them -- it helps me to hear about the successes.
In the meantime I'll be here in my medical prison, trying not to worry myself sick. The first goal is viability -- that's 24 weeks, officially next Saturday. After that, every day is a victory and increases the chances of us having an ultimately healthy little girl.
Eventually, I did come up with a silver lining, feeble as it is. You know the show "Locked Up Abroad"? It tells the story of people who get arrested in third-world countries for smuggling drugs or money or whatnot. Those people typically end up living in squalor in a Mexican prison for like 4 years.
That would be much worse than this.
On Sunday night, I went to the bathroom and noticed a small amount of unusual fluid on the TP. Placed a call to my OB answering service, and they told me to report to the hospital.
I've been there ever since, and it's going to be a while.
In triage the doctors found that I was having actual contractions (vs. Braxton Hicks) and I was admitted overnight until an appointment Monday morning with the transvaginal ultrasound, aka the hootchiecam. They found that my cervix was 1.6 cm, well below the danger threshold of 2.0 cm. Less than a week earlier my cervix had been holding steady at 3.4 cm.
So here I am. The first few days were really hard. At first I thought I might be able to go home at some point, and I felt devastated with each sign to the contrary. I could not remotely wrap my head around my fate -- I would lie here in my hospital bed thinking, "I cannot believe this is happening." Steve has been really supportive but it took a while for him to realize that I wasn't coming home, and I felt terrible to be leaving him on his own.
I kept trying to look for a silver lining, and I couldn't come up with one.
I'm feeling a little better about the situation now... I know this is the best place for me. This hospital is a great one with lots of experience in high-risk pregnancies and preemies. Whenever the contractions get too hard and fast, I get a shot of terbutaline and that calms them down for a while. The doctors will move up to a new drug regimen as each one stops working -- apparently most people desensitize to the drugs over time.
A lot of my friends have been really great, asking to come visit and bring food (thank god) but I'm not ready to see anyone yet except family. I'm hoping to get a private room in a week or so and that should make things a bit better. I'm still sad sometimes and scared about how this will all turn out. I wish I knew what was going to happen. I also selfishly wonder how long it will be before I get to go outside again.
If you know of stories like mine that turned out to have a happy ending, I'd love to hear about them -- it helps me to hear about the successes.
In the meantime I'll be here in my medical prison, trying not to worry myself sick. The first goal is viability -- that's 24 weeks, officially next Saturday. After that, every day is a victory and increases the chances of us having an ultimately healthy little girl.
Eventually, I did come up with a silver lining, feeble as it is. You know the show "Locked Up Abroad"? It tells the story of people who get arrested in third-world countries for smuggling drugs or money or whatnot. Those people typically end up living in squalor in a Mexican prison for like 4 years.
That would be much worse than this.
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