That earsplitting noise you hear is merely the "everything's okay" alarm

On the one hand, it seems incredible to me that the immediate run up to Charlie's birth went completely unchronicled here.  After all, I was pregnant after infertility, and therefore pretty sure that something was bound to go wrong.  (We can be a little, well, funny like that.)  On the other hand, I thought I knew what it would be.  So although the first hint of blood would have driven me immediately to the hospital with my toothbrush, my laptop, and a reasonable understanding of what might happen next, the stomach ache that Monday didn't seem particularly worrisome.

I did what I should have when the pain got severe; I called my OB's office and asked what I should do.  "Don't eat anything," the nurse suggested helpfully, questionable advice to give a gestational diabetic.  I ignored her, ate three Kavli Thins, and waited for the pain to subside, which it eventually did.

Tuesday the pain returned.  I called and made a date to see a doctor the next day, Wednesday at 3 PM.  When the pain subsided, I decided that unless I started hurting again before my appointment, I'd cancel so we could stick to our plan to leave town for the Thanksgiving holiday.

And I felt just fine, so I cancelled.  Packed the car, drove out of town, and had a baby three days later.

The pain came back Wednesday night, finding me lying on the bathroom floor of a Connecticut Marriott Courtyard, dry heaving and wondering why my shoulder hurt so much.  And again on Friday morning, in the car, driving alone, trying to find my way to Paul's aunt's house where his family waited to give us a baby shower.  Pulling over to lean out of the car to be sick, getting back on the road, fetching up in a parking lot several towns over, eventually calling Paul, crying, to say I couldn't make it alone.

I don't remember a lot about that Friday.  I think I remember laughing in the car with Paul once he'd picked me up — Jesus gay, is this fucked up.  I do remember how kind his cousins were, and the way the physical therapist and the massage therapist took turns rubbing my feet in his aunt's darkened bedroom.  I remember being horribly embarrassed that I'd upset their plans to celebrate.  I remember the pain eventually receding enough for me to eat a piece of dry toast and a scrambled egg, and to open the presents they'd chosen and wrapped. 

Saturday I got dressed, ate a banana, and called my OB.  What I wanted was a prescription for the pain, enough of something to get me home, a five-hour drive away.  What she gave me was the advice I wish I'd been given on the phone five days before: Take your blood pressure.  If it's above 140/90, call me, then go to the nearest emergency room.

Paul drove to the supermarket a short way from our hotel, where I used their blood pressure testing machine, paged my OB, and waited for her to call back.  Crying, I lurched down the health and beauty aisle, opening a bottle of Tums and a package of Zantac, chewing too many of both.  (I'd have chewed a raw nugget of heroin if I'd thought it would soothe the pain, but I do not believe Safeway sells that.  Which is too bad because that week by purest coincidence I happened to have a manufacturer's coupon.)

Though the hospital was a scant mile away, the route was indirect and the store pharmacist's instructions unclear.  Paul was swearing as he drove, certainly as scared as I was.  I don't know how long it took us to get there because I was too busy crying and vomiting down the front of my sweater.  I know how long we waited in triage: Long enough for me to lose my fucking mind, heaving and crying, wailing loudly at the nurse who'd exclaimed, "You're pregnant?!  Why didn't you go straight to L&D?"

Why, indeed.  To L&D I went, clutching my stinking sweater to my face, and stayed for the next five days.  I got off easy; Charlie stayed for forty-two.

Today I am 29 weeks, as far as I was that Monday when my stomach started to hurt.  And so far I am fine.

At my last OB appointment, something wonderful happened.  The doctor, one I hadn't met before, examined me, leaned back on her rolling stool, and said, "I would never have recognized you from your chart."  My blood pressure is fine.  No proteinuria.  No persistent swelling.  No unexplained weight gain.  No pain.  The occasional headaches I get are easily kept at bay with Tylenol.  The occasional bloodwork shows that my liver function is unimpaired, my platelet levels unexceptionable.  Biweekly non-stress tests show that the baby is fine.  So far, I'm not sick.

Of course, that was true last time, too, at 28 weeks, and HELLP and preeclampsia can both set in quite suddenly with no real warning, no matter how carefully a patient is monitored.  I made the mistake of asking my MFM doctor whether we should be encouraged that all signs so far are good — whether that had any predictive value, or whether it simply meant that we were fine for now.  No predictive value, she said, temporarily deflating my enthusiasm.  But I have rallied.  At 29 weeks, "so far, I'm not sick" is better than I've ever been.  We're watching, and I'm waiting, but for now, "better than I've ever been" feels very good indeed.

Posted by Julie at 07:26:31 AM in Jesus gay, I'm pregnant.

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That earsplitting noise you hear is merely the "everything's okay" alarm

On the one hand, it seems incredible to me that the immediate run up to Charlie's birth went completely unchronicled here.  After all, I was pregnant after infertility, and therefore pretty sure that something was bound to go wrong.  (We can be a little, well, funny like that.)  On the other hand, I thought I knew what it would be.  So although the first hint of blood would have driven me immediately to the hospital with my toothbrush, my laptop, and a reasonable understanding of what might happen next, the stomach ache that Monday didn't seem particularly worrisome.

I did what I should have when the pain got severe; I called my OB's office and asked what I should do.  "Don't eat anything," the nurse suggested helpfully, questionable advice to give a gestational diabetic.  I ignored her, ate three Kavli Thins, and waited for the pain to subside, which it eventually did.

Tuesday the pain returned.  I called and made a date to see a doctor the next day, Wednesday at 3 PM.  When the pain subsided, I decided that unless I started hurting again before my appointment, I'd cancel so we could stick to our plan to leave town for the Thanksgiving holiday.

And I felt just fine, so I cancelled.  Packed the car, drove out of town, and had a baby three days later.

The pain came back Wednesday night, finding me lying on the bathroom floor of a Connecticut Marriott Courtyard, dry heaving and wondering why my shoulder hurt so much.  And again on Friday morning, in the car, driving alone, trying to find my way to Paul's aunt's house where his family waited to give us a baby shower.  Pulling over to lean out of the car to be sick, getting back on the road, fetching up in a parking lot several towns over, eventually calling Paul, crying, to say I couldn't make it alone.

I don't remember a lot about that Friday.  I think I remember laughing in the car with Paul once he'd picked me up — Jesus gay, is this fucked up.  I do remember how kind his cousins were, and the way the physical therapist and the massage therapist took turns rubbing my feet in his aunt's darkened bedroom.  I remember being horribly embarrassed that I'd upset their plans to celebrate.  I remember the pain eventually receding enough for me to eat a piece of dry toast and a scrambled egg, and to open the presents they'd chosen and wrapped. 

Saturday I got dressed, ate a banana, and called my OB.  What I wanted was a prescription for the pain, enough of something to get me home, a five-hour drive away.  What she gave me was the advice I wish I'd been given on the phone five days before: Take your blood pressure.  If it's above 140/90, call me, then go to the nearest emergency room.

Paul drove to the supermarket a short way from our hotel, where I used their blood pressure testing machine, paged my OB, and waited for her to call back.  Crying, I lurched down the health and beauty aisle, opening a bottle of Tums and a package of Zantac, chewing too many of both.  (I'd have chewed a raw nugget of heroin if I'd thought it would soothe the pain, but I do not believe Safeway sells that.  Which is too bad because that week by purest coincidence I happened to have a manufacturer's coupon.)

Though the hospital was a scant mile away, the route was indirect and the store pharmacist's instructions unclear.  Paul was swearing as he drove, certainly as scared as I was.  I don't know how long it took us to get there because I was too busy crying and vomiting down the front of my sweater.  I know how long we waited in triage: Long enough for me to lose my fucking mind, heaving and crying, wailing loudly at the nurse who'd exclaimed, "You're pregnant?!  Why didn't you go straight to L&D?"

Why, indeed.  To L&D I went, clutching my stinking sweater to my face, and stayed for the next five days.  I got off easy; Charlie stayed for forty-two.

Today I am 29 weeks, as far as I was that Monday when my stomach started to hurt.  And so far I am fine.

At my last OB appointment, something wonderful happened.  The doctor, one I hadn't met before, examined me, leaned back on her rolling stool, and said, "I would never have recognized you from your chart."  My blood pressure is fine.  No proteinuria.  No persistent swelling.  No unexplained weight gain.  No pain.  The occasional headaches I get are easily kept at bay with Tylenol.  The occasional bloodwork shows that my liver function is unimpaired, my platelet levels unexceptionable.  Biweekly non-stress tests show that the baby is fine.  So far, I'm not sick.

Of course, that was true last time, too, at 28 weeks, and HELLP and preeclampsia can both set in quite suddenly with no real warning, no matter how carefully a patient is monitored.  I made the mistake of asking my MFM doctor whether we should be encouraged that all signs so far are good — whether that had any predictive value, or whether it simply meant that we were fine for now.  No predictive value, she said, temporarily deflating my enthusiasm.  But I have rallied.  At 29 weeks, "so far, I'm not sick" is better than I've ever been.  We're watching, and I'm waiting, but for now, "better than I've ever been" feels very good indeed.