baby growing diaries #14

Wednesday night, the husband and I had a romantic little night away, courtesy of the OB triage department at our local hospital. 

I had been having contractions everyday for a few hours, but they always tapered off,  Wednesday they started a 2pm and didn’t stop.  They got stronger, longer, and closer together, until they were consistently 3 minutes apart.   I called the hospital and explained my case, I also told her I that I just wanted to be sure this wasn’t just more contractions and she agreed that all the signs pointed to labor.  When she asked me how painful they were, I said, “Well, they hurt a lot.  It’s hard to move or talk and I just have to focus on breathing, but I don’t feel like I’m going to die, should I feel like I’m going to die?”  She actually laughed and said, No, but after how the evening transpired, I believe she is wrong.  I am, in fact, supposed to feel near death, if I am actually having this baby.

Note: before you get confused, yes, this is my second child, but he was born via a scheduled induction, 12 hours of laboring + epidural, and a c-section, this is a whole new game to me.

Anyways… My mom came over to watch H and we headed to the hospital.  However, we didn’t tell anyone at all, just in case, so don’t be offended.  That way, if we did get sent home, we wouldn’t have to deal with the questions and calls. 

Naturally, we had never actually visited the hospital and got a little turned around inside while searching for where exactly we need to be.  At first, we went up a set of elevators in a building connected to the hospital.  Upon the opening of the doors, this lady looked right at me and said, “We’re having  a pajama party, and we’re lost.”  To be clear… I was not in pajamas. She was not in pajamas.  I looked at her with the fierce irritation and a look that could melt ice.  Then, she proceeded to talk to me, as if she had been waiting her whole life for me to get off the elevator and join her pajama party and where in the world do we go conversation.  And she kept talking and talking, as I looked at the signs and maps, realizing we needed to go back down.  Her husband emerged from the elevator and she proceeded to tell him all about this party we were having.  I was irritated, I mean, what the…

And I take full responsibility for what happened next.  I turned to look at her and said, “Ma’am, you are the only one having this party.  WE are not having a party.  WE are not doing anything.  There is no party.”

I’m not going to lie, that felt pretty good.  I suppose it was a little harsh, but really, I’m not sorry.  I’m not.

A nurse checked us in and assessed that I was 2-3 centimeters and contractions were looking good.  So, we walked around for ages, talking about all the people we passed, gushing at the little newborns, and stopping to work through the contractions.  We returned to our little closet of a room and another doctor, who wasn’t my favorite and severely lacked bedside manor  told me that I was only dilated to 1cm and that we should just go home.  I was frustrated at the contrasting reports and “probably” took it out on her, she left and the attending OB came in and talked to us, confirmed that the magic number was actually 1, not 2-3, and that she’d actually like to just keep us for the night, let us sleep and see how things were in the morning. So, that is what we did.  Except of course, every single contraction launched me into this strange state of awareness and discomfort and then back into a deep sleep.  It was trippy.

The short version of the story is as follows:  in the morning, nothing had changed, contractions were still going, so they sent us home, thinking they might see us back again later that day. It was annoying, like insanely annoying and I was so frustrated. 

We got lattes and donuts, because at least that might help a little.  By mid afternoon, the contractions had stopped.  BORING NATION.  I even scrubbed and cleaned out my fridge, nothing.  Now all I have to show for it is a clean  fridge. I’d rather have a baby. 

This morning at my weekly appointment, I was dilated to 1.5 cm.  Honestly, what is half a centimeter?  That’s not anything.   Of course, the only real news my doctor had was, any day now.  Strangely enough, a random man at the post office told me the exact same thing.  If I would have seen him first, I could have saved an entire trip to the doctor.  Now sure, he didn’t tell me about the whole .5 centimeters thing, but for real, I could have lived without it and the method at which this tiny, tiny change in dilation was discovered. Can you say ouch? 

Oh well, at least I have a good story to share with you and now I can be a member of the “false alarm club.”  Cool.  Part of me thinks that “pajama” lady is still wandering around the hospital as lost as can be inviting guests to her imaginary party.

39 weeks.  Any day now…