Internet, I am not going to beat around this pile of pillows. Yesterday did not go as hoped, or as assumed, or as I violently and repeatedly demanded that it should.
I’m actually at my OB’s office right now, doing my three hour glucose test. The woman who will be taking my blood three more times today is the first person in the history of ever to miss the big fat vein in my arm. Seriously. Ever. Today’s going to be awesome.
But let’s talk about yesterday. You guys, I Butt Rusted my butt off over the week leading up to my appointment yesterday, focusing on the fact that lowering my blood pressure would lead to me being released and everything going right back to normal. I put on PANTS. And BLUSH. I was so excited to get out of the house, I was practically bouncing the whole way there. And then bouncing out of nervousness once I got there. I don’t think I was so wound up about an appointment since our anatomy scan.
Phil came back with me, and we did all the normal stuff – weight (it was down about half a pound, which I thought was funny – I assumed I’d be up from a week of lethargy and snack boxes), sample (any place, any time at this point), and then, finally, blood pressure. I asked her to tell me what it was, and it was right back to where it had been for the whole pregnancy. If I could do a fist pump without looking totally awkward, I would have done it. I thought about dethroning Phil as the King of Butt Rust. I rule at Butt Rust.
So the doctor came in to talk to us, joked around a bit about how my blood pressure had obviously been up since I saw one of the other doctors last week instead of him, as he had been off delivering a baby, and then checked out Garlic Bread’s heartbeat, which was perfect, as always. Then he said, “Now, let’s all go into my office to discuss the plan.”
“Discussing the plan” has not been a featured part of any previous OB appointment.
We went into his office, and the doctor pulled up my records from the hospital visit last week, to check on the test results from my big orange jug of shame. As soon as he said the words, “not normal,” I threw myself on the ground. “I WORKED REALLY HARD ON THAT TEST,” I bellowed. With the words, “continue on bed rest,” I did this amazing round house and kicked everyone – the doctor, Phil and myself – right in the face. I think I even got a nurse out in the hall. It was really something to see. I’m sorry you guys missed it.
I wish we could have just left it at that. Something like, “Hey, let’s do another week or two of bed rest and see where we stand.” And that would be the plan. I would have gone home upset and round housing everyone I came in contact with, but still. That would be an annoyance. A big one, but an annoyance none the less.
But that is not the plan.
The plan is that I will rest VERY hard for these next two weeks, specifically. Because these next two weeks will take me up to week 28, after which point my doctor is perfectly comfortable removing Garlic Bread from the oven if need be.
I did not go to the doctor yesterday expecting to hear the doctor reassure me that any time after two weeks from now, he’d be okay with me having a baby.
I am not okay with that. I am not a little okay with that.
After those two weeks, he kind of skipped around the subject a little, but it is pretty clear that this case of Butt Rust won’t be clearing up until after the baby arrives.
I want to present this information in some kind of coherent, understandable way, mostly for my own benefit, but it doesn’t seem very organizable to me.
I had more blood work yesterday, to compare from my blood work from the hospital last week. If it’s significantly worse, I’ll have to repeat the jug of shame test as well.
Let me back up. When I first got the Butt Rust a week ago, I went to this forum that I found that was designed for women on Butt Rust. I poked around a bit, but pretty quickly in my explorations, I found one person telling another person that unfortunately, once you go on bed rest, it’s not likely you come back off until the baby is born.
So I left that forum and didn’t go back, because, pft.
The number one question I wanted to ask my doctor yesterday was something like, “How likely is it that I can go back to how it was before and have a completely normal pregnancy?” I mean like, diet or medication or whatever – I was having a perfect pregnancy a week ago and now I’m not, but it doesn’t seem TOO major yet, so how do I get back to that place?
It turns out, that’s not going to be possible. The big thing that I took from our conversation with the doctor yesterday was his very plainly stated sense of inevitability. I’m having comparison blood work done so he can evaluate how quickly I “will get sick,” as he put it. I could decline at a very slow rate, or it could drop off very quickly over the duration of the pregnancy, but the only cure for this – preeclampsia – is to deliver a baby.
So it’s a balancing game, where we pit my health as the baby’s life support system (and as a person who doesn’t, you know, want to have any strokes or seizures or deaths in the near future) against the baby’s growth and viability outside of her hut.
Anyway. So two weeks and I make it to 28 weeks and we all sigh in relief a bit, and maybe, if things look good with the blood work, as in, not dramatically worse, I’ll be allowed to “run an errand” or “sit in the sun for a while!”
If the blood work and jug of shame test show a dramatic drop off in my health, I’ll go from Butt Rust in my own bed to hospital Butt Rust until the baby comes.
If I can make it to 28 weeks, he said, it would be good. Babies born at 28 weeks have problems, but not necessarily anything long term. She’d probably stay in the hospital for a couple of months.
If I can make it to 32 (and believe me, all of these dates are marked prominently on my calendar), that would be even better. Then she would mostly just need to learn to breath and eat and fatten up a bit. She would stay there for a few weeks.
If I can keep her in until 36-37 weeks, she would get to come home with us when she popped out. That’s ideal. That’s the goal, obviously.
But her May 17th due date is out the window. My doctor said, we don’t need to sit on the train tracks and wait to get hit by a train to know that a train is coming. If she makes it all the way to full term (between 36 and 37 weeks), I’ll be induced and she’ll be coming out.
While technically the doctor is “okay” with her being born any time after two weeks from now, we’re aiming for between April 20th and 27th. I get to skip the whole crappy end of pregnancy, which is some small consolation for the fact that this entire pregnancy is now a crappy pregnancy.
This whole thing is very hard to comprehend. I am mostly stubbornly understanding it as, “I will have the baby between April 20th and 27th.” Acknowledging the possibility of her showing up in early April, or March oh even later this month is not something I’ve spent too much time doing. I feel so mostly normal. This all just seems impossible that it even happened.
I don’t want to leave Phil out of this. While he’s been the King of Butt Rust for the last week, neither of us were planning on this being our new life. It’s not just that his kid is coming early, it’s also that he’s got to continue bearing the brunt of everything – the dogs, the house, the errands, the food – everything. For 10 more weeks. It’s a big deal.
And I feel guilty. I feel like he’s going to start to resent me (he won’t), and I’m already trying to figure out how I can help out, like FOLDING LAUNDRY in bed (I do NOT fold), and making my own breakfast in the morning when I let the dogs out, and not CLEANING, but tidying just a tiny bit as I pass through each room during my two out of bed hours.
And I also feel guilty towards Garlic Bread, of course. No matter how many “not your faults” I hear, that’s not going to change. One jillion pregnant ladies before me, one jillion pregnant ladies after me, and most have done it just fine. TEENAGERS do this. And then make MONEY on TELEVISION from it. And I have fucked it up somehow. I know. I know. Not my fault. But me and Garlic Bread are incompatible with long term cohabitation, and I will continue to feel badly that her life supporting hut is inadequate.
There’s also more serious things for both Phil and I to consider – the reality of having a preemie, or the very real threat to my health and things that could go wrong. I already made him swear not to give the baby to my mom if anything happens to me, and I expect you to hold him to that, Internet.
Plus shallow things. We’re not done shopping. I haven’t gotten to hang up all of her little clothes. I’m already lonely after only a week. There’s no small amount of tension between Phil and I at times – no one’s fault, but we’re both under strain. The fact that we both have to take turns reassuring my mom that we have everything under control. I haven’t bought her coming home outfit. I’m going to ask my mom to do it. I don’t want to shop online for it. I don’t have a diaper bag. I wanted to stick my face in all of them before I picked one.
Anyway, end of wallow for me. Let’s wallow about you guys for a second. I’m sorry that this went from a normal blog to a pregnancy blog over the last week. I’m sorry it’s gone from a pregnancy blog to a high risk pregnancy blog overnight. I never intended to be so focused on what was going on in my innards, because just like my wedding, I know that no one finds it as interesting as I do. However, the view from my bed is somewhat lacking in inspiration. So, for both your sanity and mine, from here on out, I’m going to be doing my best to just leave it at, “She’s still in there” and find other stuff for us to talk about.
My entire real life is now consumed by pregnancy, and what the hell is the Internet for if not for creating an entirely new reality for yourself, amirite?
So. That’s the State of the Hut. Now that we’re all updated, I am totally open to suggestions as to what the hell else we can talk about for the next few weeks.