I hoped that as I entered the second trimester, the nausea would stop, but instead it got worse and worse and I was losing weight and feeling pretty miserable. At 16 weeks, my best friend had her baby and I spent all night by her side in the delivery room, then went home to sleep just a couple of hours and went back to spend the first night with her so she could sleep and recover from a rough labor and a c-section. By early the following morning after no sleep and many feedings and diaper changes, I was exhausted and feeling extremely nauseous. I started vomiting around 6 am, and continued to do so every 10-30 minutes for the next several hours. Finally, after getting a third prescription medicine in suppository form (yuck), my mom came and graciously drove me home while I puked in an umbrella bag while sitting in the seat beside her.
The same situation happened again at 18 weeks, 20 weeks, and various days that were less severe but still miserable. I tried every trick in the book, but was told by my doctors that some women just stay sick the whole time and it seemed I was one of those lucky ones. Thankfully, the misery of morning sickness had become balanced by the joy of feeling precious little kicks--first little flutters around 14 weeks that I doubted, but by 16 I was sure and soon after that, even Nathan could feel the movements from the outside. At 18 weeks, we found out what I had known all along, that our baby was a girl!
We were thrilled--we had pictured ourselves with lots of little girls, hopefully a boy in the mix somewhere, but we had a feeling we'd be seeing pink first.
At 23 weeks, I started feeling extremely crampy and uncomfortable. I took Tylenol, drank more water, layed on a heating pad, and took baths, but nothing helped. After two days of feeling icky, I finally gave in and made a tearful call to the on-call doctor, who very grumpily told me that he could obviously not diagnose me over the phone and if I thought I was having contractions, I should go to L&D.
I was afraid of being wrong and feeling silly, but we drove to Rex and checked in and got hooked up to the monitors. The nurse asked me if I was feeling any contractions and if so, how often. I told her maybe every 10-15 minutes, but I really wasn't sure. About an hour later, she came back and told me that sure enough I WAS contracting--every 2-3 minutes! She told me she had paged the doctor, and soon he came in to assess me. He didn't greet me or Nathan, didn't offer any explanations or reassurances--just told the nurse to give me medication to stop the contractions and call him with the results.
I was pretty hurt--he was a doctor that I had worked with often and had seen throughout my pregnancy and really liked...but as a scared mom who was in pre-term labor and unsure the implications, I was pretty shocked not to receive any more compassion. The nurse was wonderful, and gave me the first shot of Terbutaline--the worst drug EVER! I soon had a racing, pounding heart, light-headedness, and was sweating and feeling extremely anxious. Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, I was told it was time for another dose, and that the contractions weren't slowing down yet. I thought I might have a heart attack, but finally after three doses and a few more hours of fluids, my contractions were spaced out and my cervix was still closed, so I was told that I could go home. The doctor came back and once again spoke very little to me, gave a quick order to the nurse, and left without any kind of pleasantries. My opinion of him was forever changed.
I went home on "light duty" and with instructions to follow up in a couple of days, which I did. Things stayed stable and after a couple more frequent visits to my OB office, they did a test that is supposed to predict whether you will go into labor within 14 days. Mine was negative, and I was cleared to work and carry on as usual.
15 days later, I hadn't had any contractions or cramping for a few days. I hadn't even been nauseous for a few days...I was finally feeling great! Nathan and I both had the night off of work and the following night as well, so we spent the day being lazy, talking about plans for the next few weeks before baby girl's arrival, and finally going to get a late-night milkshake from Cook-Out. We drank our milkshakes while listening to some relaxing Iron & Wine songs and talking to my belly--telling her how we'd teach her all about good music one day.
We decided to go to bed around 2am, and I went and got in while Nathan went to the kitchen to clean up a bit. Right after I got comfortable, I felt a strange gush of fluid. I hadn't had any issues with baby kicking my bladder, or "sneezy pees", or any of those types of issues that some pregnant ladies have, so I knew I hadn't peed on myself. I jumped up and went to the bathroom, where the floodgates opened and my heart sank. I yelled for Nathan, and when he came to the doorway, I said "Do you hear that? I'm not peeing..." and watched as he realized what I meant--my water had broken, big time.
I took a deep breath, asked Nathan to get me some clothes, and got up to call my doctor. I prayed for that awful doctor who had dealt so unkindly with me before not to be the one, and was so relieved to receive a quick call back from one of the doctors that I loved. I told her what had happened and that we were about half an hour away, and she told me to get there safely and that she would be ready when I arrived.
The drive to Rex was painfully slow--I kept telling Nathan not to speed, that it wouldn't help us to wreck on the way or get pulled over and waste time. There were no cars on the road for the most part, and we rode in silence mostly, holding hands and praying hard. I told him I thought we should hold off on calling everyone until we knew what was happening and where I'd be transferred. That lasted all of 30 seconds before I dialed my mom--and immediately burst into tears as soon as she answered in the worried voice she always has when answering a late-night call. "My water just broke" was all I could say, and I knew she had no idea what to say either. I finally managed to breathe enough to tell her not to come anywhere yet, but just to pray and that we'd let her know where I would be.
Finally, we arrived and Nathan dropped me off at the Women's Center entrance. I walked inside, fluid continuing to soak all the way down to my shoes. I told the security guard I needed to go upstairs, and headed for the elevator. Waiting for me in the hallway upstairs was a nurse with a kind face, who told me that when the shoes are wet, they know it's the real deal. She got me into bed and a gown quickly, and Nathan made it in just before my sweet doctor showed up. I could tell she had been sleeping, but she rubbed my leg and told me it was going to be okay, and started doing the tests needed to verify that my water had indeed broken.
Everything came back unquestionably positive, and the monitor showed a few contractions, but thankfully my cervix was still closed and baby's heartbeat was strong and steady. My doctor explained that as long as I was stable and not about to deliver imminently, that I would be transferred to either UNC or Wake Med as soon as a bed was ready for me. I was given two IV's to get fluids running quickly, a urinary catheter, and a lot of information about what would happen next. They told me they were starting Magnesium in my IV which would help stop contractions, and also protect baby's brain from Cerebral Palsy--terrifying words that made our minds begin to race with worry. I was then told that a bed was available at Wake Med and that we were just waiting for the transport team to get ready for me.
As we waited, a nurse came with an oxygen mask and told me that "baby was getting a little stressed" and needed some more oxygen. I knew enough to know that was bad news, and that the type of mask she gave me was the one that delivers the most oxygen--more than "just a little". Soon, the transport team showed up, and if I were making this into a movie, this is when the 3 Stooges theme song would begin to play. They got report and told Nathan where to go, and got me rolling. I made it down the halls okay, but the first struggle began as they worked on loading me into the ambulance. They designated one of the paramedics to drive, because she was the newest and the other two needed to be in the back with me. The one leading the team was a lady I recognized from my orientation at Rex just 9 months earlier--and she was the MOST experienced of the three! They bobbled my stretcher into the back after a bit of struggle, and then spent about 10 minutes trying to figure out where to put everything and where the spare oxygen tank was since mine was nearly empty. I had a bad feeling as we pulled away, but after hitting the curb just a few times, we finally settled onto the highway and miraculously made it safely across town to Wake Med.
Once I got admitted and the nurses had gotten all my tubes and monitors transferred over, I met the first of many doctors I would get to know well. She was a cute brunette with red glasses, and looked not a day over 21. She introduced herself, began to assess me, and explained that what had happened to me was called pPROM--preterm premature rupture of membranes. She told me it was not my fault in any way, and that I was in the best place now for my baby to be cared for well. The dangers were explained--I could go into labor at any point, baby could become distressed and need to come out, the umbilical cord or another body part could slip outside my cervix, or I could get an infection in my uterus due to there not being any barrier now to bacteria. She did a quick ultrasound and found that baby was breech, and told me there was little to no chance that she would turn without fluid--meaning the natural birth I had planned was no longer an option, and I would undoubtedly require a c-section.
She then told me that most often, women in my situation deliver within 36 hours, but that the goal was to prevent all of those complications and keep me pregnant until 34 weeks, when baby would be safer on the outside than inside where the risks still existed. Next, the head of the neonatology team came in to discuss with me what would happen if I delivered right away. He told Nathan and I that at 27 weeks, our baby had a great chance of survival, but also a great chance of disability. The possibilities ranged from mild learning disabilities to severe brain damage, but he encouraged us that being in a hospital with a level 4 NICU gave us a great advantage, and that we were lucky to be pregnant with a baby girl, because girls statistically do better when born prematurely than boys, who often suffer what the NICU people call "wimpy white boy syndrome".
I got IV antibiotics running to help ward off infection, and a shot in my butt of steroids to help baby's lungs mature faster. The magnesium was still running as well, which meant that I had to keep my urinary catheter in and not get out of bed or eat until the infusion was over. After a long day in labor and delivery, I was finally deemed stable enough to get a permanent room on the mother/baby unit, and was transferred over to the place I would call home for much longer than I knew at the time...
This picture taken by my very considerate husband (and posted to facebook, grr!) a few days later shows my feelings about my new situation:
To be continued...
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Kelly, you should write a book. You are a wonderful writer!
ReplyDeleteKelly you really are such a talented writer!
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