Week 32 proved to be more drama than I'd ever ask for. My gut had been saying "delivery at 32 weeks" for the past six weeks or so. Spoiler alert: my gut was wrong.
The week started out fine enough - going from appointment to appointment, hearing about how we're status quo. The docs are talking more about putting me on heart meds for the baby. I wish that was the extent of the drama. But it's not.
On Wednesday, I wasn't feeling right. Not just tired, but funky. Some pain, some mild contractions. Just off enough that I figured taking it easy was the best idea. So I planted myself on the couch with my laptop and called into my meetings. Mark had learned that a high school friend had passed away over the weekend, and he was going to a wake on Long Island that night. Because I was feeling off, I asked my Mom if she could come down after work. I was feeling fragile, and at the very least needed some help managing the dog. She can be a puller - especially after a day cooped up with her owner on slothing around on the couch. It felt like overkill, but I needed to feel like I had a safety net. Mom came through. And right on time.
By the time my Mom arrived, I was having regular contractions, and they were getting stronger. So I did what the doctors have been telling me: drink water, rest. Got it. I loaded up a pitcher with water so I could stay reclined and hydrated. I drank probably a whole pitcher, and was working on a second. The contractions kept going though. We decided to start timing them, and then I'd call the hospital. They were between 5 and 7 minutes apart, and coming pretty regularly, and with increasing intensity. I realy though this was IT - baby time.
As with any contractions I've gotten so far, I fear it's just gas. There's nothing more humiliatting to me than trekking to the hospital just to be told you should walk around and fart. So I took something for that, and a Pepcid (heartburn is my #2 fear). Nothing worked. I tried to go to the bathroom, and instead ended up vomitting the entire contents of my stomach. Liters and liters of water. Fun.
When I told my Mom this, her worried/confused looked turned slightly more alarmed. Apparently barfing was a hallmark of her labor too. So I called the folks at Columbia, who told me to get my butt down there. So I packed a couple things, hopped in the shower quickly (I knew it would be a pants-off situation), and away we went. My Mom was super nervous, which equates to driving super slow. She'd never had to get to this hospital before...oh, and her daugher was having painful contractions. I drank a bottle of water on the way down. I knew they were going to tell me I was dehydrated (again) so I wanted to get on top of that. My stomach wasn't a fan, and I fought the urge to vomit again the entire 45 minutes to the hospital.
Upon arrival, we spoke to the admin to get set up. I calmly and cheerfully asked if she had an empty garbage bag in the office. She did. I opened the bag, still calmly, and proceeded to projectile vomit like a freshman during homecoming. The admin and nurse assured me I wasn't the first to do this, and got me to a triage room right away. There, I got a bag of fluid, a shot to stop contractions, and something to help the nausea. Mark finally arrived and relieved my shaken mom from duty. We were both shaken, and a little uneasy that it wasn't the real thing.
The docs got me out of there relatively fast. Maybe too fast. By the time they took me off the monitor and removed the IV, I was already getting contractions again. They said it's normal, and sent me on my way. By the time we were half way home, I was surely getting contractions. My saintly husband stopped at the 24 hour CVS at 2AM to get Gatorade, Pedialyte, and any other method of hydration sold. I chugged a Gatorade, but wasnt' feeling better. As we got ready for a well-needed rest, I felt sick again. Mark stayed up with me as I contracted, puked, and cried. I woke up once more during the night to dry heave, and hoped I was done. I wasn't.
The next day I was still feeling beat up. I took the dog out around 11, and had a small breakfast. About an hour later, I was sick again. I called my local docs, who sent me to the high risk doc to get fluid without the hassel of the hospital. Of course, the second I arrived at the high risk office, I had to run and get sick again. This puking-on-arrival had kind of become my thing. They took one look at me and sent me to the hospital. I told them there was no way I was driving myself to Columbia, so I got to go to Stamford. I arrived to out of order elevators - and my contractions were getting stronger again. When I asked the security guard about alternative elevators (stairs weren't going to happen), he turned white and grabbed a wheel chair to get me to Labor & Delivery. L&D knew I was coming, and put me up in a nice labor suite - where I promptly puked-on-arrival again. They hooked me up to the monitors and IV, and gave me a shot of something for the nausea. I got around 5 bags of fluids before they let me go. Also, they gave me a Rx for nausea, which was a game-changer. I felt like a new person walking out of there. A new person who'd been hit by a bus, but a new person anyway.
I had appointments at Columbia the next day. Everything was sounding good, until we got in the car. Before we even left the block, my doctor called to tell me I should come back on Tuesday, and be prepared to be admitted - they want to start the digoxin. It means a 24 to 48 hour stay in the hospital for careful monitoring. It seemed the appropriate way to close out the week.
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