Home From the Hostabul

Alternate title: A Possibly Inappropriately Flippant Post about a Serious Topic, But This is How I Cope

Hello, Loyal Fans! It's Kirsten, coming to you from the couch, here at the end of my first day of what many Americans call "Staycation," but which my doctor prefers to call "bed rest". I just got back from a couple days in the hospital with preterm contractions. That's the bad news. Lots of good news, though: the scary part is over, and The Deuce and I are both doing OK, and I'm glad to be out of the hospital, and my mom is flying in tonight to help out for a little while (let it be said, however, that Chris' parents were also quick to enlist, and may yet be called to active duty). But, yeah. I have to basically do nothing for at least the next five days, and I have no idea what the doctor will recommend once my Friday appointment rolls around.

So, how did this all happen? On Thursday, I was happily working at the computer all day, occasionally getting up to eat and pee and other fun things pregnant people do, and I noticed that my abdomen was hurting whenever I walked around. I went to pick Soren up from school, and took a walk with him, and was definitely feeling bad by the time we got home again, so I did some good old-fashioned lying down on the couch. If I'd known how much time I was going to be spending doing that very thing in the near future, I probably would have chosen a more exotic spot to lie down. Like the mall. Or the French Riviera. Anyway, once the vague pain started resolving into contractions, and I started timing them and thinking I must be wrong about how close together they were, it was time to go to the ER. Our wonderful neighbors, the Moons, were nice enough to come over at 9:00 PM and stay with Soren until Chris came home.

Once I was hooked up to the monitors, it turned out that the contractions were two to three minutes apart, and although they weren't as painful as I remembered labor being last time, they were still painful enough that I had to breathe through them, and that was freaking me out. Plus it took two nurses and four tries to get a decent blood draw from my arm, which wasn't helping. Luckily, I was only about 1.5 cm dilated, which isn't out of line for this stage of pregnancy, and the contractions weren't lasting long enough to do much further dilation, so while there was some talk of the excellent chances a baby has after being delivered at 29 weeks, it looked like we could avoid that scenario with IV fluids, a dose of Nifedipine, and 24 hours of observation.

Once we had that course of treatment settled, I felt much less scared, and sent Chris home so he could get some sleep. I daresay he slept better than I did, since the secondary mission of the hospital, next to "Serving the women and infants of Rhode Island" or whatever, is "Making sure no patient gets more than five hours of uninterrupted sleep". They're always coming in to ask you stuff, or give you a pill, or readjust the monitor because your troublemaker fetus keeps running away from it so it can't pick up his/her heartbeat. I mean, yes, OK, the main point of being there was to be treated, not to sleep, plus I got plenty of chances to sleep all throughout the next day, so I guess I can live with the interruptions. But it makes for a long night.

For a time, I was lying there thinking how much The Deuce, via the monitor, sounded like a mustang in a thunderstorm, what with the racing heartbeat and the really loud rumbling produced by his/her rolling around all over the place. GALUMPH GALUMPH GALUMPH GALUMPH GALUMPH GALUMPH GALUMPH GALUMPH GALUMPH GALUMPH KKKKKKCCCGFFFFKKKKKPPPKKK GALUMPH GALUMPH KKCCFGGGGGGGCCCKKKKHHH GALUMPH GALUMPH. It was like visiting the high plains in the Old West. I will grant you that I was very tired when I made this observation.

The next day, my doctor told me that she wasn't sure what brought on the preterm contractions, but that I seemed to be experiencing a classic case of Irritable Uterus. Well, sure! The rest of me is irritable enough, so why not my uterus, too? If I were slightly more inspired and were allowed to, like, move, I would set up a little photo shoot at this point wherein I'd have some phrases like "Turn that racket down!" and "Get off my property, you hooligan kids!" written across my belly, and then I'd post them here on the blog by way of witty illustration. Hopefully the written description is as funny as the pictures would have been. Anyway. Every time I got up to use the loo, or someone adjusted the monitors on my belly, or the sun would shine at a particular angle through the window, my uterus would be all like QUIT DOING THAT OR I SWEAR I WILL TURN THIS CAR AROUND, and the contractions would start up again. So until all my lady business was in a better mood, I was going to stay in the hospital -- at least one more night. Ugh. A lot of people have it worse, certainly, and I won't say I had it really rough or anything, but still. Ugh.

I was ready to go on Saturday afternoon, so it wasn't too bad. But I had no idea I'd be on bed rest until I asked the nurse on Saturday morning, "So, are there any restrictions on what I can do when I get home?" You know, thinking that I probably shouldn't walk more than half a mile for the first couple days or lift any 32-pound toddlers. But the answer was, "You really shouldn't do any more than you've been doing here." Which, it turns out, isn't a lot.

Of course, it's great to be home again with my men. It was lonely in the hospital. Chris and Soren did get to come visit me Friday evening, and it was so nice! Soren wasn't really fazed, so I got to read him a few stories, and he ate lots of saltines from the Patient Nourishment Unit (there is a tiny room with a juice dispenser and a box of crackers in it, and that's seriously what it's called) and helped the nurse by turning off the monitor when she invited him to. The next afternoon, when they came to pick me up, I asked what they had done that morning, and Soren exclaimed, "We went to the hostabul to pick up Mama!" So I guess he was happy to see me.

He was less happy to find out that I can't get up to play with him or take walks or anything, but he's mostly dealing with it all pretty well. I think he'll be excited enough about Gramma being here tomorrow that he'll forget about me altogether.

So, there's my saga. Again, I have no idea what the doctor will say on Friday -- maybe I'll be able to ease back into a lighter, but mostly normal, routine, or maybe I'll have to lie here until November. I'd really like to be able to get up and take walks and not be a total leech for the next two months, but I suppose extreme sloth is better than going into labor before The Deuce is fully cooked. I'll keep you all updated. Hey, I have nothing better to do.

This post seems unfinished without my expressing my thankfulness for how wonderful, caring, supportive, and hard-working Chris is. I think this may at times be harder and scarier for him than it is for me now that the worst part has passed. In a way, I have to work on _not_ thinking about it too much, since stress is counterproductive, but Chris has taken on a lot this weekend in terms of worry, chores, child care, not to mention thinking about that job he has to go back to tomorrow. So even though my account of the whole ordeal focuses on the lighter side, I'm quite serious about how glad I am to have Chris's support -- not to mention the support of the rest of our family, near and far, and our friends. Thank you. We're going to be all right.