More Bad News

Today was supposed to be the begining of the appointments that would lead up to the finale. I'd get checked for dilation, measured, weighed, and they'd tell me what they thought about the impending arrival of our baby. I wasn't feeling good, but was pretty excited to not only share some of the discomforts and have them either fixed, or be told that it is normal, but to find out if I was in fact a 1cm dilated and where we were in terms of getting this baby out of me! Unfortunatly I left holding back tears and feeling like a POS mom, a failure, and like I just wanted my baby out and safe.

I went in to check in, and right off the bat I was told I'd be seeing a high risk specialist instead of my doctor. I didn't know that this was the plan and was pretty dissapointed, because while there's nothing wrong with a HRS, they aren't interested in helping me find natural remedies for my gas, they want to know about the serious, big issues. I had a whole list of Q's for my regular doctor that were now going to have to wait until later. I saw this as a bump in the road, but nothing horrible, I figured we'd see my regular doctor next week and then we'd discuss it.

We waited until the nurse came back, and as routine dictated, I was handed the lovely little cup and shown to a bathroom. I struggled peeing because I'd been really nauseous and pukey lately, on top of having the appetite of a gnat, which meant I didn't have much on my belly. My pee was practically orange and very little came. I immediately explained myself when I came in the exam room, because I knew the nurse would lecture me about drinking enough water. The nurse seemed very sympathetic and worried, because I didn't realize it yet, but about the third time she weighed me, I realized I'd lost about 15 lbs. In one week. My heart started racing like I'd just realized I'd done something terrible. I had been nauseous and pukey, and I hadn't had an appetite, but I'd had this very similar feeling in the 2nd trimester, and still gained weight, and the baby didn't pay at all for it. I was only given Zofran as a comfort measure, not a health one. However, right now, the nurse looked at me like a puppy with a broke leg and rubbed my arm sympathetically and said she'd go see if the doctor could come in now, and showed me where I could throw up, if needed.

A few moments later, the doctor entered and I was prying to see what her face would tell me. She weighed me again, took my blood pressure, and measured my fundal height (the length between your pubic bone, and  top of your womb.). She did these things a few times, acutally. Each time looking at the computer screen in disbelief. I started trying to ask what was wrong and why I lost so much weight, and was cut off by her saying she had to go call my regular doctor. She solemnly stepped out for what felt like a century. Me and Lev met eyes and I held back tears of regret. Just two days ago, I had realized I fit into a pair of pants I previously couldn't, and thought nothing of it. I had been only eating maybe a plate of food, if that, at the three mealtimes a day. So many things that I didn't think mattered, now felt so monumental. How could I have not known. How could I have done this to Little Foot?

The doctor returned and explained that I had also tested positive for strep b. Strep B is a fairly common bacterial infection of the vagina. It's usually no big deal, but with the high risk pregnancy and low fluid levels, this means serious business. I cannot labor the first part at home, as most would probably prefer, and when I do show up, I'll be started on antibiotics, which I can hopefully get all the way through (it's done through IV) before I am 9cm, or Little Foots first moments will be spent trying to get her to breathe, and then in a box in NICU. This crushed me. No matter how many elements I got denied out of my birth plan, I comforted myself with the fact that no matter what, I'd get to hold my darling baby afterwards. I just didn't realize it could be DAYS afterwards. I held my breath and tried to eep out responses to what she had to say.

Little Foot is also not growing, or she is loosing amnio fluids, either way it's bad. BAD bad. I imagined a tiny hand grasping at the umbilical cord in discomfort, and a pint sized face scrunching up to cry, only to be comforted by no one. Was she starving? Was she crying? What had I done....or not done? How could she deserve this? It wasn't fair. At all. I felt like after the surgery I had made it past the BIG obstacle and all I had to get through was a little labor/delivery pain, little did I know just a week later I'd be left in tears wondering if my baby was as upset as I was.

Towards the end of the appt, I wondered when I would be checked. No one had even handed me a gown yet, much less mentioned it. i brought it up, and the doctor replied with something along the lines of, they can't check with my "infections". If you noticed as soon as I did, you're probably curious. Plural? InfectionS? Yes. Infections. Because she could have low amnio levels, they fear I could have a tear or infection other than the strep b. So when/who do I get checked by? I get checked when I am in active labor, and only by my doctor.

Needless to say, this appointment turned out to be nothing like I expected. I was prescribed zofran for the vomiting after a lengthy guilt trip about 'deciding' to not feed my baby becuase I'm uncomfortable. I went home after picking up my prescription, feeling broken, embarrassed, and scared. I began to move some stuff around to clean up so I can focus on other things, when I ran across a set of burp cloths and clothes my mom and grandma had bought me for her. They were still tagged and not yet washed, so I immediatly started walking towards the washer, but when I got there, I had a terrible thought that was almost as bad as saying it out loud.

"Maybe I should leave them in the bag, in case we don't get to bring her home."

The minute I'd finished the train of thought, I realized Levi was looking at me and he said, "Heyyyy. Don't. Everything's okay. She's just fine, we just gotta eat a little more.". It took me a moment to realize I was crying. My face felt red-hot and sticky and I wanted to strangle myself for even thinking about it, and so blandly. As if it would really matter to me whether her clothes were bagged or not if it came to that. My hands got really shaky and I held the burp rags in my hands, they were white with little hearts all over them. I imagined wiping her mouth with it after I burped her, or her hands after she'd sucked on them. I turned away and held them to my face and they smelled like cotton. I looked around the room and at her bassinet and some clothes I had out. I picked up a sleeper and imagined zipping it up after her night time bath, and cuddling her up. It was white with some outlines of pink sheep all over it. It was so tiny.

I thought of all of her clothes and toys and furniture, and what I'd do if we didn't come home with her. Ever. And the pit of my stomach turned into a knotted, gnarled, mass. All the zofran in the world couldn't keep me from feeling my food come back up. I let out the first of a long line of sobs and my heart raced like I was dying. It wasn't fair. These were her things. No one else deserved them. SHE would look adorable in this sleeper. SHE would lay in that bassinet. I became irate. A box of things of hers I'd packed to move to another room was sitting out and I threw it. It busted open and tiny newborn onsies were everywhere. I wanted to hold her now. I wanted to dress her in these things, lay her down in that bassinet, and make her smile. I tore the tags off of all of the things in the bag and sobbed while I folded and re folded them, trying to forget that I'd ever thought that thought, but I couldn't so I layed down with them and curled up in the pile of her things and cried into them. I held my belly and longed for her to kick me in the ribs, for her to push on my cervix until I cried like so many other nights. I wanted her to roll around and make me uncomfortable, I wanted to know she was still moving at all. I felt a box with my foot when I extended my legs, and when I looked down it was the box I'd thrown earlier. I sat up and began to put her clothes back in it, folding them delicately. I moved them to the our room and laid down in bed.

I couldn't seem to pull it together for about an hour. I wish I had a happy ending or saying for this blog post, but I just don't right now. And until I hear she's doing better, there won't be one. She's my sunshine, my responsibility, my girl, my daughter, my baby, my life, my everything. If she isn't okay, nothing is okay. Yes, it could be worse, but that won't matter in a million years to any parent, when his/her baby isn't doing fantastic, nothing is okay. When his/her baby isn't happy, nothing is alright. When his/her baby isn't healthy, (s)he's not okay. And that's that.