Me, a Post-Partum Mess, Post C-Section

Abandoning my blog for nearly three months post-partum wasn’t part of my master plan. In fact, when answering e-mailed interview questions posed by Fran Howell, executive director of DES Action USA, in January, I responded to her question, “Will you continue to write after your son is born? How will you find the time???” with the following:

“Yes, I will continue to write after my son is born. It has become a daily ritual, a habit that I am dedicated to continuing. I’ve realized that, previously, my excuse that I didn’t have time to write was simply a manifestation of my fear of failing…”

I’ve barely written in three months, to the point where I couldn’t even complete a blog post, so I feel naïve and guilty. But rather than wallow in those feelings, as would previously have been my natural response, I need only to hold my newborn son—and every negative thought leaves me. I’ve never taken Valium, but that’s how I compare my reaction to having him: He alleviates all tension, all stress, making me Zen.

After going through two cycles of in vitro fertilization (IVF), losing his twin, suffering from placenta previa, and surviving multiple bleeds, four hospitalizations and bed rest, I gave birth to my completely healthy son at full term, 37½ weeks. I am so relieved and thankful that, when I saw my psychiatrist five weeks after he was born, she said at the end of the session, “Well, there’s no reason for you to be rushing back here.”

But I am so tired, due to having a newborn at the tail-end of age 41; being completely out of shape, having gained 67 pounds and been on bed rest since January 13; and having a C-section, which became infected, which, according to my team of high-risk doctors, “just happens sometimes.”

Being so exhausted makes me feel overwhelmed not because of my duties as mom, which I revel in, but because of the pile-ups around me. Literally pile-ups. I’ve started recording and watching the A&E television show Hoarders for inspiration, because I had to let things go, while enduring IVF, a high-risk pregnancy and then bed rest, and now sorting through the paperwork, the clothes, and the closets seems impossible. The individuals featured on Hoarders are worse off than I am—with some having long-dead animals crushed underneath the floor-to-ceiling clutter in their homes—which makes my clean, yet disorganized house seem more manageable.

Shortly after recovering from my C-section, my 5-year-old and I were watching Hoarders, when he announced, “Mama, my closet is a hoarder.” I had shoved every baby item given to me by friends into the closet in his bedroom, which he and my newborn share, to get them out of the way until I could sort through them and put them away.

Due to the wake-up call that my son thinks his closet is hoarding things, I have given up my loves—writing and jewelry making—in the short-term as I handle the necessities—being a mom and trying to get my home in order. I’ve gone through all the closets. I’ve sorted through my own and my four sons’ clothes, organizing those they’ve outgrown in bins labeled by sizes, for not-too-worn items will be passed from our 16-year-old to our 14-year-old to our 5-year-old to our newborn. I’ve reorganized most of the basement. I’ve given dozens of items to charity, even things I love but rarely use.

I’ve made great progress, yet today I felt incredibly paralyzed by how much I still have to address. But as things piled up in my home, I made a baby. And when he and I were at risk, I listened to my doctors and stayed put on the couch and/or in bed. I had my priorities straight, so he and I are healthy and happy.

Well, I’m still 26 pounds overweight and incredibly out of shape, but I’m on my way to healthy.

And I am so incredibly happy.

Tired But Happy Mama with the Reason She's Tired and Happy

Last Friday I was released from complete bed rest for the second time, so, after my 36-week appointment, my son and I went to a local pancake house for breakfast. After eating, we made a trip to the ladies’ room—my second home due to “pregnancy bladder”—and a woman who’d just come out of one of the stalls asked, “When are you due?”

“I have four more weeks,” I sighed. “I’m just huge.”

“I knew it,” she laughed. “My boyfriend and I saw you walk in, and he was sure you were going to have your baby right in the restaurant, but I told him that Americans get big, and I said, ‘I bet she’s eight months,’ and you are.”

This morning, I drove downtown to my in vitro fertilization (IVF) clinic to donate my leftover medications, and, as I got out of my car, I announced to the parking attendant, who remembered me, “I’m a success story.”

Taking a look, he asked, “Twins?”

But tonight my bulging belly was invisible.

My husband got great news today, so he took our son and me out to dinner at The Cheesecake Factory. Because there weren’t any close parking spots, he dropped us off in front of the restaurant.

“We’ll sit on the bench and wait for you,” I said.

“No, honey, you go up.”

Of course, due to my overactive bladder, I needed to use the ladies’ room as soon as I’d given the hostess our last name. A few minutes later, when my son and I walked back into the lobby, my husband was waiting.

He said, “You know, I asked the hostess if she’d seated you two by asking if she remembered a little boy with white hair. And she said, ‘Is your wife pregnant?’ It never even occurred to me to describe you as pregnant, when it’s the most obvious way to identify you. Isn’t that weird?”

Weird? I’m going with flattering. Because it means that regardless of how much I have physically changed in the past year—due to two rounds of IVF medications, followed by months of progesterone suppositories and progesterone-oil injections; emotional eating because I lost one of the twins I was carrying; pregnancy weight gain; and the loss of muscle tone associated with bed rest—my husband still sees ME, inside of this increasingly alien body.

I measured my waist tonight, and, at belly button level, it’s expanded to 47 inches. But my husband doesn’t always notice it, because when he looks at me, he still sees ME.

It literally feels like he’ll be able to kick his way out, so I’ve been worried about the damage done to my cervix, whether funneling, thinning, or dilating. But, apparently, my cervix is super-strong in this pregnancy, unlike when I was pregnant with my 5-year-old son and dilated starting at 27 weeks of pregnancy. During a trans-vaginal ultrasound, also conducted on Thursday, the technician said my cervix is still 5 cm long and closed.

The trans-vaginal ultrasound also confirmed that I still have marginal placenta previa, so Dr. E, the doctor I saw Thursday, said I will remain on partial bed rest.

I haven’t had any placental bleeding since the first day of my 26th week of pregnancy, which is phenomenal, but Dr. E said that as I get closer to my due date, I will have more and more contractions, which could jumpstart the bleeding again. Therefore, if I see any red blood, I need to travel immediately to labor and delivery, so the baby and I can be monitored.

Thankfully, at this stage of my pregnancy, the infant survival rate is at least 95%, plus my little guy has benefitted from steroids given to me during my pre-term bleeding episode, so his lungs will be mature soon, if they aren’t already.

Dr. E confirmed that, if the placenta previa condition continues, I will have to have a C-section to deliver. She said specifically that the practice will not even attempt vaginal deliveries when the placenta is within 2 cm of the cervix because of the possibility of hemorrhaging, which could be detrimental to both me and the baby. Considering that there has been little to no change since placenta previa was diagnosed during my 13-week ultrasound, 20 weeks ago, I don’t hold out much hope of it rectifying itself.

The ultrasound technician said that the fact that my baby boy is breech isn’t considered a problem until the 36th week, but if he and my placenta stay where they are, they’re conspiring for a C-section, in my opinion.

The two ultrasounds also showed that my amniotic fluid level is ideal for this stage of the pregnancy; my baby’s development, with the exception of his size, is within his age range; and, in addition to his large body, he has a big head. My 5-year-old son has an off-the-charts-size head too, but it doesn’t look out of the ordinary, and, as I tell my son, he has a big head to house his very big brain.

As of Thursday’s weigh-in, I’ve gained 60 pounds since starting to try to get pregnant via in vitro fertilization (IVF). I’m unbelievably uncomfortable, and the combination of my asthma and my reduced lung capacity is making my days and nights difficult. I have no energy, so I told Dr. E that, even if she’d told me to stop bed rest and be wild and free for the final weeks of my pregnancy, I can’t handle more than modified bed rest as it is. (Weeks ago, I was tested for anemia, which some of my readers thought could be the reason for my complete exhaustion, but no anemia here.)

I return to the Center for Maternal and Fetal Health in two weeks, the first day of my 35th week of pregnancy, for another doctor’s appointment, a non-stress test to evaluate my baby’s heart rate, and ultrasounds to check my amniotic fluid level and placenta. Starting at 36 weeks, I will have an appointment every Friday for the duration of this pregnancy.

As I become more and more comfortable with the age, size and strength of my baby boy, I am becoming more and more nervous about having a C-section. But I keep reminding myself that five years ago, as a result of two botched epidurals, I endured 17 ½ hours of hell to give birth vaginally to my 9 pound 7 ounce son. So, while an incision through my stomach and uterus won’t be fun to recover from, it might be easier than my prior childbirth experience. And either way, I know that my body will have no long-term memories of the pain, while I will have the joy of loving another child.

Other friends have promised to give or loan me more: Still to come are a bassinet, a baby swing, a bouncer, more clothes, and who knows what other surprises.

Yet this is just a tiny part of the generosity that’s been shared with my husband, my son and me during our two in vitro fertilization (IVF) cycles and subsequent high-risk pregnancy.

My friends watched my son last spring and summer while I underwent two IVF egg retrievals and embryo transfers.

Three friends loaned me maternity clothes, since I gave all of those away too.

A friend cried with me on the sidewalk between our houses when I learned, after my first ultrasound, I was likely losing one of our twin boys, Baby B.

Weeks later, when we found out that Baby B had indeed died, other friends sent e-mails letting me know they were thinking of us—and would help in any way.

When I was hospitalized in mid-January for placenta-previa-related, pre-term bleeding, five friends visited me in the hospital, bringing me goodies—lotion for my super-dry hands, trashy magazines galore, and Coke®, since I’m allowed to have a little bit of caffeine.

In the 6 ½ weeks I’ve been home on bed rest—first full and now partial—friends have brought over dinner and also checked in with me every time they go to the grocery store or Target®, then dropped off and put away my requested purchases.

Friends have come to my house to keep me company when I started to feel too isolated.

They’ve offered to drive me to and from my doctor’s appointments.

During yet-another bleeding scare, a friend took me to the hospital, then stayed with me while my uterus, cervix, baby and I were thoroughly evaluated. She was free to do this because another friend watched her kids specifically so she could be with me.

Friends have taken my son for playdates with their children, so he wouldn’t be house-bound with me too frequently.

One friend has driven my son to every Thursday morning soccer class, while she and another friend switch off hosting post-soccer play- and lunch-dates until afternoon preschool starts.

Two friends, with whom I’ve carpooled the entire school year, now handle all the driving shifts to and from preschool five afternoons a week.

Two friends organized a manicure and pedicure outing for the three of us, driving me to and from the salon.

And so many others have offered to help, from my son’s preschool teacher to acqaintences who’ve heard I’m on bed rest.

It’s been a long, hard year for my family, but our loss and stresses have been tempered by how much support and love we have from our friends.

I strongly believe that love makes a family, and our recent experiences demonstrate that, while we have a nuclear family of five (my husband, my two stepsons, ages 15 and 14, my son, age 5, and me), we are part of a much larger extended family of loyal friends.

Thank you to them all…

On Monday, Presidents Day, my husband worked from home, and he took our son and me to lunch at a local restaurant. When the waitress, who has served us multiple times over the years, saw me walk through the front door, she blurted, “Mama is due…”

I smiled.

“When are you due?”

“Oh, not until April 23, so I have more than two months to go. I just get big.”

Surprised, she asked, “Are there two in there?”

Once again, I had to override my instinct to tell the truth, to say that there were twins, but we lost one. That would have been too much of a burden on this nice woman, an acquaintance just trying to make conversation, so I simply assured her that we’re only having one.

Later on, to meet my required four to six daytime hours of bed rest, I was propped up in my bed, resting next to my son, and my husband walked in the room, getting the full view of my stomach, rising up, mountainous. He teased, “Your belly is ridiculous!”

I turned to my son and asked, “Daddy thinks my belly is ridiculous. Do you think it’s ridiculous?”

He said, “I think it’s beautiful.” Oh, how I love him…

I’m so uncomfortable, with asthma, nosebleeds, heartburn and incontinence, on top of the physical burden of this weight, and I’ve been feeling isolated and depressed as a result of my five weeks of bed rest, so I’ve found myself focusing on the minor day-to-day irritants of this third trimester of pregnancy. But, with one sweet comment, my son made me remember the big picture: This is beautiful, because I’m a vessel carrying a miracle.

And, for the rest of this pregnancy, every time I field a comment about my size, every time I struggle with body-image issues, every time I cringe because I’m feeling yet-another sharp pain as my belly expands further, I will remember that any physical and emotional discomfort is worth it, because I am a big, beautiful vessel carrying a miracle.

On Saturday, my friend Carmen picked up my nearly 5-year-old son and me to bring us to our sons’ classmate’s birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese.  When we arrived at the restaurant, I simply sat in a booth, watched my son play video games, and talked to the other parents.  I was out of the house for only 2 ½ hours, but, completely exhausted, needed to take a two-hour nap upon arriving home.

Saturday night, about 45 minutes after I woke up from my nap, my family of five—my husband and I and our three sons, my stepsons, ages 14 and 15, and our son–went to a local restaurant, five minutes from our house, to celebrate my son’s 5^th birthday while his brothers were with us for the weekend.  My husband drove, I simply sat in the car and then in the restaurant, and we were only gone for an hour and 15 minutes. 

But, although I was simply sitting elsewhere—in cars and restaurants—rather than at home, I was so worn out as a result of these two minor outings that I slept for 12 hours on Saturday night, only dragging myself out of bed at 10:15 a.m. Sunday.

Sunday I simply lounged around the house, recovering from the day before.

But, yesterday morning, I ran a few errands with my son because this is his “Special Week” at school because it’s his birthday week.  Yesterday, he needed to bring to his preschool fresh flowers or a plant, plus fruits and vegetables for the week’s snacks.  So we went to a local garden store, where he picked out a tiny, 6-inch-high cypress tree, then across the street to a grocery store, where we bought grapes, strawberries and broccoli.  My son carried the plant out to the car himself, and the grocery store had a staff member bring the four food bags out to the car for me, for, even though they were lightweight, I’m not supposed to carry anything.

I was shocked that, only 20 minutes into our outing, I felt winded while we were in the grocery store.  But, of course, even three weeks of complete bed rest has an impact on muscle tone and stamina.  And, on top of the negative effects of bed rest, I’m suffering from the reduced lung capacity of the third trimester of pregnancy, which, for me, is exaggerated by asthma, regardless of my inhalers.  Add the extra 50 pounds I’m carrying around, and it’s ridiculous that I was shocked at all.

Oh, and, I almost forgot, I’m 41, not some young thing with boundless energy.

I now realize that, until this baby boy of mine is born, I am going to feel drained and depleted, regardless of being even more conservative than my doctor’s recommendations.  I simply need to recuperate with four to six hours of bed rest a day.  Or maybe more…

Yesterday, when my husband left to pick up my 15-year-old stepson, who is on a four-day midwinter break from his out-of-state school, I announced to my nearly 5-year-old son that I was going upstairs to put on makeup. 

“Why?” he asked.

Well, my first answer was that, as of Thursday afternoon, I could.  Because I haven’t experienced placenta previa-related pre-term bleeding in three weeks, my doctor said that I can transition from full bed rest to partial bed rest, so I’m now allowed to stand up for a few minutes to perform basic tasks like applying makeup.

My second answer was that I looked terrible, so I wanted to put on some makeup so my stepson, who has been away for a month, who has only heard about my 4-day hospitalization and bed rest, wouldn’t be freaked out upon seeing me.

My son said, “You don’t look terrible.”

“Thanks, sweetie.   But, I’ll look better if I put on some makeup.”

This morning, my son walked into my bedroom just as I was deciding what to wear for the day.  I told him I was going to put on a tank top.

“What’s a tank top?”

I pulled a black one out of the closet, held it up and said, “This is one.  It’s basically a t-shirt without sleeves.”

“Then everyone will see your arms.” 

“I know.  But, because of the baby in my belly, I’m hot all the time, so I’m going to wear a tank top underneath my sweater, in case I need to take my sweater off.”

As I pulled the tank top over my head and pulled it down over my super-sized belly, he said, “You look pretty good in that.”

My sweet, sensitive son gave me a compliment. 

And, whether he was serious—or simply trying to make me feel better about myself—doesn’t matter.  Sometimes, in the third trimester of pregnancy, moms-to-be need little white lies.

Tonight, I’m going to vent about “fat talk.”  

First, I have to admit that my family’s comfort with “fat talk” has been generated by me—by my jokes about my extreme weight gain.  Because I am self-deprecating, my family members assume I am comfortable with them being me-deprecating.  And, while I usually am, laughing along with the teasing, I hit my limit in the past few days.

Of course, being on bed rest for three weeks has minimized my sense of humor, while maximizing my size.  My bra size is now a 38E—an E, for God’s sake—up from its normal 34C.  And, the frightening thing is that, sitting atop my massive pregnant belly, my breasts actually look petite.

I am so happy to be pregnant at 41, elderly in the reproductive sense—as in literally reproductively elderly, as my diagnosis is “Elderly Multigravida with Antepartum Condition or Complication.” 

I am so happy to be pregnant considering my “antepartum complication or condition,” which is my uterine abnormality, the result of my mother unknowingly taking the synthetic estrogen diethylstilbestrol (DES) for nausea when she was pregnant with me.

But, while I feel so blessed to be pregnant, it’s not easy to live with the significant, body-altering side effects of the medications necessary for my two in vitro fertilization (IVF) cycles, one of which is weight gain.  Nor is it easy to live with the fact that the initial IVF weight gain is then topped with the necessary pounds of pregnancy.

But, because of the loss of one of my twins in September, I added unnecessary pounds through emotional eating in my attempt to cope with the death of my son, whose tiny body was still inside me.  I added unnecessary pounds as I hoped that my body would absorb him, rather than abort him, so that my other son would be saved. 

So, I have gained well beyond the recommended amount of pregnancy weight.  I’m not only pregnant, but also fat.  I know it.  My family knows it.  But, I don’t want to hear “fat talk” anymore.

My nearly 5-year-old son is the main perpetrator.  Sunday night, while we were lying in bed talking before he went to sleep, he asked if would put my arm around him.  I did.  After 30 seconds, he grunted and said, “Can you move your arm?  It’s too heavy.  I think it weighs 188 pounds.”

Monday, out of the blue, he said, “Mama, you’re a big, fat ninja.”

I know why he called me big and fat, so I asked, “Why do you think I’m a ninja?”

“Because you’re fat,” he giggled.

To me, fat would be the least likely adjective to use with ninja, but, then again, I’m not 4.

Yesterday, at bedtime, he started singing, “You’re a fat ninja.  You’re a fat ninja.”

Today, he announced that we were going to play “dinosaurs vs. people.” 

“Who gets to be the dinosaur?” I asked, because he has a remote-controlled dinosaur robot that can kick the asses of any of his toy people.

“You do,” he said.  “Because he’s fat.”

“Nice,” I responded sarcastically, knowing full well that he thought I should have the fat dinosaur because I’m fat.  “Fat dinosaur should be matched with fat Mama” makes complete sense in his young mind.

Hearing my tone, he tried to recover.  “Well, his tail is skinny.”

So, tonight, when he once again complained about the intolerable weight of my arm around him, I decided to have “the talk”— as in “the talk about fat talk.”

I started by asking him how he’d feel if people called him fat. 

He said, “If I was fat, and people called me fat, I would punch them in the face.”

“Do you want me to punch you in the face?” I teased.

He giggled.

I explained, “I know I’m fat.  But, after the baby is born, I will lose the weight.  And, until then, it sometimes hurts my feelings when you call me fat.  I know it’s true, but sometimes it hurts my feelings to be told the truth every day.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sweetie, it’s OK.  You didn’t know it hurt my feelings.  But, now that you do, can you please not call me fat anymore?”

“OK.”

We’ll see how tomorrow goes…

We started out the morning with my son watching Tom and Jerry cartoons, his favorite, while I was reading Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman’s Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia for the second time. 

I first read the memoir about two years ago for my neighborhood book club.  I’m re-reading it, very analytically this time, because its author, Elizabeth Gilbert, just released her new book, Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace With Marriage, so I’ve recently read numerous articles promoting her new endeavor—articles that have referenced the phenomenal success of Eat, Pray, Love, which has sold 6 million copies.  As a writer working on my own memoir, Nine Days: An Unconventional Love Story, I’m constantly reading memoirs, but, other than Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes, I know of few others with this level of readership.  So, I’m studying Eat, Pray, Love to try to figure out exactly, specifically why it is so over-the-top successful.

Anyway, back to our morning…  After our recorded Tom and Jerry cartoons were over, my son brought in his LeapFrog® Star Wars: The Clone Wars-branded Leapster2, which my husband and I gave him for Christmas because he pines to play video games with his older brothers, ages 14 and 15.  As a parent, I think the Leapster2 is the greatest invention, because my son feels cool playing with his hand-held video game player, yet the games themselves, such as Jedi Reading and Jedi Math, are educational.  We spent about an hour together, playing Jedi Reading, in which I helped him identify the lower-case letters needed to spell various four-letter words, like lift and soft.  While he knows all of the capital letters in the alphabet, he struggles with some of the lower-case ones, so I gladly assisted him.

When he grew tired of playing Jedi Reading, he picked up Eat, Pray, Love and, flipping through the pages, asked me to tell him the number of each page he identified.  If the page also included a chapter number, I added that too. 

When he stopped at page 134, which also features the beginning of chapter 42, I told him both numbers, then he said, “I will read this to you.”

He doesn’t know how to read anything except his name, but I said, “OK.”

Starting intently at the page, he recited, “There was a lady who walked all over the land.  Because she had a baby in her belly, she was very gassy.  Then she started ‘diarrhea-ing.’  Then she pooped everywhere.  She was 42 years old.” 

Giggling, he couldn’t continue, which I’m sure Liz Gilbert would be relieved to hear, for, while she is candid in her book about the negative side effects—some gastrointestinal (see page 41)—of her worldwide travels, she is much more eloquent than this.  And, she wasn’t pregnant.  And, she was just 34 when she traveled to the “Three I’s,” as she called them. 

After reading Eat, Pray, Love, my son decided to build a fort around my ever-expanding body.  Struggling to completely protect large me from the outside world, he had to retrieve pillows from his own room to use, in addition to the bountiful supply in mine.

When he’d finished with the fort, he decided that he was going to come into it with me, which necessitated much rearranging and the addition of a blanket.  He then announced, “Darth Vader is in here.” 

Slumping down, he lowered his voice and said, “You have to be quiet so he can’t hear us.”

Unarmed, we had no way to protect ourselves, but then my son whispered, “What this hard thing?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered back.

Feeling with his foot, then reaching down with his hand, he pulled Eat, Pray, Love out from under a stack of pillows.  Thrilled, he whispered that it would be our weapon, that we would use it to bash in Darth Vader’s brain.

Two minutes later, Darth Vader was lying on the bedroom floor, very, very dead. 

Killed by the paperback version of Eat, Pray, Love.

So, to Elizabeth Gilbert, my sincere apologies for my son not only butchering your very spiritual, inspirational, best-selling book with his potty-mouthed rendition, but also using it as an imaginary weapon of death and destruction. 

He’s only 4.  I’m on bed rest and bored.  And, he’s desperately trying to entertain me.

I was first hospitalized on Wednesday, January 13, when I was 25 weeks into my pregnancy, because of pre-term bleeding resulting from placenta previa.  Dr. O, one of my doctors, released me on Sunday, January 17, 48 hours after my last bleeding episode, directing me to be on full bed rest at home, but to immediately contact my high-risk pregnancy practice if any of the following occurred: 

1. An increase in baseline frequency of contractions
2. Greater than 4 contractions per hour, not responsive to 1-2 hours of rest and hydration
3. New backache
4. Increased vaginal discharge
5. Leakage of fluid
6. Vaginal bleeding
7. Cramping
8. Pelvic pressure or feeling of fullness

I have been diligently on bed rest—and, since Friday, January 15, a non-bleeder.  But, this morning, at the tail-end of a visit from my friend Heidi and her son, I went to the bathroom and found “increased vaginal discharge,” #4 on the above list, and, based on its brown color and consistency, I thought part of my placenta had fallen out of me. 

I didn’t come up with this scenario on my own.  I know a woman who had placenta previa, who lost half—yes, half—of her placenta in the same way, resulting in her doctors telling her that her son would be brain-damaged due to the reduced nutrients and oxygen he was receiving from the remaining half.  He turned out just fine; in fact, he’s brilliant, rather than brain-damaged.  But, because of her story, and because of the type of vaginal discharge I discovered, I put two-and-two together and thought the same was possibly happening to me. 

Regardless, “increased vaginal discharge” is “increased vaginal discharge,” so I called my practice, one of the nurses talked to the doctor on call, and I was told to go to labor-and-delivery for monitoring.

I called my friend Heidi, because I’d promised I’d touch base after hearing from the doctor, and she offered to drive me to the hospital.

I packed up my belongings in case I was in for yet-another multi-day hospital stay. 

I packed up my nearly 5-year-old son’s belongings in case he had to spend the night with friends.

I called my son’s preschool teacher to prepare her for his arrival, because he knew I was returning to the hospital and briefly cried, asking how many days I would be gone this time. 

I called my friend Yana and made the arrangements for her to take my son after school and overnight, if I wasn’t released in time. 

And, Heidi and I were off.  

I’d assumed she would just drop me off at the hospital, but she said she was going to stay with me, that our friend Kristy was watching her two kids to free her up.  I warned her, “You might be in for more than you can handle,” but she said she’d be fine.

I checked in at labor-and-delivery, and, as the nurse in my practice had promised, the staff was waiting for me.  Katie, my nurse from my last visit, was my nurse once again.  She brought us up into a room, handed me a hospital gown and a one-foot-high elastic band to wear around my waist, and, after I changed, found my son’s heartbeat with the fetal monitors, which she placed underneath the elastic band, so they’d stay in place.

Heidi was sitting in a chair across from my bed, as Katie said that the doctor would conduct a vaginal examination with a speculum to see if she saw any blood or cervical dilation. 

I looked at Heidi and said, “I don’t think you’re going to want to be sitting there.”  She laughed, agreeing, and moved to the chair next to my bed.

Dr. H, the doctor in my practice who was on call, was in the middle of a C-section, so another labor-and-delivery doctor came in to do my exam. 

Sitting next to me, rather than across from me, Heidi would no longer have the same, unobstructed, well-lit view of my nether region as the doctor, but I still had to be naked from the waist down, providing quite the show.

Heidi reassured me, promising to focus on her iPhone®, so she wouldn’t see anything, which I appreciated, saying, “I have gotten to the point where I don’t care who examines me, but I don’t want my friends to see my vagina.”

The doctor, whose name I can’t remember, said she saw no blood, and my cervix still looks closed.  I’d brought my “increased vaginal discharge” with me in a small plastic baggie, so the doctor could examine it too.  She said it looked like mucus and that it was so discolored—brown instead of clearish—because it has soaked up the leftover blood in my uterus.

She said I was right to call, but that everything is fine, so, after checking with Dr. H, who was finishing up that C-section, she released me back to my life of full bed rest at home.

I was only away from home for an hour and a half. 

When I walked in my door, with Heidi following me with my mini suitcase and briefcase, because I’m not allowed to lift anything, I hugged her tight.  I can’t express how much I appreciate her staying with me. 

After she left, I called my son’s teacher and asked her to tell him that I was fine and already at home.  I called my friend Yana to tell her that she didn’t need to watch my son after all.  I called Fran Howell, executive director of DES Action USA, who’d left a message for me while I was at the hospital. 

And, then I couldn’t keep my eyes open.  I was so emotionally and physically drained from those two hours of fear that I dozed on and off for three hours, while my son, when he got home from school, watched TV next to me.

I am so relieved that my baby and I are fine, considering I am only 27 weeks into this pregnancy.  I am so relieved to be back home.  But, it’s going to take me a few days to recover from this…