Saturday, November 28, 2009

Eat, Pump, Feed




Today marked a very strong turning point for Dylan (and us). First, he was moved to a pretty, open crib and is now dressed daily in stylish outfits! But even more momentous, Brad and I were finally able to get Dylan to feed with us as well as he has fed with the nurses.

It was a little frustrating for the past few days to hear that Dylan had taken so many cc's in so (relatively) few minutes with each nurse...and then when we'd get there, he'd lazily hold the bottle in his mouth and go to sleep. I suppose I should be happy he's so relaxed with us, but we ain't gettin' outta Florida like that.

So today, we decided to stop listening to every single nurse's individual piece of advice, and start doing what feels right to us - easier said than done. When you have no idea what the hell you're doing with a baby - much less a newborn - and even much less a preemie...well, that's a scary notion.

But on that note, there's been no better place to learn what to do with your baby than a NICU, let me tell you! I already know so much more than I ever did - and you should see Brad work a diaper now - wow.

Meanwhile, in the adventures of pumping, I've discovered something frightening and seemingly impossible. I am hungrier now than ever before. The breast pump is challenging my metabolism to a wrestling match in my stomach, and it's wearing me out. This is why you have to keep taking vitamins after the delivery - otherwise, you'd die.

It goes something like this every day:

-Pump at 7am
-Go back to sleep
-Pump whenever I wake up next
-Eat breakfast
-Go to the hospital (realize I should have eaten breakfast again)
-Pump
-I'm starving
-Eat a man-sized meal
-Pump
-Leave the hospital
-I'm hungry, eat again
-It's dinner, time to eat like a man again
-Go back to the hospital
-Pump
-Bedtime snack
-Repeat

Wish Dylan, me and our household budget luck with all the feeding.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Happy Thanksgiving!




It's been a busy past couple of days, which is why you haven't heard from me since Monday - and ultimately, all is excellent!

Dylan's feeding test was Tuesday morning at 9 am. Brad and I watched the live X-ray of his successful feeding, which featured nothing more than sucking and swallowing, the two actions we were looking for. These are things we take for granted, but for Dylan, they represent huge milestones. Regardless of his surgery, his gestational age (36 weeks tomorrow) still presents challenges in these areas. We also learned that boys tend to be slower feeders than girls, and Caucasians tend to be slower than other ethnicities (not sure how that plays out here). In any case, we are thrilled with his progress.

The goal for Dylan since then has been to consume 10-15 cc's in 20 minutes about every 3 hours (perhaps contributing to his new 5 lb. 10 oz. weight!). He's been gradually meeting this goal - seemingly preferring night feedings to day feedings, though I suppose 2 days of data is insufficient to draw any real conclusions. Perhaps his most impressive take was earlier this evening, when he had 12 cc's in 4 minutes! Exciting as this is, we are not pressuring him. Right now, he's still feeding from a bottle whose nipple most simulates the real thing (this is more challenging for him, which is by design). And we will work with him on breastfeeding simultaneously - the goal here being to acquaint him with the breast more than anything else. Please note, this is probably the only time in my son's life when I am okay with him becoming acquainted with anyone's breast.

Of course, this story simply would not be consistent without some wild drama. So don't worry, things haven't been perfectly comfortable all week. Shortly after delivering, I began experiencing night sweats. It's disgusting. I don't wake up hot, which is what I would have expected. Rather, I wake up a bit chilly because my PJs...even the sheets...are more than damp and less than drenched. Combine with this the fact that the A/C is usually on (because after all, it's the end of November in Florida), and the situation can become quite unhappy.

Yesterday morning, I woke up at 5 am, feeling particularly cold. I didn't think anything of it, and just tried to go back to sleep until 7, when I wake up to pump. Then when I got up at 7, I was nearly freezing, but again, figured the whole night sweat thing combined with the A/C and the mere sound of pouring rain (which I mistakenly equate with cold) was screwing with me. So I pumped.

After I got back in bed, things quickly plummeted downhill. We were supposed to meet Brad's Uncle Jack for lunch, but I couldn't even get out of bed. I was shivering and whimpering like a homeless kitten. Brad encouraged me to get up and take a hot shower, which seemed like a good idea - only it took me 1/2 hour to get there, and then did absolutely nothing to warm me up. After wrapping me in several layers of clothing, Brad put me back in bed and doubled up the covers on top of me. He called Dylan's nurse at my urging, in hopes of some advice - not surprisingly, none was given except, "You should call her doctor or send her to the emergency room." Strike One. He then called "my doctor's office (read: Mount Sinai)," who offered, "You should bring her in or take her to emergency." Strike Two. Then he called my mom. "She needs to go to emergency or back to Mount Sinai - I think Mount Sinai makes most sense." Strike Three. I was going back to Mount Sinai - again.

In the meantime, I'd taken 2 Aleve, and frankly, I don't remember a whole lot transpiring over the next hour or so. All I know is that when I did wake up, I'd stopped shivering - and eventually, I was able to shed most of the layers.

Around 1:00, my mom and I headed back to Miami Beach while Brad went to spend time with Dylan. Thankfully, I did not have to wait long before seeing the doctor, who confirmed something I wish I'd known, oh, I don't know...last week? Yeah, so as it turns out, a dull and persistent stomach ache is in fact not par for the course with a C-section. That's called a uterine infection, or endometritis, for which I met 5 of 7 noted risk factors - who knew? Not the Mount Sinai doctors, apparently. Awesome. So all this time, when I struggled so severely getting into or out of bed, it wasn't because I was "slow to recover." It's because I was "infected."

2 days into the 5-day course of antibiotics, I already feel amazing. And not that fake amazing I experienced that would last for a day here and a day there. I enjoyed Thanksgiving today with Brad's cousins nearby, which was fantastic. What a treat to enjoy the holidays with family, despite being so far from home. Frankly, I even look a lot better - but that may be the new boobs I'm sporting. Come on, I deserve that small victory.

Upon doing the laundry tonight, Brad discovered 2 pairs of disposable hospital underwear! They are now washed and ready to be worn, believe it or not. I have no idea how they made it into my bag back home from the hospital, but you know what? I'm going to go ahead and wear those puppies, at least overnight! As it turns out, they're really freakin' comfortable. And I deserve that.

Monday, November 23, 2009

It's Not Gas - I'm Smiling!




While Dylan's health improves, so does mine. I actually got into bed last night like a normal person instead of a disabled 90-year-old, and got up similarly comfortably. When I got ready this morning, I even blow dried and flat ironed my own hair - and lo and behold, I look like myself again (okay, minus the volleyball that's deflated from a basketball in my belly)!

Today, we met our friends Callista and Peter for lunch. The universe is a funny place. According to the original plan, their wedding was the one we were headed to more than a month ago after our few days in Miami. While we are so sad to have missed the big event, we can all agree we were best off in Miami vs. Grafton, IL given the circumstances (despite the number of OB-Gyns and Neo-Natologists in attendance). In any case, what are the chances that this pair, who got married more than a month ago in the midwest, have been living in Liberia, Africa for the past year, and are returning to Swaziland, would be spending time with family in Delray Beach, FL?

I actually enjoyed the brief feeling of being on vacation for the first time since waking up the morning of October 12th. We lunched at a cute little spot right on the water here in Hollywood where the portions of burgers, chili cheese fries and the like were HUGE - couldn't have been happier about that. I also couldn't have been happier about the key lime pie we ordered - twice. So yeah, while I never said, "I'm eating for two," now I can say, "I'm soon to be someone else's sole food supply, and from what I've heard, that burns 600 calories/day - so bite me."

The best news of the day came when we learned Dylan's feeding is going to be tested tomorrow at 9 am! The jury is still out on whether the feeding will come directly from me or one of the many bottles I've been storing at the hospital (I was actually congratulated by one of the nurses today on my ample supply). Regardless, it's very exciting, because the outcome of this feeding will largely determine what happens next for all of us - so please think good thoughts!

Stay tuned for tomorrow's update...

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Happy One Week!




The past couple of days have been excellent for Dylan. When I met Brad at the hospital yesterday afternoon, the wonderful man we now refer to as "Uncle Richie" was there. Uncle Richie, or more formally, Richard Auerbach, is the reason we ended up at Joe DiMaggio Children's Hospital in the first place. Our friend TP's uncle, Richie reached out to us the second day we found ourselves in this scary situation back in mid-October. He never let up, checking in on us and providing great advice and simply acting as a sounding board on at least a weekly basis. As an administrator here at the hospital, he assured us of its excellent neo-natal program, and in the end, there was no question this was where we should have Dylan transported for the surgery. Jackson Memorial, the alternative hospital suggested to us by Mount Sinai's Neo-Natologist, is a large county hospital in Miami renowned for its trauma center - but it just didn't seem the best fit for Dylan. We are so happy to be where we are - thank you, Uncle Richie!

Yesterday, not only did Dylan come off of the photo-therapy treatment for jaundice (so no more cool sunglasses), but he lost his nasal air flow tubes and was moved to a private room! The private room is absolutely beautiful and comfortable, allowing Brad and me (and my mom, who still remains with us) to relax with Dylan 24/7 as we wish. But the best thing about it is it's indicative of his significant health improvement. The private rooms are lower maintenance, still with assigned nurses and constant monitoring, but they are not in the primary area of the NICU. Frankly, this room is nicer than either my Labor & Delivery or Post-Partum rooms at Mount Sinai - the only thing it's missing is a TV (though Dylan provides us with ample entertainment)!

Dylan has continued to progress today. All of the tape that was once holding down his nasal tubes has been removed from his face, after proving he could make it 24 hours without the assisted air flow. In fact, relatively little remains on his body except for his diaper (which has been sized up). His weight is now up to almost 5 lbs. 2 oz., and let me tell you, this kid is ready to eat. He sucks on his pacifier with a vengeance!

Tomorrow, the doctor will examine Dylan to determine his final course of treatment. We're very hopeful that the prognosis will be positive and he'll be allowed to start feeding. Then, it's only a matter of time before we're on our way back home!

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Hands-Free and Pants-Free




Recovering from a C-section is a rocky road. One day, you feel great and like your overall pain and movement is totally improving - the next, you feel like you've endured...well...major abdominal surgery. Go figure. So today is one of those days when I'm not feeling quite as up and about, and thus decided to get some more sleep, rest with my feet up, and meet Brad at the hospital later. It's tough, because despite the fact that I'm struggling with my own recovery, I feel very guilty not being by Dylan's bedside 24/7.

Meanwhile, as you all know, one thing that I continue to do for him seemingly all day, every day, is pump. It's not a particularly enjoyable experience, but as you may recall from my previous post, I've learned how to make it as productive as possible for myself (beyond the whole me being milked like a cow thing).

Yesterday, what I perhaps hadn't yet learned was just how conscious of my wardrobe I must be for this exercise. I pump both at our "home" and at the hospital. It's still very warm here in southern Florida, and dresses are all-around more comfortable than anything else (note the discharge day mistake of wearing yoga pants - not good). So I'd pulled on a long, knit sundress over a tank top for the day. This would also work well for my trip back to Mount Sinai (the last!) to have my sutures removed, and transition nicely to dinner, when we met up with Brad's cousins.

As I sat down at the hospital for my first opportunity to pump since getting dressed in this get-up, I set myself up as usual - diaper bag with my supplies beside me on the floor and feet elevated on an ottoman. I then went to pull my arm out of the dress sleeve hole - not budging. I tugged harder. Still, nothing. I ratcheted the dress up a bit and tried the other side. Zero movement. Now I'm writhing around in the chair like Houdini trying to escape a straight jacket.

Finally, after beads of sweat were forming on my forehead, I realized what I had to do. I had to take my dress off. Completely. No longer was I behind the curtain of a pumping room - I was behind the curtain of a full dressing room. And so I stood up sheepishly, and did what had to be done. Then, to avoid resting my ass directly on my chair, I wrapped the dress around me. Did I mention it's freezing in the room? Now shivering, I proceed to pump - hands-free and pants-free.

Mortifying? Yes. Liberating? No.

Horrifying? Yes. Exhilarating? No.

Humbling? Yes. Satisfying? No.

And so another day, another lesson learned.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Pumping - It's a Lifestyle




Wednesday, November 18th, I was discharged from Mount Sinai Hospital after having spent approximately 1 month + 1 week as its guest. It was a very emotional experience - simultaneously joyously freeing, surreal and even perhaps a bit scary. After all, I'd had a huge staff of people taking care of my every need for so long, it was almost frightening to think that I would no longer have a button on my bed to answer my calls. But believe you me - one gets over this - quickly.

The most exciting part of the day was not my discharge - which came and went pretty quickly after Brad's family cleaned out the hospital room and transported everything to our new home in Hollywood, FL. Rather, the most exciting moment came when I got into the car with my mother, en route to visit Dylan at Joe DiMaggio Children's Hospital. We raced against all odds to make it in time to see him off before his afternoon surgery. It was a scary couple of hours once it began. No matter how much reassurance you get from the doctors, nurses and anesthesiologists, you can't help but think of this tiny, newborn body being operated on by a room full of strangers - barely yet cognizant of his new world. You feel guilty that he is no longer in your womb, yet you know he had to come out - but to this? It's a nightmare I wish upon no parent, ever.

When the doctor met us in the waiting room of the NICU with the exciting news of his successful surgery, we - myself, Brad, my mom, Brad's parents and brother - were overwhelmed with happiness. It was not long before we got to go back and visit him in his little incubator, and he looked amazing. No longer intubated, he had the tiniest scar from the surgical incision, and just a couple of tubes and bandages elsewhere so that we could really get a good look at him. He was so strong!

It is definitely true that the moment you become a parent, you stop thinking of yourself first. Here I was, only less than 72 hours post C-section, and I'm operating on 4 hours of sleep, pain meds, barely able to move without a wheelchair. I was in so much pain, but I kept going anyway because I wasn't about to leave my son at the hospital.

After finally leaving to briefly stop at home before heading to dinner around 8:30, the pain and exhaustion hit me - badly. I was like the walking dead simply trying to get from the car to the restaurant, much less trying to make it through the meal. I ate a few bites of the appetizers, and couldn't eat anything else though I had been so hungry. I was reclined in the booth because I couldn't find comfort, and what's worse, I needed to cough. You might imagine what it is like to cough after a C-section, with the adhesive residue still sticking your skin together no matter how many showers, and the sutures still fresh in the most unfortunate of bodily territory. Misery knew no better company.

Meanwhile, there was actually a funny moment. Our rental somehow lacked an adequate supply of toilet paper, but no one ever made it to the store to buy some. We realized this around 10:00 at night, and I couldn't bear to ride in a car headed anywhere but home. After Brad's brother Todd emerged from a trip to the restroom, we had an idea - steal a roll of toilet paper from them. As it turns out, Todd already had this idea, as he pulled a bunch of sad pieces of toilet paper out of his pocket that he apparently was hoarding for himself. Nice. So we sent my mom in next, with her giant bag with a button closure (critical, as not to expose the contraband), to get the goods. I may have been on the verge of death, but at least I would not have to suffer on the toilet as I grabbed for an empty roll.

When we finally made it home, it was midnight, and I still needed to pump (get clarification here). People, let me tell you - if I'm not pumping, I've just finished pumping or am thinking about pumping. As it turns out, the fact that Dylan cannot yet enjoy my milk does not mean I'm free from producing it. I must pump every 3 hours to make sure I'm ready for him when he is - and yes, that includes overnight hours. To give you an idea, after I finish this post and get ready for bed, I will pump. Then I will set my alarm to wake up to pump again. I pumped 4 times between going to bed last night and leaving the house this afternoon. And I could have squeezed in a fifth time if I'd been really aggressive.

At least now I've learned the reason for the double pump vs. single pump - hands-free! Consider the next time you receive an email or text from me, or read a blog post or Facebook update - was I pumping while it happened? Now you'll never know.

Dylan looked great today, and even had a couple of additional family members visit. His day nurse indicated that he would likely have his feeding test a day early due to his excellent progress - next Tuesday. And if he proves he can feed for 48 hours on his own, he will be discharged. We're not setting any timelines because we've learned not to get too attached to our calendars. But it's certainly exciting to continue to hear that he is doing so great. His breathing continues to be good, just getting a little extra help from some air flow through his nasal passages, and his jaundice is improving (though he looks way too cool under the tanning light with the sunglasses, doesn't he?). In fact, the only real sign of his surgery at this point is his chest tube. Once that is removed, he can be moved into a lower intensity section of the NICU.

As for me, I took care of myself by finally getting some sleep and enjoying the feeling of a real bed I can actually share with Brad, a real shower I can actually stand up in, and the semblance of a real...life. My pain level and body movement improved significantly today, and I expect when I head back to the doctor tomorrow to have my sutures removed, I'll feel like a new woman. After that, it's just a matter of time's healing (and doing something about the cinder blocks that are supposedly my feet - go figure - no swelling during pregnancy, just post-delivery).

One day at a time.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Free At Last!




I'm writing this on a cocktail of 800mg of Motrin and who knows how much Percocet. So we're going to make it very, very brief before I pass out and/or say something awkward - like, awkward, even for me.

I'm being discharged tomorrow - Halelujah! And Dylan's surgery is scheduled for late morning at Joe DiMaggio's Children Hospital about 1/2 hour away in Hollywood. He should be in excellent hands there.

Tomorrow, Brad and I, plus my mom and his brother Todd, will move into a condo a couple of miles from the hospital. The hospital is also providing us with free, on-campus housing that we will use simply for basic conveniences.

We expect Dylan to fully recover and be ready to head home in 2-3 weeks if there are no complications. So that Thanksgiving arrival date is no longer on the horizon. But hey, we've been here this long...what's a little while longer?

Stay tuned for more updates from this incredible saga. While my posts will no longer feature long diatribes about molesting nurses and general invasions of privacy (the USC chop-chop doctor walked in on me pumping today - behind the drawn curtain in my room - even after I'd hollered, "One moment please!"), I'm sure the residents of Hollywood, FL will offer plenty of food for thought...

Monday, November 16, 2009

Dylan Zachary Presner - 4lbs 15 oz. and 16 in.




Last time we talked, I was preparing for my second induction on Sunday. And then, you may have noticed I went MIA. So what a wild ride it's been...

On Saturday, you may recall I was 1 cm dilated. Well, on Sunday, I woke up and immediately went back on the Pitocin. The contractions felt stronger and were properly spaced. But two more exams that day revealed that I was still just 1 cm dilated, with no change in my cervix. In other words, there was no way I was going to deliver a baby vaginally. So after more than 24 hours preparing for and trying to induce labor, the game plan changed - which I was ready for.

After speaking to the anesthesiologist about my pain management options, it was determined that I'd have a spinal block. The advantage of this method over the epidural is that it supposedly more intensely manages the pain.

Around 4:30 pm, I was wheeled back to the operating room. I was very nervous, simply because no amount of preparation can really ready you for surgery. But the doctors and nurses made the experience as pleasant as possible, playing music and making conversation. Frankly, it was a real party in there, with about 8-10 medical team members in the room.

You receive a spinal block by sitting on the edge of the operating table in a c-curve position. This is actually more uncomfortable than the administration of the drug, because you have to remain like this for 10 minutes. They numb the lower area of your back, and then inject you - but only after a lot of other steps have been taken. I suppose it's a good thing they take their time stabbing you in the spine.

After the drug had been administered, they had me lie down, and shortly thereafter, I began to feel the sensation of the drug. My legs were getting numb and tingly. "Great!" I thought. "It's working." After a few minutes, they performed a series of prick tests to determine whether or not I was fully numb. Um, yeah, so I wasn't. "No big deal," they said. "You're tall - it'll take longer." Okay, fine. Another few minutes pass, and I feel more pricks. After a few rounds of this, one thing became clear - the spinal block failed me, and we'd have to move to Plan B.

Plan B sucks. It's general anesthesia, and was mentioned to me pre-surgey only as a "last resort" that carried with it a series of drawbacks - the main one, in my mind, being that I'd be out for the entire procedure, and Brad could not be in the room. As it turns out, it also sucks because it only lasts for as long as you are unconscious, which means that as soon as you wake up, you feel all of the pain - more on that later.

At 5:36 pm, Dylan was born. I woke up in a recovery room (which I initially thought was the operating room, simply remodeled), where it was expected I'd be for 2-3 hours. However, I was in such severe pain, and being treated with so many different pain medications, that I was there for 8 hours. I suffered like I have never suffered before. The worst pain came with the contractions I was being forced to have by the Pitocin they administered. The reason for this is that the uterus needs to keep contracting post-delivery, and decrease in size. Unfortunately, with every contraction, I experienced a horrible muscle spasm that made my entire body shake in agony. They tried at least 4 or 5 different pain meds to soothe me - including Morphine - and none of them worked.

At 2:00 am, after coming in and out of painful consciousness, they broke protocol and wheeled me back on my stretcher to see Dylan in the NICU. This truly wiped away the pain. Holding his little body in my arms was a transformative experience I cannot describe.

After the first sleepless night in my new postpartum room, I awoke to the same pain. Not until mid-afternoon did I finally get some relief, largely as a result of Percocet and the cessation of Pitocin. I finally got out of bed and on my feet around 5:00, with a great deal of nurse help. And then came the sweet reward - another visit with Dylan, this time with Brad.

On the second day, he already looks so different! His cone-shaped head and crooked nose, apparently the result of him having wedged himself face-up in my pelvis (and the reason my cervix never changed) are quickly correcting themselves. He also began receiving phototherapy for mild jaundice, a very common newborn condition.

Dylan is definitely a fighter. He received a perfect 9/9 Apgar score - pretty atypical for a preemie. In fact, the one problem he does have is unrelated to his young gestational age. This week, Dylan will undergo surgery for Esophageal Atresia and Tracheoesophageal Fistula. Essentially, his esophagus does not connect to his stomach, which means that he has to be fed intravenously. It is a serious but straightforward condition to treat, and the sooner it is taken care of, of course, the better.

It has been a very long road, but I'm confident that the past 5 weeks and the weeks ahead will only make me stronger and even more appreciative of so many things. We're excited to get back to San Francisco, but we're taking it one day at a time.

Thank you, once again, to all of you for your support!

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Just Kidding




7:40 pm. Still no baby. Not even in "true labor."

It all began at 3:00 this morning. The nurse came to administer Cervidil (more on that truly unpleasant experience later), start my IV and draw my blood. I considered these to all be solid milestones in my general birthing experience. Hmph.

So let me tell you what I thought was going to happen. I thought that the Cervidil would be left in for about 8 hours and then I'd be started on Pitocin to induce labor. Because to be clear, Cervidil is not intended to start labor (though it can) - it's intended to "prepare" the cervix (read: ripen, open, shorten). Then I thought things would roll from there. As it turns out, I was right about the process - but wrong about the timing.

Remember the cervical exam I lamented? Yeah, so I've now had 4 of them, including the Cervidil administration. They likened Cervidil to a tampon: "It's just a little pouch with a long string attached." What they didn't consider in this little analogy of theirs is that Cervidil is inserted welllll beyond where a tampon is - without gel. And my doctor has short fingers. Ponder that.

Between the Cervidil episode and the Pitocin (which was started at 12:30 this afternoon), I enjoyed another milestone - an enema. I gotta tell ya, compared to everything else I've been through, this was a vacation. As it turns out, having warm, soapy water squirted up your bum and being asked to "hold it" for as long as you can before running to the bathroom is downright refreshing in the right context.

When the Pitocin was started at 12:30, I figured I was in for a wild ride. Perhaps if you define "wild ride" as sitting and standing in different positions for hours while not really feeling much of anything beyond mild-medium cramping...then yes. Otherwise, the day was anything but. The most wild few hours I experienced came while watching Stanford dismantle USC 55-21 (most points ever scored on USC in the program's history - and worst loss since 1966 - I'm just sayin'). You'd have thought some of my uproarious cheers during this game would have kicked me into strong labor - but no. I remain 1 cm dilated, which means nothing - a South Beach hooker is probably 1 cm dilated on any given day.

After having not really eaten or drunk anything for 24 hours aside from ice chips (save a tiny apple juice, small piece of chocolate, and orange shaved ice), and simultaneously not progressing in labor, it seemed reasonable to change the plan. So around 7:00 pm, they stopped the Pitocin so that I could eat and drink whatever I wanted. I have until midnight. So far, I've had 3 steak tacos, chips and guacamole, and am about to have a slice of key lime pie. Yes, I am going to need another enema. During this time, I was also allowed to shower, which felt fantastic.

Unfortunately, I now find myself on a labor and delivery bed, without much labor and no delivery. My feet hang off the end of the bed, and I lost the egg crate from my previous bed. What a perfect night to be uncomfortable. Sigh.

At midnight, they will restart the Pitocin, and assuming I don't go into sudden strong labor, revisit me around 7 am with another f***ing cervical exam to gauge my progress. If I don't go by tomorrow evening, we'll need to think about a C-section. Regardless, I need to have something happen by then, because otherwise, Dr. Snip-Snip from USC will come a callin' on Monday - and I'm going to guess he will not be in a good mood.

So...stay tuned for the continuing saga of my 2-day induction.

Friday, November 13, 2009

The Last Supper




Well, well, well...and so here we are.

Today has been a little scary and awesomely exciting, all at once. It began with my in-room hair appointment at 12:30. That was of course awesomely exciting. A couple hours later, my doctor came in with the nurse and a medical student to discuss my birthing plan. Great, I've been waiting for this! And then came the scary part...

So ladies. You know when you go in for your annual exam, you get in that fateful position on the table...and right after the audible "snap" of the medical glove around the doc's wrist as the death metal has you cranked wide open like a 6-lane highway, he or she says:

"You're going to feel a little bit of pressure."

And as we all know, that's a lie.

Well, I dream of that exam instead of what I experienced at approximately 3:30 this afternoon. Do you know where your cervix is? I mean, do you really know where your cervix is? And I don't mean theoretically. I mean literally. Yeah, so I didn't exactly either - until this afternoon. And let me tell you - it is quite far away from where it should be for any sort of medical exam - ever.

After putting my eyes back in their sockets and recommencing breathing, I learned that my cervix is "pretty soft" but still closed and posterior. It needs to be even softer and anterior - and of course, open. Thus, Cervidil will be employed to get things going. I'm looking forward to the insertion of this tampon-like drug at 3:00 this morning. It's been too long since something has visited my cervix.

At this time, my IV will be started, with a simultaneous blood draw. If the cramping that the Cervidil causes is too much for me to handle while I try to catch some sleep, I can opt for a sedative. On the plus side, this will help me drift off to sleep. On the minus side, it will prevent me from being able to get up and go to the bathroom - and with no catheter, that means a bed pan. And the fun begins - more on what comes next tomorrow.

After the cervical exam, the afternoon was a blur. But things really picked up around 6:30. That's when my mom wheeled me outside where, according to locals, it was "freezing." According to me, it was just shy of balmy. We spent a little more than 1/2 hour enjoying the scenery before returning to the room, where my mom presented me with some very stylish pajamas she instructed me to put on - complete with my bling bling sandals. I thought it was rather strange she demanded I put them on at that very moment, but I wasn't going to argue with anything that would get me out of a hospital gown for the first time in 5 weeks.

Once I had changed, Brad entered the room, and they escorted me to the labor and delivery room next door, which had been completely transformed into a beautiful little bistro. Flowers, candles (fake ones, as not to set off any alarms), a little table with two chairs, and a feast of all feasts awaited.

OH MY GOD.

I sat at a cloth-covered table, drank a glass of wine, and most important, did not have to eat while lying down (or drink my water out of a straw). The food was incredible. It came from Prime 112, a fantastic steakhouse on the beach. Our menu featured:

-Kobe beef meatballs
-A 22 oz. rib-eye with truffle butter (we split that)
-Creamed spinach with shallots
-Truffled french fries
-Fried oreos

This was one helluva last supper before they begin starving me at midnight.

If that wasn't enough, Brad further surprised me by asking if I'd like my push present before or after delivery (the timing is acceptable either way, by definition!). I think you know what I chose. After all, the baby is present enough for tomorrow, right?

After almost 3 hours out of bed (gasp!) and off the grid, I returned to my room next door, feeling about as calm and ready for this show to begin as possible. I thank you all for your many, many emails, phone calls, texts, blog comments and Facebook messages. While I may not always respond to them, that doesn't mean they aren't important to me - each and every one has helped me through this that much more.

The next time you hear from me, I'll be...a mom (of a human being - Moby, you will always be the first son)! Brad will do his best to send out an update, but fair warning: it's going to be more than a notion to remember all of the intended email addresses. That said, please come back to the blog for the most complete update (and at least one photo).

Wish me luck!

P.S. Thank you, Sherri. You done good.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

The Final Countdown




Many of you have acknowledged that I seem to have reached the end of my rope. And I won't deny that. Everything annoys me now - including the nurse who introduced herself to me for the fourth time since I've been here. Really, Linda? Really, you didn't think I knew your name? How else would I have added it to the NURSES I HATE list?!?! And by the way, you know who else is getting added to that list? The genius who suggested I have another baby in a year.

Meanwhile, daytime TV is officially awful. All of the programming is designed to scare (primarily) stay-at-home-moms shitless about things like rare forms of bacteria dwelling on your kitchen countertops; diseases you can catch from your pets; and child abduction. When I seek to escape from that, I'm accosted by repeats of Valerie Bertinelli's E! True Hollywood Story.

And thus, it's become supremely important to infuse my days with special highlights from outside of my hospital room. For example, today was my second mani/pedi, to prepare for the big day. Tomorrow will be the second in-room hair appointment. Some have asked why I would dare primp before delivery, instead of waiting to reward myself afterwards. Well, gee, let me see. When do you think I'm going to have time for a leisurely mani/pedi and blow-out here after this kid is born? It would be pretty awkward to bounce out to a hair salon while my baby is in the NICU, no? And for those who have expressed concern that my hair will look terrible after delivery...puh-leeze. I pride myself on the fact that exercise becomes me, and I don't sweat. I expect to look better than I have for the past month.

Tomorrow afternoon should certainly be interesting. The doctor will administer an exam to determine the final induction plan, which may or may not include cervidil to "ripen" my cervix (sorry, that's gross, even if you have no idea what it means); and will definitely include pitocin. I look forward to bidding farewell to so many drugs in my system after Saturday (except for the epidural - that can stay as long as it wants).

When I post tomorrow's update, I'll fill you in on the plan, which is likely to commence very early Saturday morning. And yes, I will plan to post on Saturday, even if it's a one-liner like, "I'm still alive." But watch out - because I don't plan to spare a whole lot of details, people! You've hung in there with me for this long...don't bitch out at the end.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

A Morning Narrative




2:00 am:
-"Doo-doo-doooo" sounds from the monitor to notify me there is no more paper.
-Nurse comes in to replace paper (at least I didn't have to call her).
-Nurse takes my blood pressure and temperature, while she's in here.

4:00 am
-My God, I have to pee so badly. But I hate getting out of bed. It takes me forever to reach my compression boots to unplug them, and rolling over and pulling myself up out of bed is agony, since the baby has decided to wedge himself on top of my birth canal.

4:10 am
-I'm out of bed.

6:30 am
-KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!!!
-"WHAT??"
-KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!!!
-Confused pause
-KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!!!
-"Come in, WTF?!"

6:31 am
-Enter night nurse and tag-along.
-All lights go on.
-Loud talking ensues between Tweedledee and Tweedledum.
-One says, "I need a blood pressure and temperature check."
-The other says, "And we're going to do a blood draw."
-I say, "Right now?? JESUS."

6:40 am
-Offenders exit the room.
-Brad and I talk shit about both of them and the annoyance of the situation.
-I notice that 2 of the lights are still on.

6:45 am
-Vampire re-enters the room - more loud talking, seemingly to herself.
-Brad rips into her with, "For future reference, we need to not have her blood drawn at 6:30 in the morning. She's delivering a baby on Saturday and needs her rest. Once it was midnight...another time, the middle of the afternoon..."
-Vampire retorts, "It's not me, it's your nurse. You need to talk to your nurse. It's not me!"
-Brad angrily responds, "Fine, we'll talk to the nurse."

9:30 am
-Awake, I realize no one has come back into the room.
-I also realize I have no breakfast tray.
-I've been punished.

10:30 am
-Whatever, I don't care that I have no breakfast - because I've just received a giant bagel delivery (thank you, Acumen Fund)!

11:30 am
-Brad's parents arrive - with bagels (and flowers). Clearly, we eat these first.

End morning - begin afternoon. T minus 3 days.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Really???




Today, I tasted the many flavors of incompetence that seem to be packaged so deliciously here at Mount Sinai Medical Center. And it all began at what was once my favorite Perinatology office.

Our appointment was at 2:00, but because we waited for 1/2 hour last week, the nurse called ahead to find out when we should really get there. We were advised to actually depart at 2:00, getting us there around 2:20 - too early for CP Time. And we still waited for 20-30 minutes - probably not the best thing for someone on bed rest.

When they called me back to the exam room, Brad wheeled me in. I got up on the table as usual, waiting for things to get started. And then the tech asked the most unusual question:

"What are you here for?"

Well, gee, I don't know, let's see. I'm pregnant. This is my third time here in three weeks. I'm in a room with an ultrasound machine. I'm going to hazard a guess that I'm here for a f***ing ultrasound.

But rather than answer as such, I provided her with a little bit of history:

"On vacation, yada yada, water broke at 29 weeks, stuck in the hospital on bed rest..."

That seemed to satisfy her enough to explain that I'd be getting a routine amniotic fluid check and a few other measurements to determine my biophysical profile score. Brad interjected, explaining that the doctor wanted us to make sure we also got a baby measurement and cervical length. Apparently, by saying this, he'd yelled expletives at her.

She snapped back that their office would perform neither of these measurements.

"Your last baby measurement was 2 weeks ago (actually it was 1 week ago at their office, and 2 days ago in my room, but Ms. Rules didn't need to know that), and we only perform this measurement once every three weeks due to inaccuracy. And we won't measure the cervix of a woman whose membranes have ruptured (that's a medical way of saying my water broke)."

We explain that this is what the doctor ordered, and that in fact my cervix has been measured before in a non-intrusive way. But this serves no purpose. She called the doctor she reports to, called my nurse back at the hospital, demanded a faxed prescription for the measurements (which she claimed she didn't have)...hell, she might have called President Obama about the matter.

After about 30 minutes lying down on a table with gel on my exposed belly, she was satisfied enough by her Spanish Inquisition to begin the exam. Things continued to go downhill from there, as she shook her head and mumbled under her breath that my fluid level was very low. (Only later did she note that the baby can hide the pockets of fluid, preventing her from being able to measure two of the four quadrants.) By this point, I was starting to quietly lose it. In the meantime, she stumbles around the room, getting ready to measure my cervix. Then came the following:

"Okay, we're just going to have you lower your legs. Hmmmm, I just need to figure out how this is going to work. It's been a really long time since I've done this."

In my head, I said, "Bitch, back the hell up off my cervix with your uneducated, non-knowing-how-to-perform-a-routine-exam ass!!"

In reality, I shot Brad one look as she stepped out of the room to get an education. And Brad knew to take that look and translate it back to her as, "We're outta here."

At that point, we still had to wait for our "report" to share with the doctor. It was supposed to take one minute. But we waited...and waited...and waited. And that's not the worst part. As we sat in that lobby, I started to get a whiff of something funky. Moments later, a staffer walked out spraying a can of Lysol, leading right up to a small, open trash can. Oh...no...she did-nt just fish a dirty diaper out of there. Whoooooo throws an unconcealed, shit-filled diaper into an office trash can in a public lobby?? This reminds me of the Google freaks, changing their baby on the floor of the cafe, then wielding the dirty diaper through the dessert trays like bio-terrorists before tossing the mess into a nearby compost bin. Really.

Let the countdown begin, because I am soooooo done.

Monday, November 9, 2009

You're Going to Force Feed My Baby?




So you know how in prison, the inmates trade goods with one another? Yeah, well so today, I traded my O Magazine to a nurse for some "Sweet Pea" body wash she stored in her locker. What has become of my life?

There were a couple of highlights today (aside from the nice soap). The first was my second trip out and about. Yes, we take the same route each time, because anything not along the water would simply take me through parking lots. But it's lovely! And the weather is really great now - it's in the low '80s and very breezy. Adding to the excitement was my doc's prescription for some (very limited) walking! So I actually walked the length of a hallway after we returned from our trip - and I didn't even fall over. That practice going back and forth between my bed and the bathroom has apparently been a great training regimen.

We also spoke to one of the Neonatologists today, who we've been trying to nail down for a couple of days, and he provided us with much more of a roadmap than we've had since getting here. As a 34-weeker, our little guy (or big guy, since he's now weighing in over 5 pounds - can you imagine him at 40 weeks??) thankfully escapes the biggest preemie concerns. The main issue he is likely to face is eating (hard to believe, coming from Brad and me). Essentially, his sucking and swallowing skills may not yet be fully up and running, which may require supplemented gavage feeding. I've always associated this practice with the production of foie gras - and it rather disturbs me to think of my baby as a duck or goose. But I digress. He is likely to figure things out within 3 to 10 days post-delivery, at which point he could be discharged and whisked straight to the airport. Pretty incredible! Bottom line - the likelihood of us being home for Thanksgiving is very strong.

Somehow, the big debate today seemed to be whether or not I am actually still leaking amniotic fluid. I'm not sure why this was debatable, considering that they performed a swab test yesterday that confirmed I am still leaking. It's also fairly apparent when fluid is coming out of you, but no one seems to want to listen to me. Everyone (especially today's doctor) seems to be trying to will me to seal over and go back home to San Francisco. Let me tell you something - sealed or not - I ain't coming home without a baby. I am not getting on a plane 34 weeks pregnant, just so that I can land at SFO and have to be rushed to the hospital for more bed rest. I have come to terms with my Miami baby and his November 14th birthday, and we're not changing the plan.

On the agenda for tomorrow - back to Perinatology - somebody call the cops, that'll be 3 days outside in a row!

Sunday, November 8, 2009

Shut the Door and Get Me Out of Here!




The morning began at 5 am when my monitor ran out of paper. It has to be replaced every 8 hours, which means that more often than not, I get an unfortunate wake-up call at ass o'clock in the form of the most annoying "Doo doo dooo" alarm. Upon hearing this noise, I press the nurse call button (unless the nurse is really on top of it and manages to come in and change the paper right before or as the alarm is going off). These days, she just comes in and changes the paper without bothering me, which is nice - it used to be that I could also expect to have my vitals taken at this time.

For reasons completely unknown to me, the nurse left the door ajar when she left the room. What the hell? Seeing as it takes me a couple of minutes to actually get out of bed by the time I unhook my compression boots and disconnect myself from the monitor, I was none too excited to have the light from the hallway shining into my room. So I lay in bed for a few minutes, considering whether or not I could sleep with the door of my hospital room open. Futile.

Around 7:30, the door opened again. Now what?? It was too early for a visit from the doctor or breakfast. I swear to God, if someone had walked in to tell me I was "irritable," I would have punched them in the face.

So I didn't open my eyes and pretended to keep sleeping - this is a powerful hospital trick.

"Sleeping," someone whispers.
"Trying," I think to myself.

They exit, seemingly having done nothing, and leave the door ajar again. DAMNIT!!

This time I refuse to get up and close it.

9 am, someone is back. OMG, will this ever end? I pull my fake sleeping act again. I hear them put down my breakfast tray, and then they leave. Now the door is almost ALL THE WAY OPEN.

Okay, is this the world's most passive-aggressive attempt to force me to wake up? For what? So that I can make it to church on time?? GO AWAY!

This time, I get up and shut the door. As I do, I look around my room and start to feel my head pounding. And then it hits me - I've got to get the hell out of here. I need to leave the confines of this room and get some fresh air, even if I have to throw a brick through a window and stick my head out of it like a dog.

When Brad woke up (mysteriously, he slept through all of this), I told him I was losing it. I was certain that this bed rest prescription without outdoor privileges (minus the weekly Perinatology trip) was no longer good for my health. And so he did what the best husband in the world would do, of course. He marched to the nurse's station while I was in the bathroom, and politely demanded that he be given a wheelchair to take me outside. Apparently, the nurses were confused and asked Brad if the doctor had approved this. He answered in a roundabout manner that almost satisfied them.

10 minutes later, after he'd returned to the room, the doctor showed up.

Doc: "I understand you're getting a bit crazy in here."
Me: "Yes..."
Doc: "So we're going to let you go outside today. It's a beautiful day, you've been very good, and you should enjoy it."
Me: "Oh thank God!!"
Brad: "So I can take her out myself for 15 minutes, maybe 30?"
Doc: "Yes, 15-30."

After waiting an inordinate amount of time for a wheelchair to show up in a place where people, you know, need them, Brad lost his patience and found one on his own. Decked out in my "going out" robe and sandals, we hit the pavement. Hurricane Ida's wind blew through my hair (and thank God I'm still rocking this blow-out, else my hair would not have moved) - and it was awesome.

When we returned to the room after 40 minutes (shhhh), I felt so vindicated. And so I settled into the rest of my day - no pounding headache, no dog-like symptoms - and the hope that tomorrow's doctor has as much mercy on me.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

It's Just Not That Interesting




Believe it or not, I actually have nothing to say. After watching Stanford outplay 8th ranked Oregon and beat them 51-42, I'm at a loss for words. No, this is not basketball - it's football.

Otherwise, today was very mellow. Because you know, I've spent all those other days just getting wild and crazy within the confines of my labor and delivery room. And speaking of my labor and delivery room, I'm a little creeped out by the notion that I will be having a baby in here. I feel like the room should be more "medical," but maybe that's just me. I might as well be giving birth at home in this set-up. But I digress. The big news here seems to be the anticipated arrival of Tropical Storm Ida. I am not amused. Brad, on the other hand, seems unbothered.

When not watching football, I've spent the day looking at the clock and wondering if, exactly a week from now, I'll have a baby. It's very surreal to think that in such a short matter of time, I will no longer be pregnant, and actually will be responsible for another human life. Here's when I really start hoping that dogs and babies aren't all that different. Shut up, let me have my fantasy.

And so with that, I'm going to sign off. Don't abandon the blog just because this post was short and not that interesting. I'll come back with a bang soon enough - trust me.

Friday, November 6, 2009

Hair Rescue




Bed rest does not have to be ugly.

After nearly 4 weeks of a bad 'do, which transformed from a once stylin' blow-out to a stringy ponytail to an au naturel bouffant on top of my head - it was time to take action. The twice weekly shower, which allows for an equal number of shampoos, has proven not to be enough. Clean hair is certainly a step up from the hot mess I was working with a week into my hospital stay, but glamorous locks are much better. So much like I put a call out that I needed a mani/pedi, I planted the seed of my hair need.

On Monday, I received a call from a woman named Alyssa, who runs the Femme Coiffure Hair Spa in the Ritz Carlton on South Beach. After chatting for a few minutes, she let me know that her husband, Michael, would be contacting me to set up an in-room styling session. This morning, Michael called - and less than an hour later, Ivan came to my rescue.

Ivan - Latin and lovely - arrived with perfectly coiffed hair, in dark rinse designer denim, a black vest, and a white wife beater. He carried a Jack Bauer bag of hair assault tools. Ivan didn't waste a lot of time on small talk, and I didn't want him to. I'd already been out of bed and off my monitors for more than 1/2 hour, so we needed to get down to business. He moved into the room with a quiet assuredness, taking a standard hospital chair and hospital towels, and using them to evolve the space into his own salon. His only question for me was what he could unplug to free up an outlet. Once we sorted that out, it was game time.

For 45 minutes, I forgot I was in a hospital, much less on bed rest. I closed my eyes, and the warmth of the hair dryer reminded me of home. When all was done and I turned and looked in the mirror, I felt familiar to myself once again - and quite cute.

Believe me, I haven't lost track of why I'm here or what really matters for even a single second. But hell if I'm not going to call Ivan up again next week to ready me for the big day - and while I'm at it, Barbie's getting a call too.

Indeed, bed rest can look good.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Hurricanes and Earthquakes




Now that I have a delivery date to look forward to, I've focused a lot of my energy on learning more about the labor and delivery process. I had been diligently reading my "What To Expect When You're Expecting," which seems to be a love-it or hate-it bible for the pregnant set. But when this all happened, I kinda didn't feel the need to read about months 8 or 9, figuring I'd already been there done that. Since sitting on the toilet that fateful Monday 10/12, furiously thumbing through the book to figure out if my water had in fact broken, and if I should be hauling ass to the emergency room instead of trying to self-diagnose...I hadn't really referenced the book again.

Today, I decided it was in fact time to dive into the details of labor and delivery. After all, this is coming no more than 9 days from now, so it probably makes sense to have at least some clue. Right?

Yeah, hmmmm. Jury is still out on that one.

I liken a pre-determined due date and 100% knowledge of the birthing process, vs. the traditional wait it out and who knows when it's coming or what it's going to be like - to hurricanes vs. earthquakes. I've said many times that hurricanes (as well as tornadoes and any other natural disasters you "watch") are far worse than earthquakes because of the fear sparked simply by anticipation. The inability to predict or prepare for earthquakes eradicates the irrational behavior showcased in every news story covering a "storm watch." When a big one rolls through, it's 20 seconds of sheer terror - but at least you didn't break your plans preparing for it.

So again, I ask...should I have read that chapter of the book?

I mean, is it really better to prepare myself for the inevitable, or just succumb to it and embrace the element of surprise? After all, I'm getting an epidural. So was it even necessary to read about the intensely nightmarish pain I'd be experiencing if I weren't numbed from the pelvis down? Because frankly, now I'm just preoccupied by the pain I supposedly won't be experiencing in that moment, but most certainly will feel the aftermath of.

"Rip." "Tear" "Sting." "Stitch." Wow, talk about not understating things. This chapter reads just like Hurricane Katrina is headed straight for my va-jay-jay. And unfortunately, it's too late to board up my house.

Perhaps indeed, I should have spared myself the details, and let the delivery hit me like an earthquake. When that first tremor hits, you have no idea if it's the big one or a 3.2 - and there's something scary yet hopeful about that.

Here's to waiting it out.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Will the Real Nobel Peace Prize Winner Please Stand Up?




I've decided that I may be able to break out of here without anyone noticing. I have officially become the least interesting patient on the floor, with the nurses coming by only occasionally, and the doctor strolling in at the end of the day, sucking on a lollipop. One of the nurses actually entertained my idea of coming off the monitors 24/7, validating that thought by letting me know that most patients who reach my level of stability are actually only monitored a couple of times per day. Now that's what I'm talking about. I'm going to keep pushing on this one.

My November 14th delivery date is pretty much set in stone now, barring any surprises. The lollipop sucking doctor who came by today confirmed he would not be the one on call that day (this was a relief for me, mind you). I feigned sadness. Then he said that he would be willing to come in for a quick C-section. Hello, since when did these become elective? I joked that it did seem these only took about 10 minutes (I spent my first few days here across the hall from the operating room where they performed the procedure). He and his giant ego corrected me, saying that they took 10 minutes for him, and 40 minutes for everyone else - because there's the "USC way" and then there's "the wrong way." Tool. Little does he know I do not desire to have the skilled hands of a Trojan involved in my delivery, unless he's going to be catching a football - and even that's suspect after Saturday.

Meanwhile, it has occurred to me that the sports gods are punking me. Tell me, how is it that I managed to end up on bed rest during the World Series vs., say, the month of March? Bed rest sucks, and don't let anyone tell you any different - it's just not true. BUT it would be a lot less sucky during March Madness. No being "home sick" or sneaking off to a sports bar in the middle of the work day to watch a game...not that I ever did these things, of course. I've respectably just escaped to Vegas every March for roughly the past 10 years.

The weather gods are also punking me. You see, Hurricane season officially lasts through November 30th. It's been a very quiet season so far, all but considered over. But guess what we seem to be tracking now? Tropical Storm Ida. So, just for shits and giggles, let me walk you through my awesome vacation so far:

1) Flight departs SFO 10/11, 2-1/2 hours late.
2) Flight arrives in MIA at 11:00 at night.
3) Brad and I pick up our rental car - it's an ugly white hatchback thing, probably American - and this was my upgraded selection.
4) We sit in horrendous traffic on the MacArthur Causeway at midnight - and I promptly learn that Miami drivers make LA drivers look like driver's ed instructors.
5) Starving after having eaten no dinner, we learn that the chic, boutique-style resort hotel we're paying a lot of money for does not offer room service - but no big deal, we'll just eat a big brunch the next day. Oh, wait...
6) You know the rest of this story.

So suffice it to say, if this tropical storm hits Miami...President Obama should give me his Nobel Peace Prize simply for not yet kicking anyone's ass.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

See Tunnel...See Light




Today was awesome. As you may recall, every Tuesday, I am granted a journey to Perinatology, and this time, we were gone for about a 2-hour round trip!

I was skeptical of my nurse, Tracy, when she first came in this morning. She said really obvious things like, "We really just need to make sure you don't get an infection," and, "These vitamins are really important for you to take." (Mind you, I am the one who requested the vitamins in the first place - a prenatal and DHA supplement.) Then she asked why I'm taking DHA. That did not impress me.

After the series of naive statements and questions, she administered my Lovenox shot. But not before asking me where others had given me the shot, and what I thought was best. Um...am I the patient or the doctor? After telling her that ultimately, the thigh was the least invasive area, she gave me the shot in my upper arm, claiming she knew "a good way to do it pain-free." Yeah, um, it hurt more than any of the others. Thanks.

Her last mishap involved the hep-lock. It has to be removed and replaced every 4 days, and today happened to be the day with the Ace Shooter. I'm generally not too bothered by this process, especially at this point, so I was focused on the Dr. Oz show. Unfortunately, so was she. So much so that she was actually staring at the TV and engaging in dialogue back to the screen. She even went so far as to say we'd have to "catch her up" on what she missed.

Please note that while this is happening, she is wielding a needle that needs to go into a vein in my hand, where it will remain for 4 days. So, how do you think the insertion went? Not good. She missed the vein the first time, just stabbing me on the top of my hand. And then removed it, and shoved it back in where it was supposed to go. Sweet Jesus.

So how, you might be wondering, did she possibly recover from this buffoonery?

Well, it seemed that no one had actually scheduled my Perinatology appointment for today, which meant I was in danger of not going outdoors for my weekly 10 minutes. After some back and forth, Tracy came to our rescue. She scheduled a standing Tuesday 2pm appointment for me, made sure my wheelchair arrived in time, and generally provided excellent support. Most important, because of her, I got to go outside. And that's how she saved face against all odds.

Once we got to Perinatology, there was a bit of a wait. The nurse who wheeled me over was none too happy about this. And alas, once again, the office featured more pregnant teens than pregnant adults. I can't quite figure out what's going on here.

When I finally was admitted for my ultrasound, things really took off in the right direction. Much to everyone's surprise, my amniotic fluid level had shot up even beyond an already impressive 9.6 to 11.7! This is "beyond normal," if there is such a thing. And the little chubster? Well, he's weighing in at approximately 4lbs 7oz, making it all but certain that he will be greater than 5 pounds when I deliver. This is huge, because babies must be at least 5 pounds to leave the hospital. His fetal breathing continued to impress, as did all other measurements. So for the third time in a row, I received a biophysical profile score of 8/8! We're on a roll.

Today, the doctor informed me that the whole team had decided unequivocally that I will be induced at 34 weeks. I'm allowed to choose the day +/- 1. So assuming I'm still writing this story next week, we're looking at a November 14th birthday (because it just seems best to avoid Friday the 13th).

Bottom line...while things can always change and I am keenly aware of that, I am remaining positive and looking ahead at the light at the end of the tunnel!

Monday, November 2, 2009

Lashes and Lab Coats




You know you've been in the hospital too long when you've repeatedly accidentally referred to it as "home," and actually find yourself sleeping well there.

There hasn't been a whole lot going on the past couple of days, thankfully, so I've really had some time to make some casual observations. One of these came last night, when I had my blood drawn right before bed as part of a routine the blood bank does for me every few days. It's worth noting that they claim they are storing my blood (though they have to toss it after a few days, and thus the re-drawing), but they're only collecting like 3 test tubes worth. I'm not sure how that will actually help me if I need it, but what do I know?

So around midnight, my nurse came in with two 20-somethings on blood drawing duty. It was too many people to be in my room at that hour, and I wondered what they were all doing there. Then it became immediately apparent that one of the 20-somethings was in training. Oh...no. PLEASE tell me she is not about to learn how to draw blood on me, because for real, I'm going to have to stop her dead in her tracks if she comes near me.

Concerned, I observe them more closely and eavesdrop on their conversation, which is vacillating between the previous night out at the club and the steps involved in drawing and collecting blood. I learned during this conversation that the blood bank "sometimes be trippin'" if you don't put the patient labels on the tubes totally straight. I then watched as they spent an unusual amount of time on this task.

I took a closer look at both of the 20-somethings. The trainee looked like what you'd expect someone on the blood drawing night shift to look like - and that's not a bad thing. Her hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, she wore glasses, and her makeup was minimal to none. Then there was the instructor...

You know what you probably don't need to wear when your job is to draw blood from hospital patients at midnight? False eyelashes. And I mean like J-Lo mink eyelashes as pictured above. I was completely distracted by the animals hanging off her eyelids, and the odd match this made with her white lab coat.

Thankfully, the trainee only applied labels to tubes and put a new wristband on me. The eyelashed one performed the actual blood draw, though I have no idea how she could see my veins through the window shades on her eyes. But much to my surprise, she was really good at it, not even wasting time on that whole, "1-2-3 deep breath" nonsense that is inevitably followed by aggressive stabbing. So do not judge a book by its cover.

Meanwhile, I have some disturbing breaking news. If you recall last week's post about the disposable underwear, I said that Brad and I were on a quest to collect as many packs of these as possible and hide them away as the valuable commodities they are. Well, Brad just went out to ask the nurse for a couple of packs, and she handed them over - but not before politely explaining to him that these are not disposable, and in fact are supposed to just be hand washed in the sink, hung over the shower to dry, and re-worn. WHAT???? They want me to re-wear these gauzy, white briefs they fondly refer to as "Vicky's Secret" after a 12-hour period has passed? And what do they do with these after I am done with them?? Is that the damn secret?

Oh HELL to the no.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Don't Come a-Knockin'




Okay, so what is it with the nurses and the lack of boundaries around here?

Last night, I'm in the bathroom - with the door closed. I heard someone come in and talk to Brad for a while, but I couldn't identify the voice. Next thing I know, there's a knock at my door. Oh shit, we know how this usually plays out.

Phantom voice: "Hi Kiesha!"
Me: "Hi!"
Phantom voice: "How are you? It's (insert name I don't quite understand)."
Me: "Wait, who is it?"

No, no, no, why did I ask who it is? Why didn't I just pretend I heard her the first time and roll with the conversation?

(Door opening)
Phantom voice: "It's Carolyn!"
Me: "Oh, yes, I see you now."

Carolyn fits a somewhat different profile from Benny. She's older, African-American and smells like my grandma used to smell. She doesn't look as shady as Benny. I mean, Benny kinda looks like a deviant, let's be honest. But Carolyn just looks like she bakes a lot of cakes.

How can I hide if I don't even know what I'm looking out for?

As Carolyn wrapped up the conversation and closed the door, I sat stunned on the toilet, replaying my mistake over and over again in my head, like a broken record: "Wait, who is it? Wait, who is it? Wait, who is it?"

Idiot.

I'm just glad there aren't any male nurses around here...yet.