Jan
27

Babies Seldom Listen.

Apparently Simone never took Logic for Neonates, because despite my last post I woke this morning to a small gush of fluid and brown discharge, and I am typing this from a hospital bed under the influence of Magnesium Sulfate.
“The Mag,” they call it. I could call it other things, but I will refrain, because I am a Lady.

Testing indicates that my water did not break. Thus I am assuming the clear liquid that soaked my undergarments was bathwater formerly detained behind some internal crevice. Please do not disabuse me of this notion by suggesting, as my husband did, that I may have wet myself. For the record, not even the nurses were rude enough to suggest such a thing.

Unfortunately the news is not all good. The brown discharge seems to give everyone pause. And, most troublesome of all, my Fetal Fibronectin test came back positive (too tired to explain, please Google). Add to that the fact that my cervix is still soft and now “short” (woefully unspecific—I blame The Mag for my lack of pestering) and you have Alexa, admitted to the hospital for at least the next two days, with vague rumblings about the possibility of an indefinite stay. I am still having contractions on The Mag, but they are intermittent.

I received my first round of steroid shots for Simone at 8am this morning, and will receive the second dose tomorrow, exactly 24 hours from the first. Simone has had a few heart rate decelerations but seems to be doing very well, though of course she is grounded. She has attempted to ingratiate herself by staying on the monitors (mostly).

I have gotten terribly behind on email, and if you have written to me recently—or even demi-recently, who am I kidding—and have not received a reply, I apologize. I read every email and comment, check for them umpteen times a day (much easier to read flat than to type flat, though I am working on it), and my next post was to be one I am working on in my head about how much these messages mean to me, and some changes they have wrought in my outlook. I really do intend to respond to people eventually, but at the moment everything seems difficult. Physically, typing is hard to do while flat with an IV in one arm and a blood pressure cuff on the other, especially given the fact that The Mag makes me disinclined to move. Emotionally I am exhausted, and—despite the breezy tone of this post—scared witless.

For the record, this is how I handle crises, situations in which much is at stake and I have limited control. I attempt, sometimes more successfully than others, to soldier my way through with only my tattered denial and an impressive arsenal of bad puns. I have a hard time diffusing sorrow this way, but fear is different. I do not mean to offend anyone, only I am fairly certain that were I not being glib I would be hyperventilating, and I have no paper bags handy. My apologies.

Please continue to hope for us, and I will update when I can.

By Alexa | Posted in Ceci N'est Pas Une Ecrivaine |