Jan
28

Undead.

Last night was awful, and I would probably write a detailed post about it were my eyelids not being fried by The Mag (all of the capillaries on my very white, clear-lashed eyelids have broken and my eyeballs are boiling. I have never looked more beautiful). The nurse who started my IV yesterday morning warned me that The Mag might make me feel I was being burned from the inside out, and unfortunately, it turned out to be rather an apt description. Computer screens exacerbate the problem, so this will be brief-ish.

For now, yes, Ames’ water remains broken, but I am stable, and on Magnesium and IV antibiotics. The doctors are hoping they can stave off infection/labor long enough to buy Simone a couple of weeks. They can’t do a transvaginal ultrasound or cervical exam because of the infection risk, so we are more or less in a semi-blind holding pattern, or what they call “expectant management.” They will probably take me off The Mag tomorrow, and start me on Nipefisomething. I can’t look up the correct spelling, and Scott will have to post this entry, because I am in my new room in the antepartum wing, where I will remain until the babies are born. And this room has NO WIRELESS. My old room had wireless, but this room, designed for women on long-term bedrest, has none. (There has been mention of “broadband wireless cards” that may be purchased, but I have a Mac, and Scott says they are not for Macs. Is this true?) Scott can pick up a stray wireless signal if he presses the laptop against the window, and in this way he can post things for me and download my email, but if anyone a better idea, for a homemade antenna maybe, please let me know.

We are holding up. Simone is monitored three times a day, and she hasn’t shown distress, though I worry every time she is off the monitor. She doesn’t move much because of The Mag, but on the Mag I have only a couple of contractions an hour, so until the crucial 24 hours since my last steroid dose have passed, I will merely fret and poke at her. I have no fever, despite the boiling sensation. So things are what passes for good, now. I wish I had a better idea of how much time I am likely to have now that I have ruptured—not that knowing will change anything, but still. Anecdotes, whether encouraging or not, are welcome.
I hope I am here a long time, and yet (selfishly) I am a wee bit nervous. They loaded me up with a maximum dose of sleeping medicine last night, a dose eight times that I have successfully used for sleep in the past, and I managed only the occasional 40-minute doze. I have barely mastered the art of sleeping in my own home, so I expect to be seeing trails and hallucinating Hugh Laurie within a few days of being hospital-bound all night.
I am simultaneously exhausted and on the edge of my metaphorical seat. My dear friend described this pregnancy as having turned into a sort of zombie movie: one improbable horror piled upon the next so that you find yourself thinking fondly of the time—was it just 20 minutes ago?—when less than 25% of the cast had been killed off and you still had your muscle shirt and your left hand. She said it much better, but trust me, it was exactly right. I should maybe mention that I have always hated zombie movies.

I hope to be able to write more after they turn off The Mag tomorrow and I feel less like…well, like I do now. But until then, thank you all. And those of you I know locally who offered visits? I just may take you up on that, as a stiff upper lip is so much easier to maintain with company.

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