This morning, at 6:00, I was woken from a sound sleep with this greeting: “Good morning! I need to draw your blood.” Lovely. I asked her to draw it from my hand; she agreed, and stabbed me painfully, but then said she was sorry but she had to stop because the vein “blew up” and she didn’t get enough blood. So then I had to have it in my arm. And my hand, six hours later, is still sore. A pretty much fantastic way to start this Sunday. The sky wasn’t even light yet.
It’s been a week, and I’m tired of being here. I feel like being here is pointless. Nothing has happened since Sunday, my non-stress tests all come out fine, and other than some uterus “irritability,” which I’m assured is normal, I’ve been as fine as I would have been had I never bothered to come in last week at all. Meanwhile, my new roommate with marginal previa has been bleeding constantly for the past twelve hours, and timing regular contractions—she should definitely be here. Me, I’m not so sure.
But every time I ask a doctor whether it’s really necessary, they all paint the same picture: at this stage, even though I’ve only had spotting and not big bleeds, the next time I bleed I could wake up in a pool of blood and have to be rushed to a hospital, losing massive blood along the way, etc. It’s gruesome and terrifying. It seems unlikely that my doctor—whom I’ll see tomorrow and who has the final say—will have a differing opinion from the two doctors in her practice whom I’ve been seeing all week, but who knows.
In the meantime: the hospital. The day starts around 5:30, when I’m woken up for the day’s first check of vitals. Around 6:00, a doctor comes by to give me an update. At 7:30 or so, the breakfast tray arrives. Somewhere between 9:00 and 10:00, I go for my non-stress test. At noon comes the lunch tray. Scattered throughout these hours are more vitals-checks and occasional monitoring of the baby’s heartbeat. At 5:00, the dinner tray arrives. Somehow, the day goes. I think today might be broken up by an exciting removal and replacement of my IV heplock thing. Lovely.
Each day I put in my contacts and get dressed in my own clothes; I sleep in my own pjs. Being in a hospital gown just makes me feel awful. I’ve been allowed to regularly shower (regularly, as in every two days or so), and I try to put on some makeup. I read the NY Times every day that someone manages to bring it to me. I’m trying to maintain some sense of normal days. Of course, they’re not normal at all, though yesterday Lucia did write all over my pants with marker and get grape jelly on my shirt during her visit, so there are moments that feel wonderfully familiar. I really can’t wait to go home.