That’s right: This is my fifth day in the hospital. This week has been more than a little surreal. After our lovely pumpkin-picking day on Sunday, and a relaxing, normal evening, I found myself talking to Andrew on the couch one minute and frantically calling my doctor the next. By 10:00pm, I was at the hospital; later that night, I was admitted. And it looks like I am here to stay until the baby is born, which will be on October 27—37 weeks—as scheduled, or the minute I have any other bleeding, which could be anytime.
Though we had high hopes that our planned ultrasound on Monday would show a miraculous migration of the placenta, this was not the case. I still had the ultrasound on Monday, but I was wheeled down in a wheelchair, wearing a hospital gown; and the scan still showed complete placenta previa. Sunday and Monday nights, I got steroid shots to bulk up the baby’s lung development in case she was born sooner rather than later.
But since Sunday, I’ve been fine—no contractions, no bleeding, normal movement and heart rate for the baby. I have an IV but am no longer hooked up to any fluids or anything. What’s working against the decision to discharge me are two things: one, the insanely scary idea that the next time I bleed I might have to be rushed immediately to the OR (my condition was described as a “ticking bomb”); and, two, the fact that I live in Park Slope and would be 40+ minutes away from the OR here. It seems crazy and improbable that I could wind up in such an emergency situation, but the high-risk doctors handling my case here don’t think it’s crazy or improbable at all, and I suppose they know a tiny bit more than I do.
I hadn’t counted on a complicated pregnancy when I chose to deliver at this hospital, and though I’m happy with my choice since I do have complications, and really love my doctor and the doctors in her group, it might have been easier just to choose a Brooklyn hospital. Then again, if the baby is born early and has to be in the NICU, then this is where I’d rather be. In any case, these thoughts are pointless.
And so here I am, for three more days or three more weeks, resting and trying to give the baby as many days of cooking as I possibly can.