Holy. Emotional. Roller coaster.
The last two weeks have chewed me up and spit me out, leaving me entirely uncertain whether I'm coming or going, right side up or balancing on my head. I've drifted between being distraught, worried, happy, relieved, and back around to each one at least twice more.
For the entire first half of this pregnancy I felt pretty amazing. When people asked how I was feeling, my usual response was "I almost don't even feel pregnant". That's honestly how good I felt, and believe me I thanked my lucky stars every day that I wasn't battling morning sickness, or serious fatigue, or the debilitating migraines that plagued the first trimester of my pregnancy with Milani.
Then we arrived at the half way point, twenty weeks, and my ultrasound confirmed that our little one was developing beautifully. It also revealed that my cervix was a little short for how far along I was in the pregnancy, and although I dreaded hearing it, I wasn't surprised. I've known all along that I am prone to encountering this obstacle. In defense of my poor cervix, it's been through the ringer in the last handful of years, racking up a laundry list of risk factors, each increasing the likelihood of a weakened cervix, most of which are well out of my control. And while the findings of the ultrasound weren't fantastic, they weren't particularly dreadful either, warranting only that I pay attention for any contractions, cramping, or pressure, and a follow up ultrasound to check on things.
That was the hinge, the turning point in the pregnancy. That was when I went from "I almost don't even feel pregnant" to a tentative "I'm feeling pretty good". When every pang, and twinge, and sensation set off a panic alarm; Was that a contraction? Is this preterm labor? Would they consider that "pressure" and how much "pressure" is normal? I mean I have a baby suspended in mid air above my cervix OF COURSE I feel some pressure!!!
I walked on eggshells, wondering if I was doing too much, pushing myself too hard, lifting Milani too often, weakening my tender cervix with every sneeze. My mind raced, every possible negative outcome crashed around my skull, and truth be told, I'm certain most of the discomfort I was feeling in my body originated in my head.
The follow up ultrasound showed that my cervix had shortened further, and that's when the emotional roller coaster gained serious momentum. I went from the ultrasound to my midwife's office where she reported flatly that I would need to report immediately to Labor and Delivery to be monitored over the next twenty four hours for contractions, and administered steroids to stimulate the baby's lung development in case of premature delivery, and started on antibiotics in the case of any infection. Upon discharge I would need to remain on strict bed rest. She said things like "This is when we pull out the Big Guns" and "If the baby were born tomorrow, it would be viable but would have a loooong stay in the NICU" and "We'll try to get you to twenty eight weeks, and if we make it there we'll try for thirty weeks". She made it sound tragic, and dire, and certain that I would have a two pound preemie on my hands in no time. And I melted, sobbing, into her big leather chair.
So I reported to Labor and Delivery, stat, where the nurse told me that the Doctor under whom the Midwife practices had called over, and that he wasn't nearly as concerned. He had told them to hold off on the steroids, and antibiotic, and that I may not even need to stay overnight. The panic, and anxiety loosened a little, the fear weakened, I could breathe a tiny bit easier. I spent a couple nerve wracking hours attached to monitors, awaiting the doctor and his verdict, my sentencing. When the doctor finally arrived he confirmed that he wasn't terribly worried, and that while he wasn't prescribing bed rest, he cautioned that I needed to find a way to slow down, rest more, take it easier, and tune into my body. He warned that if I pushed too hard and found myself hooked back up to monitors in Labor and Delivery again it would mean absolute bed rest, and steroids, and the big guns for certain. I was discharged and set free, and was never more uncertain of anything as I was leaving the hospital.
The Midwife had sounded the alarm, and the Doctor had extinguished the flames, and this was the health and life of my sweet little babe being volleyed around, and I had no idea what I should or shouldn't be doing. No idea who's opinion was more sound. No idea what exactly it meant, or how to rearrange my life so that I wouldn't end up back in the hospital.
I can admit that one of the main sources of stress on me physically, is work. I run laps around the restaurant, refusing to say no to anyone or anything, refusing to let my pregnancy slow me down, ever determined to prove (mostly to myself) that I can pull my weight and do it all, bulging belly or not. I wasn't even convinced that I really needed to stop. Maybe if I just drop a shift, or try not to work on consecutive days, but I think God or the Universe or whoever is keeping track of our fate and destiny knew that I needed to drop the gig, and so people and circumstances intervened in my life and aligned, resulting in my leaving work. I keep telling myself that it's for the best, the health of my baby is nothing to gamble with, and that I must need to be spending this time with Milani and Jon, that it may just be a blessing in disguise. And I fight the urge to carry a banner with "I AM NOT WEAK!" blazoned in neon, because although there are some who would relish the opportunity to be excused from the daily grind, it is far easier for me to work through backaches and swollen feet, than to admit that it's probably best that I stop working and appear like a fragile pregnant lady who can't hack it. It all circles back to that stubborn and irrational need to prove (mostly to myself) that I can do everything.
Then comes the irony, that after another visit to another doctor for yet another opinion and just one more ultrasound for good measure, I am told that I have basically nothing to worry about. That yes my cervix is a little short, but not short enough that this doctor would ever have even brought it to my attention. It makes my head spin, really, to think these three practitioners could have such varying takes on the length of a cervix. To think that I might not really have had to stop working, or perhaps this all transpired because, for some reason unknown to me, it's still best for me to be spending this time at home, taking it easier.
So, maybe I'll be picking up some shifts at work, but certainly I'll be taking it down a notch, because this whole escapade was nothing if not a wake-up call to cool it a little, and listen to my body. I'm relieved to know that I'm not in the danger zone, and feeling better by the day. While I'm past the "I almost don't even feel pregnant" phase (because every cell in my body feels pregnant, if the massive bump weren't enough of a clue) I am definitely feeling pretty good, and I guess I'll never really know whether it's the result of my time off from work, or the peace of mind I've gained allowing my body to relax. Either way, I'm keeping my fingers crossed and knocking on wood that this roller coaster has passed all its loops, and dives, and that I'll be coasting smoothly right up to my due date.
The last two weeks have chewed me up and spit me out, leaving me entirely uncertain whether I'm coming or going, right side up or balancing on my head. I've drifted between being distraught, worried, happy, relieved, and back around to each one at least twice more.
For the entire first half of this pregnancy I felt pretty amazing. When people asked how I was feeling, my usual response was "I almost don't even feel pregnant". That's honestly how good I felt, and believe me I thanked my lucky stars every day that I wasn't battling morning sickness, or serious fatigue, or the debilitating migraines that plagued the first trimester of my pregnancy with Milani.
Then we arrived at the half way point, twenty weeks, and my ultrasound confirmed that our little one was developing beautifully. It also revealed that my cervix was a little short for how far along I was in the pregnancy, and although I dreaded hearing it, I wasn't surprised. I've known all along that I am prone to encountering this obstacle. In defense of my poor cervix, it's been through the ringer in the last handful of years, racking up a laundry list of risk factors, each increasing the likelihood of a weakened cervix, most of which are well out of my control. And while the findings of the ultrasound weren't fantastic, they weren't particularly dreadful either, warranting only that I pay attention for any contractions, cramping, or pressure, and a follow up ultrasound to check on things.
That was the hinge, the turning point in the pregnancy. That was when I went from "I almost don't even feel pregnant" to a tentative "I'm feeling pretty good". When every pang, and twinge, and sensation set off a panic alarm; Was that a contraction? Is this preterm labor? Would they consider that "pressure" and how much "pressure" is normal? I mean I have a baby suspended in mid air above my cervix OF COURSE I feel some pressure!!!
I walked on eggshells, wondering if I was doing too much, pushing myself too hard, lifting Milani too often, weakening my tender cervix with every sneeze. My mind raced, every possible negative outcome crashed around my skull, and truth be told, I'm certain most of the discomfort I was feeling in my body originated in my head.
The follow up ultrasound showed that my cervix had shortened further, and that's when the emotional roller coaster gained serious momentum. I went from the ultrasound to my midwife's office where she reported flatly that I would need to report immediately to Labor and Delivery to be monitored over the next twenty four hours for contractions, and administered steroids to stimulate the baby's lung development in case of premature delivery, and started on antibiotics in the case of any infection. Upon discharge I would need to remain on strict bed rest. She said things like "This is when we pull out the Big Guns" and "If the baby were born tomorrow, it would be viable but would have a loooong stay in the NICU" and "We'll try to get you to twenty eight weeks, and if we make it there we'll try for thirty weeks". She made it sound tragic, and dire, and certain that I would have a two pound preemie on my hands in no time. And I melted, sobbing, into her big leather chair.
So I reported to Labor and Delivery, stat, where the nurse told me that the Doctor under whom the Midwife practices had called over, and that he wasn't nearly as concerned. He had told them to hold off on the steroids, and antibiotic, and that I may not even need to stay overnight. The panic, and anxiety loosened a little, the fear weakened, I could breathe a tiny bit easier. I spent a couple nerve wracking hours attached to monitors, awaiting the doctor and his verdict, my sentencing. When the doctor finally arrived he confirmed that he wasn't terribly worried, and that while he wasn't prescribing bed rest, he cautioned that I needed to find a way to slow down, rest more, take it easier, and tune into my body. He warned that if I pushed too hard and found myself hooked back up to monitors in Labor and Delivery again it would mean absolute bed rest, and steroids, and the big guns for certain. I was discharged and set free, and was never more uncertain of anything as I was leaving the hospital.
The Midwife had sounded the alarm, and the Doctor had extinguished the flames, and this was the health and life of my sweet little babe being volleyed around, and I had no idea what I should or shouldn't be doing. No idea who's opinion was more sound. No idea what exactly it meant, or how to rearrange my life so that I wouldn't end up back in the hospital.
I can admit that one of the main sources of stress on me physically, is work. I run laps around the restaurant, refusing to say no to anyone or anything, refusing to let my pregnancy slow me down, ever determined to prove (mostly to myself) that I can pull my weight and do it all, bulging belly or not. I wasn't even convinced that I really needed to stop. Maybe if I just drop a shift, or try not to work on consecutive days, but I think God or the Universe or whoever is keeping track of our fate and destiny knew that I needed to drop the gig, and so people and circumstances intervened in my life and aligned, resulting in my leaving work. I keep telling myself that it's for the best, the health of my baby is nothing to gamble with, and that I must need to be spending this time with Milani and Jon, that it may just be a blessing in disguise. And I fight the urge to carry a banner with "I AM NOT WEAK!" blazoned in neon, because although there are some who would relish the opportunity to be excused from the daily grind, it is far easier for me to work through backaches and swollen feet, than to admit that it's probably best that I stop working and appear like a fragile pregnant lady who can't hack it. It all circles back to that stubborn and irrational need to prove (mostly to myself) that I can do everything.
Then comes the irony, that after another visit to another doctor for yet another opinion and just one more ultrasound for good measure, I am told that I have basically nothing to worry about. That yes my cervix is a little short, but not short enough that this doctor would ever have even brought it to my attention. It makes my head spin, really, to think these three practitioners could have such varying takes on the length of a cervix. To think that I might not really have had to stop working, or perhaps this all transpired because, for some reason unknown to me, it's still best for me to be spending this time at home, taking it easier.
So, maybe I'll be picking up some shifts at work, but certainly I'll be taking it down a notch, because this whole escapade was nothing if not a wake-up call to cool it a little, and listen to my body. I'm relieved to know that I'm not in the danger zone, and feeling better by the day. While I'm past the "I almost don't even feel pregnant" phase (because every cell in my body feels pregnant, if the massive bump weren't enough of a clue) I am definitely feeling pretty good, and I guess I'll never really know whether it's the result of my time off from work, or the peace of mind I've gained allowing my body to relax. Either way, I'm keeping my fingers crossed and knocking on wood that this roller coaster has passed all its loops, and dives, and that I'll be coasting smoothly right up to my due date.