Reflections – Antepartum, part II

My antepartum room was suffocatingly small.  The bed was not as comfortable, even though it was the exact same kind of bed.  The pillows were the same, but not.  There was a tiny sink area and some tiny shelves next to the bed where we put the framed photos Christian had brought from home.  There was a “hospital” recliner squeezed in next to the bed and the window, which looked out onto the roof of the first floor, where construction workers were frequently passing by.  The nurses were nice, but not like the L & D nurses.  I missed them, and my nice, big comfortable room.


Soon after moving into my new digs, Christian came in and informed me that another twin mom was across the hall, and did I know a girl named Vanessa from my multiples group?  I remembered Vanessa from the meetings, although we had never spoken.  I went to say hi to her and her newborn baby boys, Jaxson and Turner.  Little did I know she would soon become one of my good friends and closest twin confidant.

My days were long.  I usually woke around 8 when they brought in my breakfast tray, ate around 8:30, and usually went back to sleep on and off until 11 or so.  On and off because the nurses had to come in and put fetal monitors on me and monitor the heartbeats for at least an hour.  And I was in a self inflicted pity party.  Do you want to open the drapes and get some sunlight?  No.  Do you want to paint some pictures in the coming days?  Maybe (although I didn’t really want to – I just didn’t want to be a bitch to the nurse).  I cried every day, usually set off by someone just asking me how I was.  I wanted to scream out how upset I was at my situation, how homesick I was, and how racked with guilt I was that I had come down with the horrible disease.  I knew that every day counted for my babies, and ideally I needed a few more weeks, but I just wanted it to be over.  I wanted to go home.  Sleep in my own bed.  I didn’t want to talk to anyone on the phone.  I didn’t want anyone to visit.  I had awful, resentful feelings towards mothers who were having healthy, term babies, with their little pink and blue ribbons proudly displayed on their doors.  I was especially resentful to others in my multiples group that I was reading about almost every day it seemed, who were carrying their babies to 36, 37, even 38 weeks.  What was wrong with me?  Why couldn’t I carry my babies longer?  Thank God for Christian, who was my rock during those hard days, keeping my feet on the ground and reminding me that I was in the right place.  

I was eventually moved into a bigger room since I was considered “long term.”  Great.  But alas, the new room was much less stifling, and I even had a couch again.  The down side?  The bed was “alive.”  It had some kind of freaky mattress that would adjust itself to evenly distribute body weight, and it seemed like every time I got comfortable, which was hard, it would self adjust and make me uncomfortable again.  Who is this damn bed to tell me how I am supposed to lay???  

By this time we had accepted that I was not going to be able to carry the babies much longer, and that a NICU stay was inevitable.  So we scheduled a tour.  Christian wheeled me up to the 8th floor (my first trip of many, many to come), and we were buzzed in.  A nurse named Stacy showed us around the bays and gave us some ideas of what to look out for when our babies were admitted that might be a little scary: IV needles in the head, CPAP machines, feeding tubes.  I had no idea what any of it was or why my babies would need it.  But I was also comforted by a few things too.  I had received two rounds of steroid shots to when I was admitted to put the babies’ lungs on the fast track to maturity.  According to the nurses, twins do very well in the NICU, and girls often do better than boys.  Everyone kept telling us we would be fine.  Then why couldn’t I keep the tears back?  Why did my stomach turn in knots every time they took my BP?  

Monday started like any other day.  Breakfast, vitals, and a visit from Dr. Binford.  I told myself all weekend that since I had been feeling so good, I was going to ask her if I could go home on Monday, even though 99% of me knew that was never going to happen.  Then came Dr. Berry, who was not at all happy with my BP readings from the weekend.  He did a quick little sono on his tiny little portable machine, and said the babies looked great.  “But we need you to be here too, and that’s getting dangerous.”  Tears.  

So for the time being, all of my food and water was taken away until a decision was made.  This wasn’t the first time this had happened, so I wasn’t freaking out too much.  Then around 11 AM my nurse stuck her head in the door and asked if I had talked to Dr. Binford.  Nope.  
“Oh, well, they have you on the board for 3:30!”  

Oh. My. God.  This. Is. It.

…to be continued…

 Here I am all drugged up on the Mag again, still bloated, and very, very sexy.  The annoying buzzing you hear in the background is the stupid “alive” bed that keeps adjusting itself.  

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3 Comments

  1. oh, the mag… i hated the mag. except i had a catheter and these stupid restrictive air boots on to circulate the fluid in my legs. i cried for days straight. i was so hot, so miserable, and the ice chips weren’t helping. i had ice cold towels and the air as low as it could go. my poor husband and mom… they froze to death. but we survived the mag and can live to tell others about the excitement.

  2. I so remember seeing you guys in the hospital. I wish I would have known you as well then as I do now…it seems like you could have used an extra hug 🙂 Look at those girls now mama…you did perfect!

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