herveryown

Close, But No Cigar

This afternoon's cervix check showed everything to be crappy-but-stable, and The Big Fancy Perinatologist Place's parole board granted me a conditional release.  Sadly, I violated one of the conditions before we reached the car.

We got close to getting thrown out of the hospital for extreme UteroCooteral blandness, then I had a bunch of contractions as they were finalizing the Get The Fuck Out paperwork and was cordially invited to stay for another night.  Apparently the strain of putting on pants was just too much for my junk.

As usual, Fitz-Hume and Millbarge were completely unperturbed by the brief upheaval (upsqueezal?).  Fitz-Hume celebrated New Year's Eve by allowing the nurses to monitor a heartrate for an unprecedented ten minute stretch.  Millbarge got the hiccups and couldn't even finish a child sized glass of champagne*.  Lightweight.

I have decided that the next crucial medical breakthrough needs to be a slew of heavily advertised drugs to enhance cervix length.  Let's face it, when it comes to certain parts of the body, size really does matter, and mine just isn't cutting it.  I'd like to tentatively lay claim to the trade name Cervigra and suggest ads that include nondescript middleaged couples walking on the beach and hugging on balconies while talking about how Cervigra saved their vacation in some vague winkwinknudgenudge way.

If anybody feels like ringing in the new year with a little speculation, who'd like to guess the results of the latest fFN?

*For those tempted to take the Internet seriously, I was kidding about the champagne.  Not about the pants, though.

I'm Just Here For The Food

Oh, I wish y'all had been here when the next night nurse showed up and said "So, I understand that you really need some sleep.  What can we do to help you with that?"

I should clarify that when I say 'on my back' I mean 'on my back kind of sitting up,' so I can mostly breathe and Fitz-Hume and Millbarge don't appear to be resting on the vena cava or any major nerves, and it is definitely easier for the nurses to keep them on the monitors in that position.  I get that, it's just really hard for me to sleep in that position, especially when Nurse Crabby would come charging in, scowling and muttering "You moved again" every time I tried to get comfortable. 

All nurses since Nurse Crabby have merely slipped into the room unobtrusively and repositioned the monitors while I am in whatever position I happen to fancy, apologizing for the inconvenience and offering additional pillows.  With the addition of My Favorite Sleep Aid, I actually scored a decent stretch of rest last night.

So, updates.

The mag did eventually work, although from the way the doctors and nurse have been talking, it took a serious buttload of it to get the contractions under control.  When I could no longer stand up unassisted, I said "Jesus, did I turn into a huge pussy in the last 24 hours or what?"  The nurse said "Oh, honey, it's the mag, and you're not a...erm.  Do you know how many women I've seen tolerate three grams of mag this well?  Zero."  I guess hitting the small numbers has to work in your favor eventually.

The current plan is to back off the mag and resume Nifedipine.  The doctors here are not enthusiastic about the studies for either mag or terb in the long run.  By tonight we will have hit the '48 hours of steroids' goal, and since I previously had a rapid heart rate, which terb tends to aggravate, I think they're less freaked out about the idea of delivering Fitz-Hume and Millbarge sooner than is optimal than they are about killing me with pulmonary edema and heart failure.  The goal of everybody involved is still to keep them inside as long as is UteroCooterally possible, but I must say, I also like the 'and not kill you outright' rider on their plan.

Fitz-Hume and Millbarge are, as usual, oblivious to the external chaos and are just merrily kicking and peeing away.  Millbarge has decided that my cervix makes an excellent pillow, or would if only it could be punched and fluffed it into just the right shape.  Fitz-Hume seems to find it hilarious to wait until the nurses find a heartbeat on the monitor, then move a millimeter to the right.  No, the left. No, the right again.  Hey, look, now I'm on the grassy knoll!  Ha ha!   When the nurses give up in frustration and step back with their hands on their hips to glare at my abdomen, Fitz-Hume immediately sneaks back under the monitor for a few seconds, then skitters off again.  Fitz-Hume does not seem popular with the staff.

Incidentally, if you happen to find yourself in the second half of an ridiculously implausible gestational disaster, may I recommend TBFPP for your culinary needs?  Instead of reheated trays of dried up chicken legs and brussel sprouts, they provide you with a menu and a phone.  You can call the kitchen any time you're peckish and order things like salmon and pork loin and vegan entrees and dinner salads (without a scrap of iceberg on the plate) and then comes the best part:  They bring these foods to you!  And they are made exactly to order!  And it tastes like they came straight from some twee bistro on Broadway!  It's bizarre.  If the mag wasn't making me want to never eat again, I would be enjoying this even more.

Double Vision Wasn't Even A Good Song

Well, I lost another .4 cm in cervix length, bringing the current total to 1.6, or "Fuck.Me."  My cervix offered a compromise ("Okay, I'll get shorter, but don't worry, I'll also open up a little bit more.").  I would give you an honest opinion of this proposal, but I think it's best not to piss my cervix off any further.  Between it and my irritable uterus, I think they're planning to collaborate on a screenplay entitled "Grumpy Old Girlybits."

I'm at 29 weeks and 2 days. 

I'm back in the hospital.  We skipped L&D at the nearby hospital and decided to head straight for The Big Fancy Perinatologist Place.  In the past whatever hours, I've had antibiotics, steroids, that little pill for yeast infections, a truckload of Nifedipine aaaaaand (last, but certainly most unpleasant) Magnesium Sulfate.  I'm awarding it bonus unpleasantness points on the grounds that it doesn't seem to be working all that well at the moment.

The perky doctor who comes to see me in between c-sections is talking about keeping me for a couple of days to a week.  The increasingly crabby nurse who comes in to adjust the monitors every time I try to get comfortable has instructed me to Stay On My Back.  I'm not totally sure how this is going to work out, because if they want to keep me on my back so that they can continuously monitor Fitz-Hume and Millbarge, that means I can't sleep.  From past experience, I know that (Me plus Stress) minus Sleep equals Hypomania in approximately 36 hours, followed by about a week of Superbad Depression (which includes Interminable Weeping, a free upgrade to Hysteria, and the optional Disorientation and Total Decompensation package).

So far, the crabby nurse is telling me that I have to stay on my back for monitoring because it's best for Fitz-Hume and Millbarge.  Clearly, I don't place a very high premium on my own personal comfort in matters such as this, but at the same time I'm a little unclear how having a completely insane woman at the other end of the umbilical cords is really doing them any favors.  The crabby nurse said "Well, everybody goes a little nuts on bedrest," thereby offering up solid scientific evidence that she doesn't know shit about Manic Depression.  Whoopee.

Update on The Crazy: The perky doctor returned and displayed a large amount of enthusiasm for trying monitoring during other (more sleep-friendly) positions, plus an entire takeout menu of Class B crap that should help me sleep.

Currently, the primary goal is to disengage the ejector seat function of my UteroCooteral Complex.  Failing that, we're at the best hospital in the Pacific Northwest as far as both preventing preterm labor and dealing with issues of prematurity.

I'm Kicking My Ass, Do You Mind?

Today's ultrasound was kind of interesting, in that they've gone from 'kicking eachother in the shins' to 'kicking eachother in the head' to Millbarge wadded up on one side of the uterus and Fitz-Hume enthusiastically kicking his/her own self in the face on the other side.

Considering that they come from somewhat peculiar stock, I guess I shouldn't be too surprised by this.

They are currently right on target for gestational age and their estimated weight is approximately two pounds, six ounces each*.  I've been a little a lot worried about their weight only because I have gained absolutely nothing in the past couple of weeks and  my face, arms and thighs have gotten noticeably thinner.  The doctor assures me that they will just eat me alive from the inside out, if need be.  Under normal circumstances, this sort of thing would kind of squick me out**, but for now, I'll take it.

That's the good news.

The less good news is that my cervix is down to 2cm, a change almost certainly brought on by a particularly nasty bout of contractions a few weeks ago.  The doctors aren't terribly alarmed by this measurement, but they also aren't thrilled.  I am certainly less than thrilled knowing that as of tomorrow, I can no longer take one of the drugs previously used for breakthrough contractions.  They've bumped up the Nifedipine, so we'll see how this goes. 

Bottom line, if my cervix makes any sudden moves, The Big Fancy Perinatologist Place may throw it (and me) into a hospital bed. 

*This brings their combined weight to the equivalent of a six pack.  Hey, I have a six pack!
**Like that whole 'fetal waste products' in my blood stream thing.  On the one hand, I'm totally thrilled to even have the opportunity to have fetal waste products in my blood, but on the other hand, ewwww, I have tiny critters pooping into my blood.  When we discuss my anemia, Sam refers to this as my 'Crapocrit.'

And How!

If you've ever wondered if having this sort of thing happen right around the holidays would really fuck with your perception of and future enjoyment of said holidays, the answer is yes.

In other (less depressing) news, 27w5d.

Bad at Math, But I Test Well

I've heard women complain that pregnancy hormones cause one's brain to turn to cottage cheese.  In my case, I'm pretty sure it's not the hormones, it's the fact that after a month of bedrest*, even disturbingly stupid daytime television starts looking pretty good.  The People's Court will rot your brain, people.

Because of this, I have to correct the last post.  I wasn't 26w5d on Wednesday, I was 26w6d, making me currently 27w1d.

Yesterday's fFN test was negative, which is very good.

*Yikes.

Is Everything Okay?

Short answer: Yes.

Long answer: Fetally, mostly okay, physically, relatively okay, emotionally, I'm a bigger wreck than the goddamned Reuben James.

I have been reluctant to post for a couple of reasons.

1. See above about emotional state.
2. For a while it seemed like every time I'd post, some other damned thing would go wrong.  I'm not usually a superstitious person, but it does make a gal wonder.  This theory was disproven by having three other things go wrong (two trivial, one not so trivial) while I was on Hiatus By Depression.
3. I'm pretty sure if I were honest about how not-so-hot this pregnancy is going, I would get some asshole commenter telling me I should suck it up and enjoy being pregnant, OMG, you big fucking whiner, how dare you complain about being pregnant?!? and I just.cannot.hack.it.right.now.
4. Seriously. 

The facts:
Things are relatively stable, but tremendously physically unpleasant right now. 
I've only been back to L&D once in about two weeks (a new personal record).
Fitz-Hume and Millbarge are looking pretty good.
Followup fFN tomorrow.
I am 26w5d, which totally rocks, but let's not discuss specifics of viability*.

*Why?  Because while viability stats are theoretically encouraging in the abstract, they're a tiny wee little bit really fucking alarming when you're talking specific circumstances and/or fetuses.  I've said it before and I'll say it again, if a magic pony descended from the sky and told you that your kids had an X% chance of surviving a specific trip on the freeway, I'm willing to bet you'd take surface streets that day.**  So really, let's not talk about viability statistics or anecdotes***.
**While we're on the subject, if you're seeing magic ponies, please stay off the freeway and surface streets.
***Rest assured, we do talk to the perinatologists about viability****.
****Their current plan, which is similar to ours, is 'Hey, what say we just keep them in there longer, mmkay?"

Pelvic Algebra

If my left pubic bone leaves Ellensburg at 3pm heading West at .0045 mph and my right pubic bone leaves Ellensburg at 4pm heading East at .0065 mph, how many hours would it take my respective pelvic bones to get bored out of their minds watching some seriously drab scenery go by and decide to join the long line of body parts screwing with me?

I have no idea, but I do know that it only takes about thirty minues of stabby crotch pain to make me head back to Labor and Delivery (yes, again) freaked out (because, you know, ow) and offer to exchange 1/4 cup of pee for a visit from the doctor on call, thirty minutes to get checked out and five minutes to acquire a new source of aggravation.

Doctor: "So, this pain you're feeling isn't contractions."
Akeeyu: "Yeah, I didn't think so."
Doctor: "The space between your pubic bones is getting wider, and that's painful."
Akeeyu: "Oh." 
Doctor: "That Gigantic Elastic Truss should help a bit.  Otherwise, try to find a comfortable position to rest in, because this situation isn't likely to go away for the duration of the pregnancy."
Sam: "Wow, that really sucks.  Er, pardon, I meant--"
Doctor: "No, that's pretty accurate.  It does."

I'm sure as my pubic bones continue their slow migration away from their starting point, this will bother me a whole lot more, but since the treatment for this (plenty of rest and the wearing of absurd undergarments) isn't anything new and it doesn't seem to be bothering Fitz-Hume and Millbarge, my current reaction is "Meh" with an option to upgrade (downgrade?) to "Sonovabitch!"

Please refrain from saying "Jeez, what else can go wrong?" as my body seems to take this as a personal challenge.