Finding a Way

33 weeks and 3 days.

I have not journaled in five days. As much as I wanted to blog at least every other day - whether they were good days or bad days- I just couldn't do it. It was too emotionally and physically painful. These past five days I have been a prisoner in my own personal hell. I was discharged from the hospital last Wednesday, Thanksgiving Eve. They set me up with an at-home nursing company contact, a new T-pump and a contraction monitor. I felt pretty comfortable going home, especially with all of the medical paraphernalia, but once I got there, something went wrong in my mind. When do I change my pump syringe again? How do I transmit my contraction data? What if my pump site goes bad and I don't get the meds and I contract and can't get back to the hospital in time? What if I go into labor and don't know it? Thoughts of Ava's very early and very fast arrival started swarming in my head, and all of a sudden I was experiencing a level of acute paranoia and stress that I have never felt before. I woke up the first night home after just an hour's sleep in the midst of a panic attack. I was sick. I was stressed. I was cramping. I didn't sleep a wink the rest of the night.

The next four days were not much different. I was unable to eat. I couldn't sleep without medication. I couldn't speak without breaking down into tears. Family and friends called to offer us Thanksgiving wishes, and I couldn't talk to them. I lay on the sofa, frozen in a state of absolute terror, unable to focus on anything other than my overactive, irritated uterus. I was going crazy. I have been on bed rest for nearly six weeks and I was literally driving myself into a deep depression. I tried to distract myself by coloring with Ava or watching sermons from our church on the computer, but nothing worked. I spent hours on the phone with doctors, midwives and nurses, asking them a million questions. I could feel them all rolling their eyes at me on the other end of the line, as if to say, "Oh, it's you again." All-in-all, I was doing a horrible job at trusting God. One of my OBs told me I have post-traumatic stress disorder, meaning my experience with Ava was causing this life-seizing anxiety. She referred me to a psychiatrist at Emory University. This doctor apparently specializes in pregnancy-related mental health, so I called him yesterday to make an appointment. I left a message and haven't heard back.

Yesterday (Monday), things were different. Starting late morning, I was contracting more than usual, and started monitoring them. My at-home nurse called to let me know I had six contractions in one hour. Six contractions is the maximum number I am allowed to have according to my doctor, so I immediately gave myself an extra bolus of Terbutaline and also increased my basal rate. I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening on the monitors, giving myself 4 boluses in 8 hours. Nothing was changing. At 8:30 p.m., I called the doctor and they told me to come to the hospital. For the first time in five days, I felt relieved. We took Ava to my sister's house (again), and made the 40-minute drive to the hospital. When we got here, my contractions were getting closer together, and eventually climaxed at every two minutes. The midwife checked me, and remarkably, my cervix was still just 1-2 cm dilated. I kept repeating, "I'm so glad we're here." Although I was back in the hospital, experiencing some very painful and frequent contractions, I still felt better emotionally than I had in a week. I trusted God because I asked for a sign - a definitive must-go-to-the-hospital-now sign - and He gave me one. They put me on the magnesium sulfate around 1 a.m. this morning, and my contractions are back down to about five or six an hour. They consider this a victory, and aren't expecting to get them to go away completely. Right now we are just buying as much time as we can, celebrating the fact that I am still pregnant.

An ultrasound this afternoon showed the baby is looking good and is about 4 pounds. My cervix has shortened slightly but is holding steady at 2.6 cm. It was all good news, but left me more confused than ever. How is it that I can have 25 relatively painful contractions an hour and not affect my cervix, yet not feel a thing and deliver a 32-weeker in 50 minutes? And they wonder why I am uncomfortable being at home.

So here we are, baby boy, back in the hospital. The magnesium sulfate has made me feel all the effects of a hangover without any of the fun in partying. Stefan stayed with me throughout the night and all day, but he'll be leaving in a few minutes to go get Ava. I don't know how long I will be here, how long I will be on the mag, or how much more time we have until baby arrives. But I do know that I am eating better, sleeping better and coping better now that I am here. As much as I hate this place. We're finding a way to get to one more day, and those days are turning into weeks.