Adventures in Taterland
Today is such a good day. A good, grand, wonderful day. I had been looking forward/dreading this day for two weeks. Today is a day that could have been filled with words like fetal growth restriction, early delivery, hospital admittance, steroid injections, inducement, and possible caesarean.
Two weeks ago at my last ultrasound, Tater’s measurements were a bit off. The head was measuring bigger than the abdomen. This could be a sign of fetal growth restriction, the placenta not working properly, and baby needing to come out early. Because they had caught it so soon and ultrasounds are not an exact science, we would have to wait two weeks to see how Tater would grow.
I didn’t want to cause alarm or have people badgering me with questions, so I didn’t say anything on facebook, or make it general knowledge. After all, there was a chance Tater had been caught in an awkward growing phase from an awkward angle. If I had chosen to make it public my status’ would have been something like this.
“THIS IS TORTURE. Two weeks?! TWO WEEKS?! MADNESS.”
“I can’t decide if I’m ridiculously excited at the possibility of meeting Tater or positively terrified.”
“Terrified. I’ve decided on terrified.”
“No wait… excited.”
“I have not slept in two weeks.”
“Sheldon has taken to sighing at me a lot. Apparently I am snarky, snappy, snippy, and just plain scary. WELL SOOOOOOOOORRY.”
“I ran out of Tums. This is a sad day.”
And so on and so forth. But I decided to spare you all. You are welcome. The first week dragged by. Every day felt like an eternity. That first week I think I had convinced myself I was excited and everything would be fine. As The Date loomed closer, things seemed less fine. After all, everything was supposed to be fine with Rory. Odds, chances, and statistics had been in her favor as well. Everyone had said she’d be okay too.
Excitement turned to dread. It’s a really terrible thing when you wonder if the birth of your child could be the beginning of the end. Tater stayed oblivious to my struggles for the most part and only freaked me out once. I had started doing kick counts. My doctor wanted ten movements in one hour. Usually I got those within half an hour. On Sunday I must’ve caught Tater during a nap, because I got nothing for the first 40 minutes… and then all of the movements I needed in the next ten. Lil stinker.
During the days I got ready. I did some cleaning bit by bit. I made sure all of baby’s things were washed. I added last minute things to the diaper bag. I got out the camera, the camcorder, the cell phone charger, extra batteries and appropriate charging devices. I emptied my usual small emergency bag into my huge suitcase and added all my maternity clothes. If I was staying in the city, I’d be staying awhile. First for steroids, then inducement, and then the NICU journey. I printed out insurance forms. I put them with my prenatal forms. I was ready baby! (Not bad for a mother who last time went into labour informed her husband it simply couldn’t happen because she didn’t have her AB Healthcare card with her…)
I figured the more prepared and meticulous I was, the less of a chance I’d actually need all the crap I’d accumulated. And maybe it worked!
The ultrasound showed a perfectly happy baby growing just fine. An estimated five pounder, growing symmetrically, in a uterus with a lovely, long cervix. BOO-YAH!
So I pretty much feel I’m walking on sunshine. I’m like, “OH YEAH. 33 weeks! That’s right. We’re good.” My specialist, after the ultrasound, was happy to hear the good news, and brought me back to reality a little bit. She reminded me I was 33 weeks, not 40, and still “extremely high risk” for preterm labour. She doesn’t think I’ll make it to 39 weeks. She’s thinking 37 may be the limit. She’d like for me to consider moving closer to the city and staying with family as I have had some irregular contractions and I have a history of being a little...um… unpredictable. I did however, resist sticking my tongue out at her and telling her I was going to shock everyone and go to 40 weeks. I’m beginning to get used to doctors treating me with kid gloves. And really, given my history I can’t blame them for being super cautious. And plus, my mother would go all crazy on them if they weren’t being super cautious, and that would just be scary.
My specialist is going on holidays now. (There should be an award for going through doctors. I’m getting a complex.) She told me not to worry, she’d tell the new doctor I am “one of the special patients.”
… I am at a specialist clinic. And I’m “special” even there. Oh dear.
THEN. I need an ultrasound booked in Barrhead, so I go up to the receptionist. After being teased for knowing the hospital’s number off the top of my head, she proceeds to book an appointment. “Name? Oh yes, it’s B-L-U-M. Oh. (laugher) Yes, it is for Katie. That’s pretty bad when I tell you the last name and you tell me the first. She must be one of thooooose.” and she winks at me.
Well then! My reputation proceeds me.
Ah, but I’m feeling wonderful today. It may have to do with the fact I celebrated Tater’s happiness in the current location with a delightful five hour nap. A nice, tight sleep I feel straight in to without my brain imagining every horrible and delightful scenario of Tater being forced out early.
Today is a good day. Tater is happy. I’m happy. I’m being watched pretty closely with two non stress tests (NST’s - tests to monitors Tater’s movements, heartbeat, and contractions) a week and weekly doctor appointments. Ultrasounds are now being done bi-weekly in Barrhead just to monitor Tater’s growth and ensure his/her continued happiness.
Maybe I’ll take everyone by surprise and have a September baby! Squee! Wouldn’t that be cool?