Just when I was gloating about attaining 24 weeks. Just when I got ballsy enough to buy yarn for a baby-related knitting project, thinking “it’s always a good sign in any pregnancy when I’m feeling confident enough to knit…” In fact, shortly after I got home from the yarn store, as if the fates were punishing me for my cockiness, I was sitting and eating dinner when a very odd contraction drew my attention. Odd. Sort of hard. Slightly… almost… painful? Out of the blue while I was sitting there. After a short interlude I was stationed on the couch, reading a story to Isaac while occasionally suggesting as calmly as possible to Ben that he look at the clock. And Ben, while doing the dishes, was as calmly as possible writing down the times. Of contractions I mean.
This went for a half hour or so, painful contractions every 5-8 minutes, during which time I made a silent pledge to give it another half hour, hope that they would go away, and then, if not, to set the whole thing in motion: call the hospital and be told to come in; call someone to take care of Isaac; go there and face the medical beast for good or ill. I was feeling nauseated also (a sign of preterm labor… or the flu?) and hot (but WAS it actually hot?) and achy (just the flu??) and very, very worried. But what happened was that they spaced out wider and wider. I took a hot bath– rather challenging to get a hot bath in this house by one’s self! Final compromise was that Isaac was allowed to keep watch over me in the bathroom, “So you don’t drown.” But at least in the tub ITSELF I managed to be alone. The contractions went away. I felt rather battered inside and Ben also felt completely emotionally drained by the fear. But we went to sleep and all seemed well enough.
However, this morning I woke up feeling, well, in mild pain. Not horrible blinding pain. Just… a little pain. Abnormal. Not usual. Painful, painy kind of pain. Baby was moving and kicking per usual, but seemed each time to be a blow upon upon a bruise. Also, still nauseated. But no organized contractions really. Just an overall sense of unease and unwellness and a sense that something was amiss. I spent an hour or two like this (thank god a babysitter was here chasing Isaac for me). I got the doctor’s phone number and set it next to my bed. But calling … ugh. When you call these people it forces you to admit that something real is going on. I mean, real enough to call. It’s not so much that I worry about being thought a ‘fraidy cat (I’ve got seniority and my courage round the maternity ward is the stuff of legend), but that calling them makes it all TRUE. Moves it from the realm of worry to the realm of situation. Also it always leads to action. After a short time, though, I came to my senses. I called and admitted to the nurse that I was scared. Not surprisingly, she said that I should come in shortly. Thus, poor Ben had to be dragged in from work (1 1/2 hours away) and meet me at the hospital.
There, they did this lovely new test that has been developed only recently. It tests for a chemical change that proceeds all other indicators of the onset of labor. It can predict that you’ll go into labor next week. Also, they did a quick ultrasound and noticed that healthy and well baby is now head up. (On Friday, it was head down.) They examined me from top to toe, ruled out a variety of things, and pending the test basically decided that I was fine. Later in the day the test came back negative. I’m NOT going into labor in the next week. Phew.
So what happened? Their working hypothesis is that you have here a long skinny one-half of a uterus. In it you have a large, ever larger, robust baby. It decides to completely change position. In the process of going from upside down to right side up, it spends some time wedged crosswise. Kicking and punching like a tiny masked Nacho Libre. Thus irritating the poor uterus, triggering a round of way-harder-than-usual contractions, and actually indeed BRUISING it from within. Hence, it feels literally bruised when kicked and very, very tender. Well, this may be exactly it. We do know that three days ago it was one way and now it’s the other. It makes sense that the process in between would be a little harsh. It also makes sense that it would settle in this position, like big brother Isaac, who spent his whole third trimester with his little big head crammed ever more snugly under my right ribs.
So… bottom line… we’re drained. We’re exhausted. But we’re fine.