Mom was right. Life isn’t fair. Twenty-two (and a half!) weeks pregnant and I’m on bed-rest lockdown.
Thirty-six hours ago, I was a normal pregnant woman in mid-second trimester. Life was good and the boys were bouncing. Twenty-four hours ago I checked in to my very first “regular” doctor’s appointment. This one was going to be a cinch – weight and blood pressure check, verify babies are growing appropriately and be on my merry way.
Interesting note to this story here: I’m still in the hospital. And I’ve been here since I strolled in looking very business casual chic, armed with my iPhone and laptop prepared to be 30-45 minutes late to work yesterday morning.
The visit started off swimmingly – my weight is still increasing (I know, I’m as shocked as everyone else . . .), my blood pressure is still low and the babes were surf-riding the waves in their cozy (even if cramped) little home. Then the doctors started whispering to each other.
At first this didn’t bother me; this is a teaching hospital. But they didn’t look like “silly intern, you forgot to mention the torkemonemeter doo-hicky process.” They looked concerned. Then they told me to go ahead and get my stuff together and they’d be right back to chat. They left the room.
Cue ominous music here. I opened the door and peered out, “Umm,” I said to the boys and no one in particular, “is this bad?”
Upon the doctor’s return, she shared that I was being sent to Labor and Delivery for “observation.” My protests of having been deemed “normal” a scant week prior did not sway her.
I called Jon to let him know about the slight change of plans and started wandering around the hospital facility looking for Labor and Delivery. It hit me then. The only “normal” is the continuous lack of normalcy. (I will have to chat with my doctor about this.)
So here I am. Labor and Delivery Room #5 (that’s gotta be a good sign right?!), trying not to labor and/or deliver.