It was April 2010. I was in the Mom/Baby unit. Room 39 I think (I was the guest of many variations of whatever number it was).
I was lying semi-upright in my newly prescribed bedrest position. Jon was with me. We were waiting for the doctor. I didn’t know when I’d get to go home. I’d been on that hospital third floor for four days and counting – ever since my “routine” checkup revealed that something was amiss, contractions were not Braxton-Hicks, and the muppets were in danger of making a very early arrival. Continue reading