There is a thin line between not enjoying the physical discomforts of pregnancy and not wanting to be pregnant.
As I sat in Triage Room Three in the Labor And Delivery wing this morning, I realized that I very much want to continue to be pregnant for a while. I am almost “term” (37 weeks, the point at which the doc is totally OK with you birthing the baby), but not quite.
At my routine OB appointment this morning, as the “blue doctor” (owen’s phrase) dopplered my abdomen, he looked a little concerned. The heart rate was not where it was supposed to be. He rolled me onto my side and asked me a few questions and then said he’d meet me after I got dressed. I dressed. He gave me directions to the obstetrical wing and told me he ordered me a non-stress-test. Cheers! Goodbye.
As someone who has sailed shamefully problem-free through both pregnancies, anything out of the ordinary sets my heart pounding. I have read a few too many mommy blogs and therefore a million frightening scenarios scamper through my head. Also, I watch too much HOUSE and can picture with hideous clarity any number of painful medical procedures that could be performed on a pregnant woman or fresh-born baby.
I pictured each one on the eight-mile walk to the O.B. wing. I had visions of mirror syndrome, preterm labor, fetal distress, emergency surgery, attractive doctors looking sadly at me as they deliver the bad news. I was all alone and rather hungry and suddenly the world didn’t seem to like me very much.
Now, a non-stress test ought to be, you know, non-stressful. They strap your bulging pregnant belly to a fetal heartrate monitor and let you stew for a bit to check that everything’s OK with the little bugger. It should be easy and quick and simple to perform. I expect they do them all the time.
Thirty-seven miles of hallway later, I approached L&D Admitting. My doctor had sent me down with orders for an NST, I informed them. La la la, I expect you get this sort of patient all the time, where do I sign? Receptionist A looked confused: Did he send me here, or to (pointing) the high-risk antenatal unit? The other receptionist was too busy rolling her eyes and speaking roughly to a patient on the phone. My confidence quickly faded.
Labor and Delivery? said I. He called it down? Phone calls were made, forms were handed to me. Did I have a living will? Who was my next of kin? Did he have a cellular phone?
I know these are standard questions, but I was not expecting to actually be admitted today. It felt — irrationally, but nonetheless — like I should really be paying attention, because shit was going to go down the tubes rather quickly.
After a reasonably short wait, I was brought back to a triage room. The nurse asked me why I was there. She seemed confused by my answer (“a non-stress test.”) She left to get help. Help returned and asked the question again. They called someone to clarify. They asked me to have a seat and then left. I had to wonder: Has no one at this hospital ever heard of a non-stress test before? Is this not a done thing?
Fifteen minutes later, they returned, instructed me to disrobe, and left. I did so, and one of them returned and took my temperature. She tried to get a blood pressure cuff around the arm that was holding the thermometer. She had to re-take my temperature; also, she seemed confused by the behavior of the cuff. She called for backup. Backup came. She asked backup how to fill out the form, why the cuff was beeping, did she need to collect my urine.
Turns out it was her first day on the job. When I asked her what a non-stress test might entail, she had no idea. That made two of us.
Backup Nurse was much more competent, although when she was trying to get a reading on the baby’s heart she kept asking me where it was. I indicated that it was, you know, in my uterus. In my belly. Where babies usually hang out before they are born. After much frowning and quiet repositioning of the baby monitor, and a sickening lack of audible fetus heartbeat, she finally found what she was looking for. Flipper kicked her. Good boy, thought I.
Then I was left alone for almost an hour to wonder what the hell was happening, and was the baby OK, and if I only get two visitors for my emergency c-section, then who should they be? Who was going to pick up Owen from day care? Who was going to call Iain at the school? Who was going to call my employer to tell them I was at death’s door?
I had two Braxton-Hicks contractions during that hour, during which the baby’s heartrate would plummet and become very quiet. I wondered if all that vacuuming I had been doing had brought this on. Obviously something was very wrong with the baby — after all, I was wearing a hospital bracelet and not wearing any pants, you don’t need a medical degree to know that that is a Prime Clue in the Things Ain’t OK department.
It was patently clear. I was going to hell for vacuuming too much and putting my baby’s life in danger. I should have been resting my weak, weak uterus — or was it my Super Uterus? Were my Braxton Hicks contractions that powerful, that each one was endangering the baby? Was there a comic book character that could explain such a phenomenon to me in pamphlet form? Should I have been researching Captain Uterus and his sidekick, Placental Pete? I was definitely going to hell.
I tried to pat my belly and reassure Flipper but that just made the monitor emit hideous screeching sounds.
I had to take my mind off the impending tragedy. I tried to detach. I counted the dusty-rose stripes in the wallpaper, studied the dust and other people’s hair that had collected on the wall’s protective bumper near the bed.
Just when I thought I couldn’t hold the tears back any longer, P.A. Tina came in. “I’m Tina, the P.A. Your strip looks fine,” she said, unbuckling me and pulling the sheet up to wipe off the gel. “You’re good to go. Someone will let you out.” She turned on her white-sneakered heel and left.
And just like that, it was all over. Everything was fine. There were no problems. I missed lunch, and nearly had a panic attack, and was cared for by a trainee, but the baby was OK. The baby was fine. He kicked the nurse and danced around and just his bulging presence, now that I knew he was OK, made me feel better. I patted him reassuringly and got a jiggle in return. Time to cowboy up and find some lunch, he seemed to be telling me. No need to panic. Get out of here and go home.
So that’s what I did. It’s funny how the slightest alteration from a normal medical visit has me thinking and assuming the worst: planning my funeral, or wondering how to tell work that I was placed on bedrest, or mentally arranging childcare for an unexpected week-long hospital stay. And then, with the snap of a latex-free glove, everything reverts to normal. I am fine and dressed and walking down the hall without a care except how to sate my overdue hunger for lunch and get revenge on the clueless people who leave me to stew in my own uninformed, worst-case-scenario juices.
It’s so easy to be a hypochondriac that it’s a wonder more people don’t try it.
