This has been such an interesting journey so far. I certainly never thought my pregnancy would land me on bed rest in the hospital. Part of me hates it - I'm an active person who never slows down. And here I am strapped (literally) to a hospital bed. I've got things to do. I've got a brand new house I'm barely moved into. The other part of me is so grateful that we caught everything early and baby girl is still in there getting a chance to grow and develop (go lungs go!) and fight for each additional day in there. I know that being strapped to this bed is the best possible thing for her.
My daughter was supposed to have a July birthday. I was supposed to finish the school year at work and have a few weeks to complain about the miserable DC heat in the comfort of my brand new house! I know July is never going to happen. At this rate, June would be a dream. May is ideal, according to the doctors who would love for me to keep her in there until week 34. April is my biggest fear. In my heart, I know I will never be fully ready for her to come out early, even if I made it to week 34. I'm an overachieving perfectionist. I can already see me begging the doctors for one more week. Just one more day. Just a few more hours. I know it wouldn't make a major difference, but let me try! As much as I want to meet this little pistol, I don't want to see her in the NICU tied to all those machines. Leave me tied up to the machines instead! I hate this GD diet, the iv, the finger pricks, etc., but if I could make a deal with the devil, I'd gladly endure them for the rest of my life if it meant she could come out at 40 weeks fully developed, healthy, and screaming her lungs off. I don't want her whisked away from me before I can even see her or touch her or make sure she is fine. I know that is what is best and I know that is the more likely scenario, but I feel like I'm being cheated in a way. I hope the little chunky monkey defies the odds and waits as long as possible and comes out fat and crying her head off. I hope some doctor or nurse in the room gets to say something like, "Well that's a surprise!" or "Look at that" or "I can't believe she..."
So many thoughts go through my head during her classic "dip" moments on the monitor. They only last for a moment or two, but it feels like the whole world stops. My first thought goes to prayer (i.e. "Please God, please."). My second thought is that of a teacher (i.e. "If you don't speed it up, girl, you are going to get in trouble with the nurse!"). My third thought is a combo of anger/disappointed parent (i.e. "What are you doing? I was at the appointment with the pediatric cardiologist. Your heart is fine! Use it!".). And finally I go into cheerleader mode (i.e. "Come on! Pump! Pump! Pump!"). I hate those dips. Every inch of my body reacts when it hears her heart rate slow.
The good news - she was on the monitor this morning while I was writing this post and NO DIPS!!!! What a great morning - week 28, day 5!