Okay, you know that whole bit about exhaling? Forget that. The only exhaling I’ve been doing these days is in rapid succession in the form of hyperventilation. I’m not sure what happened; I had been doing so well. Throughout bed rest, the hospitalizations, the urgent c-section, and the two weeks that followed, I had managed to keep it together, sanity and sense of humor somehow intact. And then out of nowhere, I crashed. It’s troubling, because I used to think of myself as a really strong person. I had endured a lot in my life and had, thus far, managed to sail through unscathed. Just one week after being raped and held hostage at gunpoint, I dove headfirst into high school soccer preseason…and secured a starting spot on Varsity as a freshman. I had never been the type to be phased by much. But then, I had never had a child in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Now I do. And now I’m a huge pussy.
Archives for July 2015
In the weeks leading up to Blake’s birth, I found myself quoting Happy Gilmore on more than one occasion. I just couldn’t understand why she was so quick to want to exit my womb. The week prior, I had hemorrhaged, and the bleeding was accompanied by consistent contractions — one minute apart — that necessitated the use of interventions in order to stop, or at least delay, preterm labor. Luckily, the contractions slowed (though they never quite went away), and I was sent back home on bed rest.
The following Wednesday, I felt a gush and made my routine trip to the bathroom in order to check for blood. But it wasn’t blood that awaited me; it was liquid. After texting my OBGYN, I was told to return to the hospital, as it was possible that I was experiencing PPROM (preterm premature rupture of membranes). In layman’s terms? My water may have broken. Fab.