That was the image that greeted us on our routine ultrasound
about a week and a half ago. A perfect
little set of five baby toes wiggling around, dipping in and out of a little
pocket where the top of my cervix should have been. In the span of two weeks my cervix apparently
went from ‘long and closed’ to, well, almost gone. Then for the next three days it diminished
further and further. Now as a result I’m
currently in lockdown at a minimum security prison the antenatal unit at
a hospital about 6 hours away from home.
Where I’ll probably be until these little assholes miracles are
born.
When this happened I was just a touch over 23 weeks, which
is an extremely tenuous time in a pregnancy.
It’s right there at the cusp of ‘maybe’.
As in, maybe they would survive if something happened and I went into
labour. But fortunately and
unfortunately the short cervix thing is also a big maybe. As in, maybe it means something, maybe it
doesn’t. So in my doctor’s eyes the only
course of action was banishment. He
basically wanted me and my bum cervix out of his jurisdiction.
After we left his office I hopped onto the stage 2 bandwagon
for a while and enjoyed a little denial.
I wasn’t going to be hospitalized, thankyouverymuch. I felt fine, I had appointments in the city
the following week; I’d just go to those, the other doc would say it’s nothing
and life would continue on. I even went
back to work after the ultrasound. That
afternoon my doctor called me, at work, and said he had talked to my doctor in
the city and it was time to go. Now. I
still resisted. Finally three days
later, after a lot of pouting, crying, and wanting to stomp my feet but not
being able to because they needed to be elevated, we were in the car on the way
here. Two days later, after talking them
into two more nights of freedom, I was admitted. Now here I sit.
The best and worst part about this is that I feel perfectly
fine. The babies are all happy and big,
moving like crazy and growing right on schedule. And there is a very good chance that I will
make it far, far along before I go into labour.
But, I also might not. No one
really knows for sure. And since they
don’t know they need to err on the side of caution and keep me here, under
their watchful eyes. Which, quite
frankly, fucking sucks.
I know I need to be here, and after I processed everything I
was able to focus more on what’s best for the babies vs what’s best for
me right now. I know this ultimately minor hiccup will
afford the best possible outcome if these little buggers decide they just can’t
wait to meet us. And by the time we got
in the car on Friday I was starting to get genuinely scared that something may
happen after all. Then I felt really
guilty for focusing mainly on just how much this sucks for me, how much it
screws up my day to day, and how much I just didn’t WANNA. I would miss my husband! I had plans!
I was going to work for two more weeks! I wanted to be fat and happy on my couch until
they were ready to pop! ME ME ME. I just wasn’t ready for the realization that
I don’t matter anymore. My husband isn’t
the most important thing in the world to me anymore. It’s them.
And for the rest of my life it will be them. It just feels like I got robbed of the last
weeks or even months of, well, being selfish.
I don’t get to cuddle on the couch with my husband, watching movies and
making him get me ridiculously indulgent treats.
I don’t get to ‘nest’ and get familiar with all things baby and
nursery. I don’t even get to lay there
with a cat curled up on my huge belly, giving it dirty looks when a baby kicks. Which sounds so insignificant but while
sitting here in a hospital bed it seems so massive. And alright, I’m clearly not over the me me
me part yet.
