Wednesday--abdominal pain. Lower back cramps. Difficulty moving.
Thursday--abdominal pain. Lower back cramps. CONTRACTIONS.
And I'm thinking. Okay, what? I am 24 weeks pregnant. That's nowhere CLOSE to 40. It's barely closer to 40 than it is to 0. So I'm counting them. More than four in an hour. Shit!
At this point I'm freaking out. Like, crying hysterically at work freaking out. Like, about to run out screaming "MY BABY MY BABY!," get-fired-I'm-so-upset, freaking out. IT'S TOO EARLY.
And I've joked about not wanting to be pregnant anymore. I don't want to be pregnant anymore, I think pregnancy is annoying, except for getting to feel her kicks and hear her heartbeat and know that shortly I'll get to raise a miniature human being. But God, I was joking. Seriously. I started making pacts, crying on the way to the doctor's office. "God, I promise I'll never complain about being pregnant again if you let this baby cook longer!"
So I sit there in the doctor's office waiting room blubbering like an idiot. Fortunately Jenny was there so I didn't have to look too pitiful (nothing worse than being a crying preggo lady alone). I was exhausted. I was convinced that the worst case scenario was occurring and that I'd have to take drastic measures to get labor to stop.
The nurse called me back and they weighed me. Another nurse was comforting me while I was crying and snotting all over myself, and I wanted to scream at her that I'm only 153 lbs and her gentle touch is making me weigh more. 156.8 lbs. Fabulous. Now I'm broken AND fat.
And, despite numerous promises that he wouldn't have to do a pelvic until the third trimester, I took off my pants and covered up with the "modest" paper sheet they give you for exams. Which didn't cover my WHOLE ass. Which, if Jenny was scarred permanently, she was nice enough not to mention it (there's even some zits on there now!)
Doc comes in, asks questions. Gets nurse for pelvic. Says my cervix is fine (calming my fears of active labor!). Then says I have a lot of discharge, gross, and explains that certain infections can irritate the uterus, initiating false labor. He said he's going to go look at it under a microscope and he'd be back shortly.
Much to his (and my) dismay, yes, I did have an infection. He mentioned a "mass of white blood cells and bacteria" and put me on antibiotics. He also was kind enough to throw in there a vivid description of what the infection looked like, which made me very embarrassed. It was better than not knowing what it was, and it was certainly better than having a doc think it was all in my head.
Unfortunately, I got this magic idea in my brain that knowing what it was would make the pain go away. What a sad, magic idea. I went to Burger King after I picked up my antibiotics and scarfed down my fish and cheese sandwich (biggest craving!) with french fries between jabs in my belly, crying hysterically because of how ridiculous I must look.
I suffered through the contractions for the better part of 12 more hours and still have abdominal pain. BUT...my cervix's lips are sealed, extremely figuratively speaking. And baby still gets to kick and somersault and play and get fat in my belly before she makes her debut. I'd hate for her to come out only knowing half of her lines!
So, Divine Being(s), if you're listening:
I bitch a lot about being pregnant, because it sucks, and I cry a lot cause of the weight I'm gaining, but please don't make her come out before she's ready. Even if I have to gain 80 million more pounds to get her out I'll do it.
And Baby Girl:
Sorry about the earthquake.
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