Pregnancy, for me, has turned out to be one big curve ball.
My first trimester was one that would be considered easy. Minimal morning sickness. Test results all clear. A steadily, happily growing belly. Pregnant and recently pregnant friends who spent many months hovered over toilets would tell me how lucky I was to have no major issues. I guess I’d hit the pregnancy jackpot, I thought. Since they say your first trimester is often the worst, I figured the next several months would be a cinch.
In my second trimester, some issues came up. I was told I was very anemic and had to take iron pills each day. That’s why I’ve been so tired. Fine, okay. Then, as I mentioned in my last post, I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. It was somewhat of a shocker, and I cried when I got the results. But I quickly got a lot of support and, with Matt’s help, changed my diet dramatically (no more delicious carbs—sob!). I’ve been pricking my finger daily to test my blood sugar levels and so far, all is good.
Then two days ago, I went in for a routine check-up. I had no real issues to report, but at the end of my appointment, my doctor asked me if I was experiencing any pain. I mentioned that I had some pelvic soreness when I walked, and simply attributed it to round ligament pain, a normal and common condition (thanks Dr. Google). She decided to check me to see if I was dialated.
Right away, she declared, “Your cervix is short.” Um, okay. I had to look at the illustration on the wall to remind myself where the heck my cervix is. (Oh, how I should have paid more attention in biology class.) She performed an ultrasound to confirm it. My cervix is short (between 1.3 to 1.7 centimeters when the norm is 3+), which is a major concern as cervices generally shorten during the labor process. Ummmmmmmm, what??
I am about 33 weeks pregnant and as much as I can’t wait to see this sweet being, I am NOT ready to give birth. But the doctor immediately sent me to the labor & delivery ward. Throughout my pregnancy, she has seemed very chill (in a good, anxiety-calming way), but this was the first time there was a sense of urgency. “You should call your husband,” she said. “You need to go over there now.”
Matt rushed down and I was admitted to the hospital, where they asked scary questions like, “What’s your religion?” (in hospital speak, that’s scary) and “Who can make decisions on your behalf if you’re unable to do so?” I was hooked up to a bunch of monitors and we watched the baby’s heart rate closely. She was kicking and flipping away.
It turns out I’ve been having lots of contractions, one every five minutes or so, but I can’t even feel them. They gave me a shot to make them stop. I was tested to see if I was in preterm labor, which, thankfully, I was not. I was sent home but had to come back the next day to get a steroid shot to help strengthen the baby’s lungs just in case she comes out soon.
I am now on bed rest basically until the end of my pregnancy. I am typing this post on my phone while laying sideways with my giant body pillow. Fun times. My doctor keeps stressing that this next week is crucial. I guess 34 weeks is a big milestone for the baby’s development, and we need to hit that mark.
I feel scared and incredibly crummy that I can’t work or tackle my massive baby-prep checklist, but obviously, my number one goal is to keep this baby cooking. Grow, baby! I’ve realized how monumental every week is, every day and hour is, and I cherish each little kick that reassures me she’s okay.
We’ll probably be in and out of the hospital for more monitoring, checking for contractions and things, which hopefully sounds worse than it is. I’m glad the doctors are being extra cautious, and I must say, Matt and I are handling it all pretty well. “Baby, this is your daddy,” he’d say into my belly. “STAY IN THERE. THAT’S AN ORDER!”
Anyway, that’s where we’re at now. Any thoughts or prayers would be appreciated.
