Officially, I was in premature labor, although no one had verbally labeled it that way. Maybe that's because my doctor was trying every drug he could to stop it.
Chris and I arrived at the hospital in record time. Our second visit in two hours. This time, though, instead of guiding me into the small monitoring room, they ushered me into a labor-delivery room, where I donned hospital jammies, received an IV, got an official admittance identification band slapped on my wrist, and settled in. Another injection of Terbutaline was ordered and administered, and the fetal monitor was wrapped around my midsection. It produced an, oh, so sweet sound as the baby’s strong heartbeat emitted a beautiful rhythm from the machine parked bedside.
Chris and I arrived at the hospital in record time. Our second visit in two hours. This time, though, instead of guiding me into the small monitoring room, they ushered me into a labor-delivery room, where I donned hospital jammies, received an IV, got an official admittance identification band slapped on my wrist, and settled in. Another injection of Terbutaline was ordered and administered, and the fetal monitor was wrapped around my midsection. It produced an, oh, so sweet sound as the baby’s strong heartbeat emitted a beautiful rhythm from the machine parked bedside.
But by nine
o’clock that night, nothing had changed, and Chris decided to leave and go pick
up Parker because he didn’t want to leave him at our friend’s house overnight.
And it became apparent that Dr. Landry was determined to continue this course
of treatment until the contractions abated. However long that would take.
At midnight,
another Terbutaline shot punctured my arm, and I demanded an egg crate padding
for the bed. It was now evident this was not to be a temporary stay.
“I will have to
call Dr. Landry for that egg crate,” my nurse, Laurie, informed me.
“Please do that.
I won’t be able to lie on this hard bed long—in this condition—without an egg
crate pad.”
Within minutes
the new egg crate arrived, was unrolled from its packaging and spread out on
top of my bed. I reclined a little more comfortably. At least as comfortably as
a seven-and-a-half-month pregnant woman in premature labor with her cervix sewn
shut could be.
I called Chris sometime around midnight, practically begging him to call Dr. Landry to see what was happening. My patience dangled by an unraveling thread, and I wasn’t sure how many more ceiling tile patterns I was going to be able to mentally conjure up before going bonkers. Unable to bypass Dr. Landry’s protective answering service, Chris called me back with apologies and concern, and then retreated to sleep.
At two
o’clock in the morning, Dr. Landry was still placing his orders over the phone,
and my anger rapidly escalated. Why isn’t
he coming to the hospital? I’m depending upon him, and, right now, he’s letting
me down!
But I wasn’t
just mad. I was scared. He’d told me once before he tended to think of me like
all of his other patients with this condition, and he realized he shouldn’t do
that. I feared he’d slipped into that mental habit again, and I—and my
baby—would pay dearly for the mistake.
By 2:00AM, it
was obvious that the Terbutaline wasn’t going to do the job, so Dr. Landry
ordered the vicious magnesium sulfate to provide a final knockout blow to the
contractions. When Laurie made the chirpy announcement that I was to have the
dreaded drug, I promptly and bitingly informed her that I was not going to accept any amount of that drug unless I had anti-nausea medication to
accompany it. My experience was paying off. And my maternal family ‘s hardheaded
traits were finally working to my advantage.
“Dr. Landry
didn’t order that, “ she told me crisply.
I propped myself
up on my elbows to look her squarely in the eyes. “I’m telling you that I am
not going to have any magnesium
sulfate unless I have anti-nausea
medication with it!” She stood erect and backed up a pace as my disgust
made contact with her.
“I’ll call Dr.
Landry.”
“You do that.
You get him out of bed. Again!” Had I
been a spitting cobra, the venom would have penetrated precisely on target.
Laurie rapidly
exited the room and returned moments later with an IV bag of magnesium sulfate,
an anti-nausea injection, and a very condescending nurse who proceeded to take
charge. I got the impression that she was sent in specifically as a warden to
take control of their problem detainee.
They also
injected a sedative to enable me to relax and sleep. Unfortunately, it had
absolutely no affect on my pain-riddled body. But slowly, the familiar, fiery
magnesium sulfate crawled over my torso and face, and I asked for several cool,
wet washcloths. With everything in place, I managed to assume a semi-agreeable
disposition. The lights were extinguished, and the nurses left me alone in the
blackened room. Alone with my contractions and drugs. Since the sedative was
worthless, I closed my eyes and returned to a prayer I’d used frequently
throughout my long confinement.
“The light of God surrounds me.
The love of God enfolds me.
“The power of God protects me.
The presence of God watches over me.
Wherever I am, God is.” 1
Over and over I
repeated it, with additional conviction during the worst waves of
breath-stopping contractions. It helped to keep me focused on one thing: Jesus’
mercy and presence. Like that candlelight glow I’d experienced just days
earlier. If I were too pre-occupied to feel
His presence, at least I could remind myself, and my brain, of it.
At one point, my
praying seemed to be working so well that Laurie quietly entered the room,
silently observed me, wordlessly surveyed the fetal monitor paper rolling from
the machine, and then tip-toed out. I half opened one eye to follow her
movements around the room, without her noticing. Later, she returned once again
to check on me, bubbling happily that I’d been sleeping earlier. I just smiled,
closed my eyes again, and returned with deeper concentration and conviction to
my prayer, while sneaking intermittent glances at the enormous wall clock
staring at me from beyond the foot of my bed.
Time. It had
seemed to ridicule me for months, and here it was again, rhythmically ticking
away the seconds, minutes and hours. Like it held a secret it wouldn’t divulge
but enjoyed teasing me about.
Tick…tick…tick…
I felt doomed.
______________________________________
NEXT WEEK: When everything that could go wrong
does…
______________________________________
Until next week,
Thanks for
joining me!
Blessings,
Andrea
photo credit:
<a
href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/raveneye/2267285421/">Jösé</a>
via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a
href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/">cc</a>
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