I came home from the hospital yesterday, but to keep myself busy, I kept a running blog of my experience each day that I was in there, waiting…and waiting…and waiting…
Hospital Stay Day 1
Sometimes when life you gives you a bedpan, you just have to take a big ole pee. Pardon the word usage, but my recent hospital experience has me grasping for medical analogies and, admittedly, sometimes they just don’t cut the chord (har har).
I have recently come to thoroughly loathe some aspects of our medical system and, in the last few days, I have nearly been overcome with the urge to find Gordon Campbell and bitch slap him repeatedly. Normally I am not the type of person who seeks out conflict, but I would gladly tackle Gordon to the ground and pummel him with a HUGE smile on my face. It’s obvious that any big wig politician who is involved in making healthcare funding decisions has never had to wait in an ER for six hours while her baby’s life hangs in the balance. If said politicians had gone through this process, I have no doubts that our healthcare system would suddenly find itself with an overabundance of funding to expand ERs, hire more staff and accommodate all of the sickies in a timely and orderly fashion. ‘Nuff said.
On Sunday, I felt a bit odd. Dizzy. A little weird. Definitely concerned about the baby who wasn’t moving around very much in the a.m. (his most active time of day). There was a little something niggling in the back of my brain that said I shouldn’t ignore my offness and I should go see a doctor, but it was Sunday and I was trying not to be one of those paranoid pregnant ladies who rush to the doctor with every little concern, so I tried to chalk it up to a hormonal day. I sat down to pee around 8:30 p.m. (after feeling reassured by the many kicks and wiggles I’d been feeling since around 7:45 p.m.) and out plopped a blood clot the size of an egg. Pretty sure that’s not due to having a hormonal day… I refused to panic and forced myself to breathe deeply while Greg raced us up to the ER.
16 hours later I was finally seeing my OB/GYN in the ER, getting an emergency ultrasound and finding out that, although our baby was doing just fine, my body was letting me down BIGTIME. There it was on the monitor, plain as day, my cervix was wide open and the baby’s head was pressing against it. Normally, had I been 37 weeks pregnant, this would have been a sign of normal impending labour, but seeing as how I am only 19 weeks, there was indeed cause for panic. My doc informed us that my cervix isn’t strong enough to hold the baby in – a condition called Incompetent Cervix. I can’t really understand why they would label it with such negative connotations – why not call it weakened or insufficient? Why all this talk of incompetence??? He ordered bed rest in hospital for two days and then another ultrasound to see if it had closed on its own while I was resting. If it hadn’t, he told us that I would have to be knocked out so my cervix could be stitched closed and cinched up (like a drawstring bag) in order to keep Sesame in there long enough for me to deliver a healthy, viable baby.
And so, I was immediately admitted, put on strict bed rest (except bathroom breaks) and here I am, playing the waiting game. If 48 hours passes with no more blood clots, no cramping, no bleeding, etc., then I will get another ultrasound and they will whisk me into an OR to cinch up my cervical drawstring. Good times.
Actually, I have been blessed with amazingly awesometastic nurses with great bedside manner, good senses of humour and a generally pleasant demeanour. Lucky me!
What I haven’t been blessed with is three elderly roommates whom I secretly believe are trying to drive me insane enough to jump through the window and put myself out of my misery. Too bad all of the windows are nailed shut. Isn’t that a safety hazard????
The geriatric beside me has some sort of pneumonia or chest infection and sucks back the oxygen all day long, in between puffing on inhalers, wheezing incessantly and complaining to anyone who will listen about how she wants to go home, but doesn’t want to suffer when the end comes. She’s 65, so I hardly think the end is near for her yet. Besides, someone who can complain so fervently about everything is destined to live a long and annoying life. She’s a gem!
The lady across from her is 88 and although she is quite pleasant and keeps to herself (TFG), her family comes in every hour or so and they all glare at the rest of us, complain to the nurses that they aren’t treating mommy dearest well enough and bitch that the doctor doesn’t come by as often as he should. Seriously? He’s been in here THREE times this morning and it’s only 11:50 a.m.. To top it off, as far as I can tell, this lady had surgery three weeks ago to repair a broken ankle and she is practically running up and down the halls, begging people to let her go home. But she lives with her daughter and I think said daughter just might be enjoying the break from having her mom around 24/7, so I am certain she is encouraging her mom to stay as long as possible. Oh the drama of it all!
And then there’s Minnie. Tiny little hunchbacked, 95 year old Italian woman, who has the loudest voice I’ve ever heard and, trust me, I hear it non-stop because she talks to herself all day long. All day long. Even while her family is here visiting, she carries on a constant stream of conversations with herself and some unseen companions. Her family just comes in, talks amongst themselves and she seems as though she’s enjoying every moment of their company. It is bizarre and, admittedly, very aggravating.
Just in case you feel the need to experience the torture I’ve been enduring in the last 24 hours, here is an excerpt of what I like to call Minnie’s Mighty Soliloquy!
I’m not making this stuff up. I am actually sitting here writing down what she is saying verbatim because I have to share what I’m dealing with here…
What’s tomorrow? What is the date? Who’s gonna sleep in this one? Heh? Oh, that’s sweet. How quaint. I don’t know why I’ve still got the thing up there? I…I just can’t understand it. Looks like he’s coming out here after the whole affair. Well, there’s some apples there, some peaches maybe. Yessssss! I’m finished this here and I’ve just started that over there, so you can’t step in it. Purple cabbage keeps me regular, although the bears keep eating it. On the side there, I don’t know which one it is. Isn’t that the most adorable little clock? Yes, he spent some time in Vinsula. She was such a pretty thing, but the mouth on her. Oh my! Is there someone in there? I think it’s empty. Maybe I should go in there, but I don’t think I really want to. The turkey got away and we laughed and laughed. My knee has been giving me some trouble. Sings a few bars of some song I don’t recognize and then laughs hysterically to herself. Yah, that feels close in there. Yah. Oh, of course. Tom says it is so. I trust Martha’s idea. (BIG BANG NEXT DOOR). Oh! Jesus, what was that? Hitting? Hitting something. Alright, c’mon, let the girl have the seat, it’s cheaper. That’s me. I’m old. I’m 156, 57, 58, no 55 preferably. He was picked up on two counts of possession. I know. Absolutely intolerable. Why do these women keep staring at me? I don’t want to go for a walk. I only pee at night before I go to bed. It is the Bank of Canada, can’t you read? Oh, I’m well over one hundred, but my feet are in great shape. What’s that? Oh, of course, help yourself.. Who let all these cats and dogs in here? This is my house and I’ll tell you if cats and dogs are allowed and I say they are not. Get them out of here. How to touch your man so he’ll like it…”
That was exactly five minutes worth of Minnie and you can probably understand why I am so thrilled to be in the same room as her. Can someone just come in here and knock me the hell out or something. I already asked Greg to bring his rifle and just shoot me, but he said he’d have a hard time getting it past security. Har har.
Oh well, I think I’ll try to take a nap.