It is someone's birthday today...

But it's not Oliver's (yet).

Today Bruce turns eight years old. A few days ago I asked him what he would think if the baby was born on his birthday. Bruce happily replied, "we'd be twins!"

Thankfully, after 2.5 days of contractions, they stalled out yesterday afternoon and have not returned. So it looks like Bruce won't have to share his birthday after all. 

Grandma Raymond is making Bruce his favorite foods, and baked a ginger chocolate cake that we all shared at the hospital this afternoon. I hear that the house is decorated with streamers and that Bruce had a fun sleepover with his best friend (who happens to be a twin and makes Bruce wish he had a twin). 

Bruce got binoculars, a space rocket launching computer program, lots of Legos, Pokemon cards, and some Calvin and Hobbes books. 

I'm trying to figure out how to play Pokemon and am not getting it; does anyone know how to play this or does everyone fake it?!

The Never-ending Story

I have heard that childbirth is like running a marathon. It can be long. You work hard enough to sweat. You reach a point where you want to give up. You feel amazing when you're all finished. You forget about the pain and do it all over again (maybe?!).

I never got to experience much of the typical childbirth. I was only in labor with Bruce for a few hours before he became distressed and I developed worrisome symptoms that led to a quick emergency C-section. With Phoebe, I didn't get to labor long at all; once it was determined that her umbilical cord and oxygen supply were cut off, we were whisked off for yet another emergency C-section. So I've always been a little envious of those women who labored long and hard and had a natural childbirth. Those women are tough. I want to be tough too.

Now I'm getting my chance! When I was first admitted a few weeks ago, I had some good solid contractions for about 10 hours. A few days ago, I got another 10 or so hours of labor before it stalled out. As I write, I am now going on my 40th straight hour of contractions. And now that I've experienced labor, I can say with surety that I would much rather run a marathon. Or 2 or 3 or 4. Labor is harder. Period.

In a marathon, you know where the finish line is and you can predict where the pain will come and how much longer you have to endure it. But in labor, there is no solid finish line and certainly in my case I don't know how much longer it is going to be.

Two nights ago, I started having contractions again after a few boring days. They started coming in the middle of the night and it took me two hours to decide they were legit enough to push the nurse call button (I know, I don't make good decisions or move fast between the hours of 10 p.m.-5 a.m.). I was monitored for a half-hour to determine that they were indeed legit contractions, then transferred up to the labor and delivery floor (again).

I had contractions every 5 minutes for awhile, then every 4, then every 3 minutes. But every few hours they would ease up to every 10 minutes or so. Some were painful, some not as much. Because I just had magnesium a few days ago, my doctor gave me a different medication for stopping contractions. They didn't stop, but they slowed down enough for me to fall asleep last night. I was so exhausted that I slept for four hours. When I woke up, I checked the graphs that the monitor puts out and they showed contractions every 4-5 minutes with a few big monster ones. And so they have continued today (except for two blissful hours midday).

The plan is to keep the baby in as long as possible - so as long as I don't develop an infection and his vitals look good, I will keep going. The doctor thinks I'm within days of delivering rather than weeks, but that finish line is still looking ambiguous. Especially after having the course changed on me several times.

I've held it together pretty well thus far, but I totally broke down this morning. The nurse wanted to put a new IV in because the one I had was too old. I hate needles, but I really hate getting IVs placed; I hate the stinging, the pinching, and that feeling of plastic tubing getting shoved under my skin. Ick. I informed the nurse that I hated it and told her to place it wherever on me, but to please please please get it on the first try. She went over my arms thoroughly. I usually have decent veins (runners generally do), but I've been poked so many times that I'm nearly out of non-blown-out veins straight enough for an IV. The rash on my skin makes it even harder to find veins.

She settled on one and went for it - and didn't get it. "Awwww," the nurse said. "You're so brave." And that was when I lost it.

I'm tired of being brave! I want to go home! I miss my family! I hate needles! I hate hospitals! I miss running! I hate daytime TV! I want to tear off my itchy skin! I hate being tethered by the monitors! I want to sleep in my bed! I can't move the fingers on my left hand because of this stupid IV! I want a shower! 

The nurse got the IV placed, I had a good solid cry, I texted Scott pictures of my bloodied hand, I called my mom and had another good cry, then some medical student came in and asked how I was doing so I cried some more. In a marathon, I think this is where I "hit the wall."

Thankfully, a few friends stopped by this afternoon and buoyed me up enough that I'm feeling ready to face another day of this. Sticking to the marathon analogy, they essentially passed me some Gatorade and paced me through another mile while giving me a pep talk.

I still don't know where the finish line is, and the course is likely to change a few more times, but I'm rounding the corner ready for the next stretch - however long it may be.

And just to keep things interesting...

...I developed a rash from head to toe on Saturday. The doctors asked me all those great questions about laundry soaps and lotions and whatnot, trying to figure out what changed and why my skin is freaking out. But I had this same rash when I was about 32 weeks along with Phoebe. Maybe this is my body's two-week notice?

My mom flies back to Ohio tomorrow. In preparation for her departure, she baked banana bread for Bruce's birthday snack at school, cleaned the house, did mountains of laundry, and even got a bed ready for Scott's mom, who flies in an hour after my mom leaves. Mom is amazing; thank you!

Bruce and Phoebe are doing well on the outside - they aren't misbehaving or acting out. But they keep asking when I'm going to come home and when the baby is going to come out. I wish I knew.

They are surprising me too. Phoebe has been napping for Grandma. And the other day, Bruce opted to spend six hours at the hospital with me rather than go to the Children's Museum with Aunt Nancy. I thought for sure by the end he would regret his decision to stay with me, but he didn't. Despite all the fun they've had with Grandma, I think the kids miss me a little bit.

Mothers Day

The last few days have been more of the same: lay in bed, eat, drink like a life depends on it, read books, sleep. The doctors and nurses asked the same questions and were getting a little bored with me.

And then things changed. I started bleeding and contractions started coming on Saturday afternoon. Scott had his first day off (after working 12 straight!) and spent it with me at the hospital. 

We moved from the chill environ of the postpartum floor up to the labor and delivery floor. I got re-tethered to the bed with monitors and an IV. The doctor gave me magnesium sulfate, not necessarily to stop labor but for "neuro-protection" - studies have shown that a dose of it within 24 hours of being born significantly reduces the risk of cerebral palsy.

Unfortunately, it also stops labor. And it's an all-around nasty medicine that makes me feel hot and woozy. A few hours of that medicine and labor slowed and then stopped.

Which is good and bad. I'm 30 weeks and 4 days along, so another week or two in the womb would be beneficial for the baby. But the thought of having to lay low a bit longer (and miss out on Bruce's birthday next week and not get to tuck my kids in every night and so on...) and have to go through the same traumatic IV placement, nasty magnesium dose, and inevitable C-section in another week or two sounds awful to me.

And so I am trying to find a little ray of sunshine on this Mothers Day. I might have to resort to listing things I'm thankful for.

1) modern medicine: sure I don't really like it, but without it I'd be dead.

2) breakfast: after not being able to eat solid foods for almost 20 hours, I was happy to get something to eat this morning - even if it was hospital food.

3) lilacs: Scott got me a bouquet of lilacs for Mothers Day and they make the whole hospital room smell good. 

4) my mom: she birthed me, raised me well, and saved me a zillion times over. 

30 weeks

Yesterday I officially made it to 30 weeks pregnant. The nurses tell me the next big milestone is 32 weeks. I'm just taking this day by day.

There haven't been any new developments lately. The doctor stops by every morning and asks the same questions, to which I give the same answers. Any pain? Changes? Contractions? Movement? Yesterday the doctor added, "Do you have any hobbies?" to the Q&A. Yes, I do have hobbies, but hardly any of them involve sitting still for long periods of time.

The kids are doing well all things considered. Bruce has a couple field trips at school and a few after-school activities that he looks forward to. Phoebe has warmed up to grandma and even takes naps for her (what?!). When they come to visit, Phoebe inspects my feet and will often rub lotion on them. Aunt Nancy drove up from Philadelphia to join the fun; she finished the semester at physician's assistant school and was planning on a camping trip and fun with the kids. Now that I'm in the hospital, we scratched the camping trip and put her to work. Yesterday she made a bunch of crepes and brought them over to the hospital. The day before she brought paper and we attempted to make origami flowers and butterflies.

My mom is still here and will be for Mother's Day. I feel like she deserves a parade, pampering at a fancy hair salon, fine foods served to her, and way more than what she's going to get. Scott works a long 7 a.m.-10 p.m. shift on Sunday, so my mom will have to get the kids to church and around town solo.

One week down.

It's official: I've been in the hospital for a whole week. I woke up this morning at 4 a.m. - between the nurse's station, alarms, getting my vitals taken every few hours, and crying babies, I wake up a lot during the night - and fumbled for my phone to figure out what time it was. I accidentally texted Scott the letter "X," to which he responded within a minute, "Everything okay?" Oops, I woke him up. I assured him I was fine and just clumsy with my phone in the middle of the night, then laid in the dark remembering what happened exactly one week ago on Sunday morning at 4 a.m. Ugh, I can't believe this.

Yesterday and today I've sworn off TV. Maybe it's a slow news week, but the newscast has been the same every day with Boston Marathon bomber news developments and the same sunny weather; it almost feels like Groundhog Day. The TLC Network has done a number on me too. For a few days, I watched a few sappy semi-reality shows - "like a moth to the flame," as Scott said after I told him about this. It's true. I watched "A Baby Story," a show that follows expectant mothers throughout their pregnancy and birth. After a few episodes, I grew tired of all the normal pregnancies on the show and the glamorously quick births. I also watched a show called "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" that profiled women who just magically popped out healthy babies out of nowhere. What?! That was the last straw: I'm getting too bitter watching TLC, so I'm turning off the tube.

Instead, I wrote about a million thank you notes, finished writing an article for the July issue of New England Runner Magazine, wrote pages and pages into my journal, and am currently working on a post for this blog.

As far as a medical update goes, there isn't much of one. Nothing is happening, but the doctor assures me that's a good thing. Hanging in here.

Glamour Shots by Ellen

Ellen came to visit last night and brought her camera along (of course!), as well as chips and guacamole and tales of her many adventures (some of which make it to her fantastic blog). On her blog, she says I'm "one of [her] favorite people," which I think is a distinction way better than being named to this (which, being bored in a hospital, I've read about now).

On the inside looking out.

I'm still here without much to report. I've gotten to know some of the nurses and staff; my day nurse is leaving tomorrow for her timeshare in Aruba. She said she'll be gone for two weeks and added, "I hope you're still here when I get back." I have mixed feelings about that.

I don't really want to be here. Let's face it: I'd rather be carting Bruce off to school, playing with Phoebe at the park, starting the day off with a run, ending with laundry and chores. It's super-boring in the hospital; there are about 30 TV channels, one of which features a round-faced clock where you can watch the second hand sweep around the circle minute by minute. It's maddening. I also don't enjoy having random people pop in the door wanting to poke me at all hours (have I ever mentioned how much I hate needles?!).

But I do want to lay here, knowing what the alternative is. The nurses like to say that one day in the womb is equivalent to three in the NICU. With that in mind, I can start to wrap my mind around a few weeks of this confinement. I would much rather lay in bed with this little guy contentedly kicking around inside me than be separated from him, worrying constantly about his health and prognosis, leaving him at the hospital and always feeling torn between baby and kids while trying to recover from birth, pump milk, and maintain some normalcy for Bruce and Phoebe. If you think I'm going crazy from hospital bedrest, just check out the October/November 2009 blog archives from when Phoebe was in the NICU. That drove me crazy.

And so I'm trying to make the best of this. I lay around, I have food prepared and brought right to me in bed, I have a drawer of chocolate-covered goodies next to me, I have books I've never had time to read, and I'm getting to relax more than ever before. I'm also uplifted by the many, many people who have offered prayers, babysitting, meals, rides, visits, and anything to make this experience a little less harrowing. Thank you, I love you all.