On Monday I woke up at 6:00, went to the gym and ran five miles, feeling awesome. I came home and started getting ready for work, turned on the shower, was doing my thing, and noticed a little blood, which is never a good thing, especially for moms-to-be. I called my trusty 811 and they recommended I go into a walk-in clinic to get checked out, but I decided to forgo the clinic and head straight to the hospital - in hindsight, one of my best decisions ever. I called Peter who immediately headed for home to drive me to the hospital, and called into work to let them know I'd miss our morning production meeting and that I wasn't sure about an afternoon meeting we'd had scheduled.

I figured we'd be sent home from the hospital within 15 minutes with a clean bill of health and a "these things happen" spiel. Instead, after being hooked up to a heart rate and activity monitor, I found out I was having contractions 2-4 minutes apart. At 32 weeks - waaaay too early for those sorts of shenanigans. And I wasn't even feeling anything!

My first thought was "I'm NOT ready to have this baby yet!" I was worried about totally unimportant things at first - from the shallow, insignificant fact I hadn't shaved my legs (I'd cut my shower short) to thinking about how the nursery isn't totally finished.

And then we realized that the baby's heart rate was dipping after my contractions, which led the nurses and doctor to believe the baby may be in distress. At this point I started to panic. Normally, when preterm labour starts, doctors will administer drugs right away to stop the contractions and stop labour, no problem. However, if the baby's in danger, sometimes it's better to let labour progress and have the baby right away.

My next stop was the birthing room, which was completely surreal. I got put in a johnny shirt, had an IV hooked up, and got the activity monitor strapped back on at regular intervals to track my contractions and the baby's heart rate. I tried to keep my shit together and not completely lose it and start bawling. The nurses and doctors were all wonderful, answered all my questions, and took excellent care of me and Pete, who never left my side. I wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything, which I realized was in case I ended up having a baby that afternoon.

I cannot explain how frightening it is, when you legitimately think you have seven or eight weeks to prepare for something, and being told it might happen that same day. Imagine getting a deadline at work or at school wrong - by eight weeks - and realizing whatever it is, is due that day. Now multiply that panic you feel by like, five million, due to the fact that this isn't a paper you need to pass in, or a client meeting you need to get ready for, but potentially bringing a baby into the world seven weeks early. That was me on Monday.

The baby had to be analyzed for overall health and size. When my stomach was measured externally, it was measuring small - adding a whole new complication (in addition to having a preterm baby, I'd also be having a baby that was extra small for his or her age). We had an ultrasound to confirm the measurements, and thankfully we found out the baby's head was just super low, which made him or her appear smaller. Our baby is actually in the 29th percentile for size for its age, and weighed 4lb 4oz on Monday. He or she also scored an 8/8 on an overall wellness test, so we knew at least if they were an early bird, they'd have a good start. I was given a shot in the bum of a steroid to help develop baby's lungs in case I went into full-fledged labour.

My cervix was checked (which is a disgusting process, btw) and was 1.9 cm dilated, so something funky was going on. I also had a swab test done to check to see whether I was at risk of going into preterm labour and it came back positive. The OB decided to start me on the drug to slow my contractions, which happened late Monday. I was so excited to hear I'd be getting the drug. I was less excited to hear it doesn't always work.

Overnight the drugs kicked in and my contractions became weaker and irregular. I spent Tuesday in the hospital receiving a lower dose of the medication, and had my last dose on Wednesday afternoon. I stayed in the hospital another 24+ hours with no medications to make sure I didn't start contracting again, and got released this afternoon, four days later.

Now that I'm home, I'm on a "reduced activity" plan until I go into labour or 36 weeks, whichever comes first (please, please, please let us make it to 36 weeks if not longer!) I'll find out for sure on Monday if I'm done work early, which also sucks and is unexpected, but as one of the nurses pointed out, having kids is alllll about dealing with the unexpected, so this is good practice. If we make it to 36 weeks, the baby is considered full term and there's no risk of delivering early, so that's the goal.

Every day the baby stays put is two fewer days he or she would need to spend in the hospital after being born, so we're hoping and praying they're content in there. Every twinge I feel, I panic. I hate the idea of bedrest and reduced activity - I despise sitting still. I hate the thought of not being able to work out or clean the house or shake my tailfeathers for the next few weeks but I hate the thought of our little one being in danger even more. We're 33 weeks today. Please hang in for at least three more weeks, baby!

And this is why I'm convinced (again) that I'm having a boy. A little girl simply wouldn't cause all this trouble. But for a bratty little boy this is typical behaviour.

I don't have a 32-week photo either. Those johnny shirts at the hospital? Not flattering.

Here we are at 31 1/2 weeks. We have about eight weeks until d-day. Less than two months. Cue hysterics.

This morning, I had my first belly rub from a stranger. I'm at the gym, wearing my gross "All Sweat, No Regret" t-shirt complete with pit stains (which is SATURATED with sweat BTW) and plugging away on the StairMaster while listening to Girl Talk (best gym music hands down = ALL DAY), when one of the morning gym geriatrics materializes beside me. I pull my headphones out.

"When are you due?" she asks, while rubbing my sweaty, swollen belly.

I was so taken aback I didn't realize until afterward that I had been violated. "Uhhh, early November..." I stammered.

"He's gonna come out running!" she announced, chuckled at her little joke and shuffled off to the bathroom.

So, so weird. I'm not a big touchy-feely person anyway, and to have my stomach felt up BY A STRANGER, WHILE WORKING OUT first thing in the morning is right up there with the oddest experiences I've encountered. I really don't mind friends and family getting all up in my business but old women who I've never said hi to before? It's a bit personal, yanno?

Running is starting to get harder, due to the baby growing and taking up some of the space that used to be occupied by my lungs. I get winded more easily and have to slow down the pace a bit so I have been running between 9:40-9:30 for the most part (I normally like to stay under a 9-minute mile for 45 minutes or longer). But that's OK! I'm happy I'm still feeling well enough to stay active, so slowing down a bit doesn't bother me at all. I've started doing Pilates once a week in addition to going to the gym for cardio and weights, and I don't hate it. It makes me feel stretchy and flexible. The weather has been beautiful as well, so we've had lots of after-dinner walks with the dog, a nice way to wind down at the end of the day.

The baby's active all the time. It actually surprises me how much he or she moves around and how strong they're getting. It gets the hiccups a lot and responds to things like hot or cold drinks, music and bright lights.

On a slightly more emo note, I feel like a lot of my friends have pretty much disappeared lately.

I know that reproduction is not everyone's cup of tea. I understand and I have felt the same way. However, what I've come to realize is this - if you have a friend who is pregnant, here's some advice: she needs your friendship right now. Now is not the time to ditch her. She already feels like a cumbersome whale. She knows she's a drag because she can't drink or frolic or stay up past 9:00 p.m. She's also legitimately afraid that when the baby comes she's going to be completely isolated and will spend the next five years sitting in her house staring at her child and forgetting to get dressed or how to have adult conversations.

It's just a drag, going through all this stuff and having no one to vent and share it with other than your husband, your mom, and the handful of people who stay in touch.

And not only that - I feel like I'm totally out of the loop with what's going on with other people. There's this weird misconception that when you get knocked up you can only think and talk about your baby. This is not the case. I might not be able to drink and swing from the rafters but I can still do a lot of things: talk, listen, eat dinner, go for coffee, go for a walk, go to a movie, go shopping...pretty much everything except drinking and swinging from the rafters. I try to be careful not to go on and on about the baby (contrary to how it may look from reading this blog) because I don't want to freak people out with baby talk 24/7. I usually don't bring it up until I'm asked.

So yes...the case of the disappearing friends has been a bit sads-inducing.

ANYWAY!

Eight and a half weeks to go. Woot woot, etc.

[/waaaambulance]

Edit - Sooo I just re-read this post and realized I sound quite like a pathetic whiner. I'm sorry! I can blame hormones, right? And prego brain and stress? 


Also, it should be noted that most of my friends - a huge vast majority - are lovely. It's also a crazy busy time for everybody, myself included, so I should just relax and not worry and not take things personally and feel secure in knowing I won't be abandoned in my house after November. 


Right? Right. 


I'm glad we had this little chat. Blogging = cheaper than therapy and less harmful to the baby than drinking.