Little One,
Growing up, I was often told to "slow down or you'll get hurt." It's advice I never really took to heart, although once in a while I catch myself moving too fast and that voice will pop into the back of my head, forcing me to evaluate just how careless I'm being for the sake of speed and I will slow down - at least a little bit. Throughout this pregnancy, I've been pretty active - not as active as I would have liked to have been, but exhaustion slows a person down some. Ultimately, though, I was told through the events that unfolded this past weekend that I'm definitely moving too fast, and it's time to slow down and savour these last 10 weeks before your arrival.
Yup, we were ice fishing, your father and I. Yup, it was a slow day (as 90% of them seem to be.) After a few hours or sitting around a nice fire and chatting with friends, I was gearing up to leave when all of the sudden the flag on my tip up sprung up. Yup, I sprung up as well, and began ambling nimbly (as nimble as a 7-months-pregnant woman can be) toward my tip-up. I began running - not quickly, mind you, but quickly enough that any kind of stumble would cause me to fall.
And that's exactly what happened, thus beginning the scariest few hours of my entire life.
It seemed like it happened in slow motion. I couldn't catch myself from the slight stumble, and I toppled forward, landing directly on my belly. I was in shock. I felt sick. I feel sick now, just typing about it. Okay, so I've eaten hot dogs and peanut butter during this pregnancy, I've taken hot baths, and I've probably done a million other things I shouldn't have done. But this - this was different. I immediately felt an overwhelming sense of guilt and failure. I was bawling, praying that you'd move inside of me. And you did! That brought me minor relief, but I was still incredibly upset. Your dad did an amazing job trying to soothe me and calm my fears, but I still felt horrible. I called Alberta Health Link, and a nurse did a great job assessing me, calmly following up by telling me I needed to get to a hospital (they tell all pregnant women who sustain falls to go to the hospital.) I felt better because I didn't experience any pain or bleeding, and you were wiggling away inside of me as per usual, but I needed to get myself to the hospital ASAP just to make sure. I hopped in the TrailBlazer and zoomed back into Brooks from Crawling Valley Reservoir, in tears the whole time.
Upon arriving at the hospital, I made my way directly to Labour and Delivery, where they promptly hooked me up to a fetal monitor, assuring me that everything was fine - I'd see in a few minutes. As those few minutes progressed and I recorded every time I felt you move, I also began noticing something interesting happening at regular intervals - yup, my uterus was contracting. Every four minutes. It didn't hurt, but it was enough to have the nurses call in the doctor, who checked to see if I was dilating (I wasn't), and who put me on medication to stop the contractions. An "upset uterus", he called it.
After an hour of waiting then another 20 minutes of fetal monitoring, the doctor determined that the contractions had stopped. He gave me another dose of medication to be taken at 6 am, with instructions to return at 10 am for another round of fetal monitoring. I went home, feeling very shaken and upset, but happy that you were okay. The fact that you were moving and that your heart rate was fine brought me so much peace and happiness. And it hit me: I love you, and I don't even know you. I worry about you, and you're not even born yet. You're a mystery to me, but I feel such a connection to you that your safety is my primary concern (um, and yeah, I definitely won't be ice fishing pregnant again. EVER.)
Six a.m. rolled around and my alarm went off. I woke up nauseated and shaky; a side-effect of the medication, I told myself. I popped the pill and fell back asleep. When my alarm went off again at 8:30, I called your daddy right away and asked him to please come home and be with me - I was so nauseated and ill that I didn't think I could drive myself to the hospital. By the time dad arrived home, I'd already thrown up twice. Third time? In the TrailBlazer on the way to the hospital. Fourth time? In a garbage bin at the hospital.
After an uneventful fetal monitoring session (no news is good news), the doctor came to see me again and I begged for something to quell the nausea. "Nausea?" He looked at me skeptically.
"Yeah - I figured it was a side-effect of the medication."
"Well, it could be, but I doubt it. This medication is not known to cause the kind of side-effects you're experiencing. It sounds more like you have a stomach bug."
Of course. A stomach bug. Perfect timing. Doc sent me home with some gravol (which I promptly threw up; I should have accepted the needle in the butt) and daddy bought me my favourite Gatorade: red. Red's the best flavour to throw up. It's sad that I know this, but it's the truth: if you know you're gonna throw up, you might as well enjoy the taste of what's coming up, and red Gatorade has exactly the right flavour. Not yellow, not blue. Only red.
Twelve hours of puking, and I was back at the hospital for an ultrasound. By this time it was Monday, and the puking had stopped. The ultrasound tech did his thing, and so far, everything appears okay - no placental tears, no damage to you...
But I still feel sick to my stomach every time I think about that fall. And this isn't the kind of sickness whose edge can be taken off with some red Gatorade. This is the painful part of love - the part that never wants to let you down but knows it will happen; the part that wants to protect you but will inevitably cause you pain. My biggest fear about being a parent is hurting you, and it's already began. It's going to be a lifelong journey... and I have so much to learn. I'm sorry my selfishness lead to this, I'm sorry I haven't slowed down more to enjoy you growing inside my belly... I'm sorry, and it's time to slow down.
Love,
Mama
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