Wednesday, August 23, 2006



~:C H I L L I N G • A T • N O R T H S I D E:~

Dear All,

Doug, Bimp and I have had quite a few dramatic days of late. Everything's fine now, but we had quite a scare. Doug drove me to Northside Hospital again in the early hours of Tuesday morning after that wonderful thunderstorm we all feel asleep to. I am fine now.

Once we arrived, they hooked me up to hear Bimp's heart rate, which was fine. I however, was having mild contractions, which are normal this late in the 3rd trimester, but due to my condition, they decided to stop them. So they gave me an injection of something to make them stop. Doug called this drug, "NoContracto". I was then given an IV for fluids for all the blood I had lost. Ooftah. It was really scary. I've had IV's before, given blood, taken allergy shots for years, but nothing prepared me for this IV. This late in my pregnancy, there is 50% more blood in my body to keep me AND Bimp going at once. So when she pricked me to find a vein, I looked down (stupid idea) and then had a vision of that scene from Carrie where she's soaked in pig's blood at the prom in her pretty silk dress. I freaked. Almost fainted, then threw up and then immediately felt better. The nurse I had was very sweet, but why, in God's name did she put a fucking IV at my WRIST on my RIGHT hand? I haven't been able to knit or write or type or anything. So they removed this for me this morning. Thank god, I can make stuff again. I kept whining to the nurses, "Is this really necessary? I can't KNIT, TYPE or finish my sudukos." And in the back of my head I'm thinking, "shut UP Anne. Your baby's fine and you are, too so just be grateful and deal."

They will continue to monitor Bimp and me throughout the day, this evening and part of tomorrow, during which they will let me go home again if things continue to go well. This is good news. If, however, I have any more problems, they'll put me right back here and this time it will be to stay until my pregnancy ends.

So many people have assured me of the fact that placenta previa cases are so unpredictable. Yes, the best thing I can do is sit still, but that's still not a guarantee that I'll not have further complications, even if I do all the right things. The uterus needs to stretch and grow as they baby does. How and when it does that really isn't up to me. But the fact that my placenta is so low-lying makes the stretching and growing a dangerous, iffy thing.

By the way, for those of you students who are reading this, be glad that once I described my in-home teaching situation on bed rest to my Doctor, his face lit up at the mere idea of it. He has for a long time doubted the efficacy of strict bed rest for high risk pregnancies. I am still able to be productive, which relaxes me and knowing I can make even a small contribution gives me more peace than you can imagine.

So I sit here today, after having taken a nice shower this morning and brightened up my face for the day, I am feeling very close to Bimp and the reality that he is really coming. One nurse described the OR situation during a c-section and she said it takes only about 45 minutes and that if all is well, I'll get to see my little boy right away. After I turned a little pale at the description of the prep for surgery and the surgery itself, once she told me Doug will get to hold Bimp and walk him right over to me and hold him close to my face, all the fear I had in that moment melted away and I was fine. Picturing my husband as a parent is the warmest thought I can imagine right now. Giving him that moment and many more like it just seems so incredibly satisfying - there are no words.

Right now, Bimp is curled up inside my body, listening to the encouraging whispers of all our parents and siblings who have passed on - who we cannot see any longer. Bimp is separated from my world of air and trees and things to do and rules to follow, by less than an inch of tissue. Just enough to see the sun shining through. Just enough to know that there are others who will let him go when it is time. He will be handed from from community of love to another.

Even in my most fearful panic on that stormy Tuesday morning as I stood paralyzed in our darkened bedroom, one arm on either side of the bedroom door frame, I clutched my Bimp. I may not be able to control my body, but I can my heart and I can my mind. In a moment of utter peace and clarity, I breathed deeply and told him we were going to be fine. And I knew it. I still do.

7 comments:

Rose said...

Dear Anne,

Glad that you and Bimp are well. Look forward to class next week.

One little interesting thing: I had a dream Monday night that pretty much mirrors what happened to you. Of course, in the dream as in reality you were fine and both you and Bimp continued on in health. But pretty wierd coincidence, ay?

-Rose

k said...

oh anne, i'm so sorry about your scare and am once again teary from your gorgeous descriptions of your love for sir bimpo. you are so amazing, and so is he!

Anne-Davnes said...

Thank you kind ladies! I am greatly relieved. So cool that you had that dream, Rose!

I would like your next dream to be of me winning the lottery and weighing 120 again. :-) I'll put in a request.

Doug Elser said...

"...he will be handed from one community of love to another."

that is such a beautiful metaphor for this continuum in which we exist. i get along real well with the image of my mom and your brother whispering in bimp's ear.

they're no doubt giving him some pretty good advice about how to take this world by the horns.

minus five said...

i'm glad you're doing better now and that everything is fine again. if you were like me, you would only have one good vein and it wouldn't be in your right hand. i always get mine in my left arm. i don't think i would make for a good heroin addict.

MCALDWELLC said...

I'm so glad to hear you are okay! We were worried...you are going to be an amazing mother...you already are. Take care of you and let us know if we can do anything to help...

SUhles said...

I have to say, having read a butt-load of pregnancy books, that might be the most beautiful description of the late-term experience ever. Too often, it becomes either clinical -- which leaves not nearly enough to the imagination -- or poetic, but in a crappy Hallmark card kind of way. Motherhood obviously amplifies the poet it you.