Hooray for Boobies!

In spite of the nurses strict instructions to AVOID LARGE CROWDS, we took the Ninja to the mall. We are a trio of rebels now. Considering her bubble isn't being breeched by people coming in for a greasy diseased kiss, I feel at ease going to the mall and continuing with my life.

On this, our first mall outing, it was inevitable that a feeding needed to take place. In public. For the first time since the 2004 Stanley Cup run, my boobs would have to see the very public light of day. We had made the grievous error of leaving our stroller at home. So we had her car seat in a shopping cart. Since I am one of those people who doesn't like taking up much space, I opted to take her into the unknown sans carrier equipment. Now I know better.

I left Wade in the food court and followed the signs to a room that I had only spied on my visits to the washroom. I had imagined that there was some sort of fight training going on or loud explosions, behind the mysterious closed door. The alternative would be a calm and serene environment. Perhaps with water treatments, a Zen rock garden and women in meditative states. Now the day was upon me. I had to walk through the door that had caused my already over active imagination to spiral out of control.

The Ninja and I took a deep breath. Then we pushed/booted the door open. The sight that met my eyes was so much worse than I had in my mind. It was like a sugar fuelled birthday party with boobs. There were children running amok. Mothers feeding younger siblings of the silly monkeys jumping on the comfortable looking chairs. I picked a chair next to a shopping cart on steroids. It had Thomas the Train playing on an LCD screen. When did shopping carts get TV? There was a fussy little girl whining to be let out of said cart. Or unleashed as I would soon discover.

After digesting that I was apparently transported to a Chuck E Cheese (sans ball pit), I set about the business of feeding the Ninja. I am apparently less about showing off the girls in this crowd than on a very rowdy 17th Avenue. With the skill that would confuse most men waiting for the hooter shot, I covered up and started feeding. Once I was settled in, I had another look at my surroundings.

The amount of activity in this room was not relaxing. At all. I like being laid back and undistracted when I am in this sort of feeding situation. Having under parented kids bouncing merrily on chairs that are meant for mothers who need a place to relax and get the feeding done is neither relaxing or low on the distraction scale. Their mothers, however, seemed pretty relaxed and uninterested in what their kids were up to while they were in their National Geographic-esc (think of the issue with the African ladies letting it all hang out) type of bubble with their immobile bundles of joy.

The Thomas the Train video continued to drone on next to me, having been abandoned by the whiny girl in favour of turning this room into her own personal jungle gym. Another lady appeared out of nowhere with a frozen bottle of milk. She broke all the rules of frozen milk I had read/been lectured about and popped it into the microwave. To each his own, I thought to myself. There are 2 change stations that were occupied and all of a sudden the room with so many empty chairs became standing room only.

Of course the Ninja would opt to fall asleep. So I was forced to button up and change her to wake her up. This elicited several looks and oohs and ahs at her tiny (yet deadly) size. Only one woman was bold enough to ask her age, while I was mid-change. I politely respond but carried on what I was doing. I don't like dealing with foot vs waste issues. I also didn't get into her life story about being 6 weeks premature.

I went back to feeding her and took a look at the TV mounted on the wall. For some reason, a poker tournament is the only thing on TV at that time of day. I may have rolled my eyes in dramatic fashion. It probably went unnoticed since the people in the room didn't seem capable of pulling their eyes away from the little miracles dangling from their breasts. Even if it involved keeping their older children under control.

After 40 minutes in the chaos and magic that is the mall breast feeding room, I staggered out to the food court in need of food and a martini. A really big martini. Sadly they are not on the menu right now. I settled for Jugo Juice and a car ride home. To my sanctuary, where the Thomas the Train invasion has not yet occurred.

If you read to this point and don't have kids yet, your welcome. Your reproductive organs are no longer functional.

NICU - If It Hit The Floor, It's Dead To Me.

I will start off by explaining that there are three types of NICU experience:The good, the bad and the ugly. We had the good. I can't relate to the other two because we had a premature yet otherwise healthy baby. I am not going to try to imagine what it would be like to be one of those parents in one of the other two categories.

The Ninja started off in the main receiving area. She was stabilized and all of the tubes were added to assist with her breathing via a CPAP, IV hydration and feeding tube. She was measured and tested to check her blood glucose and blood chemistry. They also did a chest x-ray to check on the condition of her lungs. At the same time she was connected to the monitor which would measure and record her respirations, heart rate, blood pressure and oxygenation of the blood. This happened before my high as a kite carcass was rolled in. Wade was with her through most of this process. He came back to me in recovery after the nurse mentioned that maybe he should check on me. I was busy being enthralled by the random ability to move my feet again and the perceived size of my legs. Not to mention the baggy of placenta next to my bed. It was just out of poking range.

When I was finally rolled into the NICU, I noticed the paw prints on the ceiling. I thought this was a nice touch and that they must have a Spider Bear (the distant cousin to Spider Pig) tucked away somewhere.   I was brought alongside her Isolette on the stretcher. The nurse offered me hand sanitizer and opened the access port. I reached in and put my enormous finger in the palm of her tiny hand. She gripped it hard, letting me know that she is as strong as her round house kicks. This was the first time I got a bit weepy. I blame the sudden shift in hormones. And happiness.

I was taken to my room after an all too brief visit. Both of us needed rest. I'll spare the details of my 48 hours in postpartum, but I will say that I was walking within 12 hours. I had all tubes and hoses out within 24 hours and was able to walk to the NICU and then discharged within 48 hours. 

Going home was bitter sweet for me. On one hand I was still in a daze from how fast things moved and missed my little world on Antepartum. On the other, I was looking forward to the simple things. Seeing my dog, sleeping in my own bed and having home cooked food. Leaving the Ninja in the hospital was neither bitter nor sweet but a necessity for her eventual release.

This began the two week journey from level three care to our ill prepared house. Our routine was intense. We aimed to be at the hospital three times a day. Initially, I was still recovering from major surgery and lacked the energy to spend a lot of time. That gradually changed. 

Every day held new hope that our little Ninja would be coming home sooner rather than later. When we asked about the CPAP duration on day two and the nurse told us nine days. The next day, it had been replaced with a nasal cannula. A day later her IV was removed. Then her oxygen was turned down to room air. By day four she was moved from bed 31 to bed 1. Still in the Isolette, but moving on up in the world.

On day eight, she was transferred to the Peter Lougheed NICU. This was a lower level NICU. As evidenced by the 20 second hand washing requirement instead of a full minute. The atmosphere is also much more laid back. The babies are less ill and on their way home. But best of all, no more Isolette.

Both sets of  parents came in to visit at the Foothills. I have never seen my dad so happy. He was apprehensive at first and then when given the chance to touch her, he had the energy of a much younger man. (He was giddy even. If you have ever met my dad, go ahead and try to picture that.)  She was under the UV lights for some proactive jaundice treatment which was probably a bit intimidating. Wade's mom works across the hall from the NICU at PLC and would visit on her breaks and after her shift ended for a cuddle or two. This was much appreciated since we weren't always there.

On the Ninja's final night in the hospital, I was asked to stay over and feed her on demand. She chose this night to feed every four hours. This gave me [false] hope that I was bringing home a baby who didn't need to eat a lot at night. Well played Ninja. Well played. I barely slept anticipating the phone calls to come to the unit to feed her. This was a lot like being on call early on in my EMS career. I was less sleeping than levitating,in anticipation of the call, above the bed. Only two calls came.

She achieved so much in the span of two weeks. She lost and regained four ounces. She went from navy blue at birth to yellow to pink. She had her breathing assisted for just over a week. We (she and I) learned the nuances of breast feeding. Wade and I learned how to bath her and changed countless diapers (although I missed out on the first ones). I learned the importance of hand washing and lost a lot of skin doing so. Then there were the challenges of milk production and the long list of things that I had never imagined coming out of my mouth.

The best day (after her birthday) was September 13. The day we walked out of the hospital and into our own little family.

A Ninja is Born - Part Two

Having been placed in the triage room, I had the opportunity to go awkwardly to the washroom with assistance. Not in my bed on a bedpan, thankfully. Once comfortable again, I relaxed into my new surroundings. The nurse looking after me half expected with my duration in Antepartum that I should be able to hook up the fetal monitor. I hadn't been so bold and she had to instruct me on how to do it. The ninja continued to thrive. 

The first doctor to visit me was the surgeon who would be performing the c section. She put my chances of having a baby that day at 70%. She explained the risks of the c section and went off to do whatever it is surgeons do. Perhaps strut and drink coffee that has been passed through a weasel. 

Wade arrived in the grand style of a man who had packed the entire house into 2 small bags. He was fairly calm considering the summons that I had put to him an hour earlier. He thought for sure that he would never make it to the birth of our little Ninja. But he did. The nurse provided him with a smashing outfit. A gown, hair cap and booties. He looked like an escaped mental patient moonlighting as a mime mover. He had achieved this look by strapping on the cap buret style.  

I continued to be monitored and thoroughly entertained.  Then something happened that I had not felt for several months; a cramp. It was so crampy that a mountain peak showed on the fetal monitor. Then another. The surgeon returned and informed me that I had moved from 70% to 100% and preparations would start right away.

The anesthesiologist resident was the next doctor type to visit me. She came equipped to ask all the right questions and to determine that she was not familiar with the IV catheters in L&D. I should add that I already had an IV running in my right arm. This fresh young face of tomorrow's medicine was looking to start one in my left wrist. One that would carry blood products if the need should arise. One that is of a gauge, which requires freezing before it is delicately poked through my skin and gently glided into my vein. She did a bang up job with the freezing. Lidocaine was our mutual friend. Then she awkwardly attempted to start the IV with the unfamiliar equipment. She missed. She removed it and applied a lot of pressure, which resulted in an epic bruise. She taped the gauze she had been attempting to press into my radius. All the while talking about the catheters she is familiar with.

The anesthesiologist came in and explained the procedure of a spinal. He was cut a bit short by the news that I have relapsing remitting MS with spinal cord involvement. He changed directions from a spinal to either an epidural or general anesthetic. He would confer with his colleagues. I suggested contacting my neurologist who happened to be in the building. He politely declined. Then noticed the lack of IV in my left arm and the sheepish look on the resident's face. He strode over and took control of the situation. Right into the back of my right hand. First he froze the location and without waiting, slammed the IV expertly into position. I protested loudly by explaining that freezing without actually freezing is false advertising. There was laughter (at my expense) and he went out to confer with his colleagues.

The surgeon returned with the waiver about the surgery. It stated that she had done her job and please don't sue me if anything bad happens. Then the anesthesiologist was back. He said that he would go ahead with an epidural since spinals were known to aggravate MS symptoms. He won me over with that decision. My surgical nurse came in and introduced herself and assisted me across the hall, into the first OR I had set foot in since my hospital practicum 11 years ago. Wade was left in a tiny alcove in the  hallway until they were ready for him to join the fun.

The first thing they did after hooking me back up to the fetal monitor (the ninja was still in there, happy as a clam. A deadly ninja clam) was to get me started on the epidural since it would take 20 minutes to take effect. He actually froze my back (I asked "for reals this time?" And he replied by injecting a lot of freezing). He inserted the catheter and started to run drugs in. They laid me down and inserted the other kind catheter. You know, the one you wished you had at a good movie, after the extra large soft drink.  Then they started to paint my belly.

Wade was brought in around this time. He looked like a medical tourist. What with his gown and DSLR camera. I showed him the setting on the camera to capture the moment without having to do anything more than point and shoot. The nurse asked if I wanted a private room in postpartum. I said yes, but what I really meant was HELL YES!

The anesthesiologist kept touching me with a bag of ice. Once I confirmed that I was frozen they commenced with Operation Ninja Extraction. It was the weirdest sensation I have had. I could feel vibrations as they cut me. Then they said they were at the uterus. When they cut into the uterus, they discovered that the Ninja was breech. So they stopped and contemplated how to best extract her. Once they had a plan, they commenced. This caused me to make faces that Wade found odd. I had a great pressure on my chest and then she was out. Wade was invited over to where the Ninja was being worked on. She was navy blue and after a bunch of suctioning let out her first cries. 

They let Wade come and show me pictures of the little lady who caused so much commotion. Then they were all gone. She was taken to the NICU and Wade went with her. I was stitched and stapled back together and my surgeon was kind enough to show me pictures of the placenta and membranes. As I had seen so many times on ultrasound, there were the vein and artery that caused my stay in Antepartum. 

Wade returned with more pictures. I was in recovery for a few hours while I waited for my private room. The freezing slowly came out of my legs. I was fascinated by how similar to an elephant leg my legs felt. Almost as if someone had secretly switched my normal legs out for elephant ones. Then, ever so slowly, I could move them. I felt like Uma Therman in Kill Bill Volume 1. Without the yellow Pussy Wagon.

Once I was done in recovery, they wheeled my stretcher into the NICU and I touched my little Ninja for the first time, on the outside.

A Ninja is Born - Part One

August 30, 0730.  After exactly a week of having a roommate who had a tendency to sleep with her TV on, I managed to procure earplugs. The addition of this wonderful foam invention plus my "Closed For Business" blue satin bitch (eye) mask, lead to a coma-like state. So much so that I didn't get up for my regular 0300 trod to the bathroom. In addition to being the best sleep for some time, today was the much anticipated return of my regular OB. I woke up when he tapped me on the arm. We talked for a grand total of a minute. He said he was happy to see that i was still there and we'll continue status quo, with the goal of hitting 36 weeks. No dates were scheduled for the c section. He left and my roommate made a B line for the bathroom. I realized while the doctor was chatting with me, just how bad I needed to use the washroom. Now I had to wait a little longer. I shifted uncomfortably in my bed and felt something that no one ever wants to experience when they are sitting in Antepartum. Especially with all the talk of how bad my condition could potentially be.

I felt a gush. At first I thought I had pissed myself. I may have used an expletive, that I am known to blurt on occasion, at the thought. A second thought occurred to me: I had to make sure I wasn't doing the one thing that they continuously and consistently asked about every time they came in to see me: Any bleeding? So I reached down to check. I drew a deep breath and looked at my hand. There was blood. A lot of blood. I pressed the nurse button. The disembodied voice asked if she could help me. "I'm bleeding," I said. "Say that again," she replied. Moderately miffed that I should have to repeat what I said, I answered "I AM BLEEDING". 

All of a sudden there was a flurry of activity. I heard footsteps, but they weren't walking with purpose. They were running. Three nurses appeared in my room. One hooked me up to the fetal monitor. Another one broke a world record for spiking an IV bag and starting a line and then helping me change clothes. The third was the runner for things like a gown and other accoutrement to deal with the growing, yet emergent, mess that was being made in my bed. The fetal monitor showed that the Ninja's heart rate was normal. There was no sign of distress. I sent a text to Wade stating that I was bleeding. He asked from where. I smacked my forehead. I told him to get his ass over there. He finished walking Ringo and started heading in my direction. All of this happened in less than 5 minutes.

A wheel chair materialized and I was on the move. I was whisked (this is a speed somewhere between a walk with purpose and a moderate jog) to the special elevator. We were headed for Labour and Delivery. The first 2 nurses I saw up there were, one of my favourites and the one who I blogged about earlier. They were milling about at the nurses station since all of this action was going down right at shift change. Neither of them ended up being my nurse. I was put into L&D Triage. I was super excited because I was finally in a private room.

To be continued...

34 Week Update

The Ninja has made it to a major milestone; the safe zone for delivery with fewer chances of having complications and a lengthy stay in the NICU. This week she is 4.4lb and has started moving into a head down position. She's still pretty little and is still kicking up a storm. The gross rolling sensation is starting to taper off.

The plan now is to push to 36 weeks plus. I am looking forward to finally getting out of here and back to a slightly modified routine at home. Mostly I am looking forward to having non processed food that I make and recovering from being cut open like a baked potato. 

The preparations at home haven't kicked into gear yet. But the crib has been ordered and the baby clothes have been moved upstairs into her new room. We are probably going to keep things simple for now and not embark on anything overly ambitious in her room. I had planned on a bunch of different ideas but am thinking that they can wait for a few months. For now our nursery theme is dinosaurs and a registry has been set up at Babies R Us. 

A Few Bad Apples Make Me Go something Something

Just a warning. While I have many friends who are doctors and nurses, most of this should not apply to you. But know that the bad apples in your respective professions make it hard to be sympathetic to those who complain about how hard your job truly is. This scenario played out yesterday with one of the bad apple nurses.

A bit of background on me. I am on very few medications; Vitamin D, Folic Acid, Vitamin B6 (in the event that I am nauseated), and Zantac for the days when my stomach decides to share duties with my esophagus. That's all. Pretty simple. I also love Zantac. Moving on...

All of the nurses I have had up to yesterday have been diligent about reading my drug order. They know that the Vitamin B is something they have to offer, but I won't accept it most of the time since I am not usually nauseated. They also know why my dosage of Vitamin D is so high (because my neurologist said so). All of this information is contained within my fancy chart. A chart that I assume is there so that at shift changes it can be read to ensure a nice seamless continuity of my care.

Enter my day nurse yesterday. I have been on this unit going on 4 weeks and have never seen her on the unit. Pretty typical considering that the nurses rotate around to other units or are on schedules that have them on vacation or work a wonky schedule for whatever reason. So, having never seen her, I expect the same high level care as with all of the other nurses who come and go. 

She went through the typical exchange that I have with my nurses in the morning about my vitamin consumption. But this time she asked why I am taking so much Vitamin D and tried to insist that I take the Vitamin B regardless of the lack of nausea. She seemed quite put out that I was turning down the Vitamin B. To which I replied that I understood that it was noted in my chart that the Vitamin B is as needed. Her reply put me into astonished silence. She actually said, "I don't have time to read your chart." She went about her duties, taking my vitals, fetal monitoring and confirming that I have had no changes overnight. At the end she said if I needed anything to call her and she would be back in 20 minutes, to take me off the monitor.  So 15 minutes later (typical strip time is 20 minutes) she came back and looked at my strip and asked if I was having contractions or cramping. I did admittedly move to grab my iPad so I had something to do for the 20 minutes, which caused a bit of a blip on the contraction section of the strip. Again, astonished that she can't tell the difference between a contraction and maternal movement I said no. Coupled with my "you're a complete moron and if I have an issue today I'll be walking down to the nurse's station to find someone competent" look. AKA my "well duh" look. I have moved AND sneezed while on the monitor prior to this and have never been asked about it before. From what I understand (having asked one of my regular nurses) a contraction looks like a big round wave. Movement or sneezing is a sharp quick mountain looking wave. These also happen when the monitor bits are repositioned when the baby decides to roll over. Needless to say my confidence in her was completely gone.

Now it may look like I don't understand or respect a day in the life of a nurse. But I actually do. I had to go through a hospital practicum on my road to becoming an EMT. I had to work closely and communicate thoroughly with all of the nurses I came in contact with during my career. So I know how busy their schedules are. How crazy various units can be. But I have never seen such an obvious lack of respect for the discipline. I cringe to think of the errors that could be made by this nurse for not having enough time to pay attention to something as basic as the Four Rights of Medication Administration. Luckily I'm not on anything stronger than a few vitamins and a wonderful antacid. But it made me question my level of care, which is one thing that I shouldn't have to do. 

The bottom line: If you are working in a industry where if you make a mistake people can die, read the information you are provided to mitigate that risk. If you don't have time to read said information then make time, go home or make a leap into a career that has nothing to do with people. Or reading.

33 Week Update

Time is ticking down to our new arrival. And dirty diapers. And sleep deprivation. Oh wait, I already have sleep deprivation. 

My medical team is aiming for 34 weeks (which is next week) and then it will be day to day. If I continue being stable after that milestone has passed, then we a looking at a 36 week delivery (but nothing further). For those keeping track, 36 weeks is September 11. Interesting birthday gift for Wade.

I had my regular weekly ultrasound and the Ninja has wedged herself into a transverse position from a footling breech position last week. This would explain why I went from a cute belly to a monster belly in the span of a day. Hopefully she continues this trend of transverse or footling breech to keep the pressure off the blood vessels. 

The cool thing about this ultrasound was the doctor performing it completed a 3D of the Doppler. This showed how messed up all of the blood vessels are in 3D. All I have to say to my surgical team is: Good luck with that. OK, maybe not. The surgery will be very quick and there will be more people in the OR than a typical beer league hockey team.

Aside from the mess that is the blood supply inside the membranes, the Ninja continues to grow well. She is approximately 4.1lb this week, up from 3lb 10oz last week. Hopefully the weight and size accuracy has been good since it can potentially be off by a pound or two. Unlikely that she is only 2lb at this point, but nothing is ever set in stone. 

The doctor who completed my ultrasound asked that someone take a picture of the placenta and membranes when the baby is born. I definitely want to see what all the fuss is about, probably more so than the doctors. 

Soiled?

There are a few observations I have made while staying here at Chateau Foothills. One of them is the overuse of the word "soiled". It appears three times on the unit which I reside. 

The three instances are: Soiled Holdings, Soiled Linen and Soiled Pads. I understand the reasoning for the labelling, being that this is a hospital. But to me, the word soiled is to be used in the case of the Code Brown. Code Brown for those unfamiliar with the code system in the hospital is a hazardous material spill. Brown and hazardous material points to the most vile of human excretions. Yep, I'm talking about poop. 

The term used on this unit is obviously geared towards the body's form of pregnancy related paraphernalia and the various residues therein, rather than poo. Let's face it, walking around this unit in bare feet (yes, I do this since the floor is washed almost as much as the one in an OCD sufferer's house. And I am too lazy to consistently put on socks) can be treacherous, especially with the ladies labouring and pacing the hall. I wouldn't say the floor is soiled if the labouring lady's water breaks along my path to the kitchen. I would say it's more like a slippery watery mess. Or wet clean up on Unit 41A. 

I am also fairly certain that my linen and the linen of the other patients are not covered in poo. Maybe sweat because it's like a hot house in here. Seriously, I am thinking about doing some gardening on my window sill. Or cooking a steak.  I would associate soiled linen with geriatrics, paediatrics and those with communicable diseases. Soiled Holdings just sounds like a scam Bernie Madoff came up with, to launder money in plain sight. But here, there is a whole room dedicated to the soiled linens waiting to be processed. A gross, probably poorly paid and under-appreciated job. 

The coup de gras, in my mind, is the sign on the back of the washroom stall door, suggesting to the dimwitted to wrap their soiled pads prior to disposal. No shit. No one wants to see that. Again, not soiled, but definitely not something that an unsuspecting roommate or cleaner needs to have infesting their eye holes. Aside from a girl going through puberty or a socially inept bachelorette who has no hope of ever having anyone in her bathroom at "that time of the month", there is positively no need for a sign like this. Of course societal rules clearly state that all signs of this nature are geared toward the lowest common denominator.

32 Week Update

Things are progressing smoothly so far. This week's scan showed a weight gain of nearly a pound. Her estimated weight is now 3lb 10oz. The big contrast this week is the doctors are starting to be more forthcoming about a birthday for the Ninja. If everything stays stable with both of us, she will be born during week 36. This is a relief because a lot of the typical preemie issues are no longer factors. Or the negative factors are greatly lessened. Not to mention I have a grand total of 2 preemie onesies at home.

I am now looking at another 4-5 week stay in Chateau Foothills. The end result is potentially walking (READ: limping) out of here with a baby in tow. Or there will potentially be a shorter stay for her in the NICU or nursery. 

I would like to thank everyone who has made the trip over here, paid for parking and brought me food. Having visitors has been a great way to pass the time. If you haven't made it over, that is understandable. Life is continuing to happen for those lucky bastards outside of the hospital. 

I miss my doggy. I never thought I could miss the little poop machine as much as I do. I am looking forward to seeing him when all of this is over.

3D Ultrasound: Cute Preview or Anxiety Inducing First Look?

Yesterday I had my weekly ultrasound to make sure nothing has shifted or is being compressed. At the end of the Doppler portion the tech started focusing on her face. One push of a button and several baby slices were taken. Then they were formed into my first 3D look at the baby.

Oh. My. God. 

First, I had sworn up and down that I was not going to seek out the 3D ultrasound. I wanted to leave how my baby looks for when she is out, screaming and covered in goo, to be a surprise. 

Second, I find 3D images of babies in uterine look like creepy doll masks.

Third, no one needs to see the other contents of my uterus.

Fast forward to yesterday and I can trash my hope of not seeing her until her birthday. I received 4 images, which I totally wasn't expecting. 

The first looks like a legit baby. As seen through a very narrow window. Bulbous nose, big squishy cheeks and eyes that are (thankfully) closed. 

The second is the same angel as the first, as shown through a wider window. Cheeks are much squishier with a shot of some weirdo structure that is very much not baby related. 

The third is where it gets weird. It's a side profile of the right side of her face. Her nose is very visible (which makes me wonder if it will be adorable and button like or a beak that may bring on taunts and whispers about looking at the kid on that nose). But it the scanner also caught bone. As in skull and facial bones. Skeletor comes to mind. I don't remember seeing that on the screen as the images were being captured. But the images were in sepia on screen and printed in black and white. I would like to think that would make a difference but am not optimistic.

The fourth is downright scary. Think Sloth from Goonies. With a cute baby size nose and mouth. That's right. Sloth. Eyes all over the place, enormous forehead. Sloth. I would hope that she would save the day like Sloth did, if she was helping some kids find a lost pirate ship.

I can't be one of those parents who brags about how adorable their baby is on a 3D ultrasound. You know the ones, they show you a picture of a gargoyle and then expect you to ooh and aww over how adorable they baby is.  These images are examples of her not at her best. I am not about to inflict them on anyone outside of those who have already seen them. These images will be neatly tucked away (with her name on them) with my divorce papers and will only come to light when I have passed on. Like a confusing and scary care package.

I sent one of the better pictures of her to one of my closest friends. His response was to say it looks like a paint blob. Another asked if it was a butt shot. 

Needless to say, I'll be happy if the shades of her features come out cute and look nothing like on the ultrasound. Until she is out and cleaned off, I'll make note of what kind of distortion 3D ultrasound has to offer and will hope for the best. On the bright side, my expectations of what she could potentially look like are pretty low. 

Hospital Food - The Highest of Highs and Lowest of Lows

When I talk to my visitors about my stay in the hospital, the food inevitably will come up in the conversation. Unlike a movie theatre, I am allowed outside food and drinks. I could even have it delivered if I loiter by the nurse's station to pay for it.

I think a lot of people don't realize that I am given a menu in the morning to pick my meals. The menu lays out exactly what I will be consuming for the day. Baring in mind that I am attempting to add some weight to the baby, some of the meals leave a lot to be desired from a caloric perspective. This drives me to the patient kitchen for snacks in the afternoon and evening or the generous flow of treats my guests bring me, to pad out what I am lacking. Especially when I don't get what I ordered.

Yes. This has happened a fewtimes now. 

I understand that if I choose to leave the hospital grounds to have a nice meal at the Keg, I am doing so against medical advice. Since I am curious about this whole parenting thing, I heed the advice and stay on the hospital grounds. Having said that, I really hate it when I am actually looking forward to a meal only to have it not materialize. In it's place I have received meat like substance, powdered potatoes, faux gravy, an apple, apple juice, cream of celery soup, well you get the idea. 

When faced with a 4-6 week hospital stay, you have to take it a day or meal at a time. Having meals that I choose means something to look forward to three times a day. The weekly menu is the same. Fridays are all about Turkey (log) and faux gravy or Spinach and Cheese Ravioli. Or should I say, fantasy Ravioli since for the past 2 weeks I have received the disappointing (not to mention gross) alternative: The near turkey and packet gravy. If Chef Gordon Ramsay lifted the lid off of my platter he would surly burst into a song of coloured speech so foul, it would wilt my flowers. 

I am not expecting the hospital to be the recipient of a Michelin Star. Far from it. But I do expect that my order be filled so I can find out how good or bad their packet ravioli tastes. 

Worse is that the medical staff, that take care of me, and I joke around about the food. My OB and I have come to the conclusion that no real eggs were harmed in the making of my scrambled eggs. The nurses strongly suggest bringing in my own food. Especially when I tell them that I didn't get what I asked for. I don't do this in the typical whiny patient manner either. I am far too engaging to be one of those patients. 

The pink frosting on this shit cake is that I actually filled in a survey regarding the mediocre excuse they call "food" and then at the very next meal did not receive the meal I had so hoped to have (stupid turkey log). Back to the survey. They received high marks on the people who deliver my food and it was downhill from there. They asked for suggestions, which I gave my two cents about diversifying the protein at breakfast to include sausage and bacon (even if it has to be turkey).

I am hoping that my survey wasn't a waste of time.

At the end of the day the best way for me to cope with the food is to just bring in my own. The added bonus is the extra calories for the baby. Or to pad out my post pregnancy before picture.

Perhaps AHS needs to hire someone who actually worked in the food industry as a chef who actually cares about the quality of food, the flavours and that variety is the spice of life. Failing that I know a couple of lovely aunts who would utterly rock the food in this place. I have never been more jealous of the elderly people in the home they work in.

12 Days of Hospital Fun - How Am I Doing?

Time actually flies when you're this bored. I have managed to occupy my time with reading, sewing, word searches, Netflix, visitors and sleeping. Even with all of these great activities, I still have periods of complete and utter boredom. The best part of the stay and the boredom is that I don't feel guilty about doing nothing. 

I think a lot of people are actually wondering about my feelings through this process. The ones that I do share my feelings with (which is rare) may think that I am cold or perhaps not taking the situation seriously. Or that I am just barely coping in my own way (which if you know me, you would know better). I would like to hope that there are no assumptions of me being a snivelling mess. 

Feelings. I do have them. I guess the easiest way to describe my feelings towards life and all things that what would crush and utterly destroy one person generally doesn't effect me the same way. Sure I tear up watching The Biggest Loser. But when it comes to my life as a whole, not much gets under my skin. I don't bother worrying about things or dwelling on the past. Fretting, to me, is something that you do to a guitar. 

How did I get to be so rock like in my ability to be rational? Bullshit. Lots and lots of bullshit. It took me a long time to lose the pettiness and jealousy of my early 20s. A divorce helped to lower my threshold for assholes and bullshit in my life, while raising the standards of the people I voluntarily let in. My EMS career provided me the ability to look objectively at a bad situation, find the good, acknowledge the bad and move on with life. No dwelling. Few regrets. Being married to a guy who has an eerie calm about him most of the time also helps. Sometimes his eerie calm disappears, but not often and only for a second or two.

Fast forward to now. How am I coping? Like I always do. Through education, intelligent questions and communication with those who hold the information. Accepting that they are not going to give me the wrong information and that they are thinking and acting in our best interests. I accept that although this can be considered a precarious situation, it's not one to fret about. That's why the specialists who are taking care of me make the big bucks; to worry about what I am not going to. 

This is why I reiterate in conversations that I hope for the best, know the worst and keep my expectations relatively low. It's those who walk around with an unreasonable level of expectations, that get crushed on a regular basis. Those people who find out they are pregnant and have the nursery set up in the first trimester. I wouldn't let any baby related paraphernalia into the house until after the foetus became viable. The baby clothes and toys started to flood in from my circle of friends and family with 2012/2013 babies, but it took me until last Friday to actually make my first purchase for the baby; a dinosaur mobile.

The longer I stay pregnant, the more real I am allowing the baby to become. Right now she is someone I see through a weekly scan, hear twice daily on the fetal monitor and am at the mercy of her little bony body kicking and punching to remind me that there is a developing human inside of me. Or I assume she's human. I assume that there was no face hugger involved in the making of this pregnancy. 

We have a name for her. I used it a couple of times to see if it fit. It seems to. Given her ability to deliver a roundhouse kick to my bladder at 3:00am, "the Ninja" seems vastly more appropriate than the name that will be on her birth certificate.

So, how am I coping? Just fine. Really. No faking. No lump in my throat. No tightness in my chest. No worries keeping me up at night. What keeps me up at night? Reading or Netflix, cause I don't have to be anywhere but here in the morning.

Room With a View?

Monday July 29 started with a phone call just before 9:00am from my new OB. My room was booked, no rush to check in as long as it is today. I took my sweet time packing, Wade walked the dog and the last brunch was had at Cora's. 

I was shown around the room, my washroom and the kitchen. Tagged three times with ID, allergies and the lab note that I've been blood typed and cross matched. I had my first experience with a fetal monitor, which showed that the Ninja (as we now call her) was doing well. Wade took the day off and spent it in an uncomfortable chair.

My room has a southeastern view of downtown and the parking lot. It is dry as a bone in here and super hot in the morning. I have no roommate which is totally awesome. The washroom has stalls assigned to each of the two adjoining rooms and strict signage stating it's for patients only. No men. No outside fluids allowed. The shower is small. But the water pressure is stronger than a mouse peeing on you and the temperature is good.

Once settled, the parade of doctors begins. It starts with a first year resident. Young and shitting her pants. She lacks confidence but I attribute that to the fact that she has been on this rotation for less than a month. Her head is probably overloaded with information and she is trying to make sure she doesn't miss anything. The second resident is in one of his later years. He's overly keen and continues to search the ceiling for his answers. Both are going to be awesome doctors, though it is very hard for me not to mess with them. What I do is ask anyone who comes to my room if I am allowed to leave for weekends or to go across the street to the Keg. Consistently, I am told no. 

The next morning I have my first in-hospital ultrasound. The reviews on the pictures are that they are "scary" and the neonatologist actually said "wow". She also shed some light on my new due date. They usually deliver between 34-36 weeks via Caesarean section or when their nerves can no longer handle what they are seeing. Under no circumstances am I to go into any form of labour and given the location of the placenta and the fetal vessels, one drop of blood is a dire emergency because there is no way of telling who the blood belongs to. "So, no Keg then?"  They are slowly starting to get my sense of humour.

The next doctor who visits us is a neonatology fellow. So he's a legit doctor, who I call Dr Doom and Gloom, with the goal of being a neonatologist. He starts off strong by stating that as of 30 weeks our baby has a 94% chance of survival. This number will go up with each additional week she bakes. He failed to state the stat improvement with each week. But then he started in on the complications of a preemie. They range from eye issues, feeding issues, breathing issues, brain development issues to brain hemorrhage and death. Not to mention a lengthy stay in the NICU. I watch Wade gradually change to a paler colour. I keep all of these things in mind and make note of when 34 weeks will be on the calendar. He leaves and I start trying to make Wade feel better. It's good to know the worst case scenario, but better to focus more on best case while keeping the expectations low.

All I have to do now is sit back, rest, relax and wait. And grow a baby.

At week 30 and she is 2.12lb. Only 3 more to go to get her into her fancy car seat.