I really didn’t intend to skip writing yesterday. I had no perfect reason behind it, like a day filled with sonograms, in=laws, and visiting (see last week). In fact, yesterday turned out to be lazier than any day I can remember recently.
I didn’t blog because I spent the day lying on my left side on the couch doing my darndest not to move anything other than my arms or legs. I couldn’t get the computer under me enough to use both hands to type, and the thought of hunting and pecking a post with one hand frustrated me too much to try.
It all started on Friday evening. I noticed I was having more Braxton-Hicks contractions than usual, and they were occuring a little closer together than I’m comfortable with. When M took PJ to go pick up some food for us, I started timing them. They were ten minutes apart for about an hour. That was way too many and way too regular to ignore. Just as I was getting ready to call the doctor’s emergency service, they stopped just like that. I had one or two more sporadically before bed, but they were nothing to be concerned about.
But when I woke up yesterday morning, I was having them regularly from the moment I woke up. Every time I moved to get up, I’d have another. So I spent the day lying on the couch. Every time I even shifted my body weight on the couch, I’d have one. I didn’t have many that weren’t provoked by movement, and they weren’t happening consistently, so I didn’t bother calling the doctor. M and I agreed I would spend the day on what was essentially bedrest, though. We both worried about it all day and ended up having a somewhat heated discussion about it shortly after putting PJ to bed. I didn’t want to call the doctor about it because I knew the on-call doctor wouldn’t consider any special circumstances; we’d be sent straight to the hospital to get checked out and I’d likely end up on bedrest, either in the hospital or at home. M remembered that I was reluctant to call the doctor about certain pregnancy things last time, and PJ might not have come early if I’d called sooner. We finally compromised that if I had more than six in an hour–the advice the doctor gave the last time we called about contractions right before PJ was born–we’d call the doctor and probably head to the hospital.
I had two more before bed, in three hours or so. We didn’t call. I had a rough night with coughing and resultant heartburn and sometimes B-H contractions too; I was tempted to call a few times, if only for reassurance, but I didn’t think that would be fair to the on-call doctor for me to call in the middle of the night when I already suspected nothing was wrong. Sure enough, I’ve only had one since waking up this morning. I’ve even been keeping my activity level fairly normal. We’re talking about leaving the house to run errands later. I guess things are mostly better today.
But obviously I’m still somewhat worried. My fears that BabyN might come early have settled into a dread that it’s going to happen. Part of me is counting down each day, relieved that this wasn’t the day for him to come. I have this vague certainty that he’s coming early, and it’s only a matter of how early now. Any faith I had in these progesterone shots has faded. I don’t want to spend the next few months of my life living in fear, but until and unless I hit 35 weeks, I think that’s what is going to happen.
I’m really starting to see why M is reluctant to even consider letting us go through this again for a third kid.