My daily visit from the OB while in the hospital yesterday brought amazing news.
The doctor walked in, asked how I was feeling, asked if I had felt any more contractions, and asked when I was told I might be discharged.
“No one told me,” I said. “I was hoping you might have an idea.”
After a quick check of my cervix to make sure I wasn’t dangerously dilated and that no babies could be felt, he announced that I was safe to go home.
Providing I had no problem with following orders for strict bed rest.
“None whatsoever,” I told him.
And thus began the couple-hours-long process of getting me my Get Out Of Jail Free card.
First, I had to meet with the endocrinologist. As I said before, I borderline (really – it was by a stupid smidge!) failed the three-hour glucose test for gestational diabetes the day before I was admitted to the hospital for preterm labor. Once in the hospital, various medications I and the babies needed sent my blood sugar into a frenzy, and I’ve been on insulin to control it since then. The amazing staff worked with me around the clock (no, seriously – you should have seen my fingertips from getting pricked every hour to test my blood sugar) to determine a diet and insulin regimen for me that would accommodate the changes my body has been through in the last few days.
Thankfully, things have calmed down to the point at which I only need two NPH doses of insulin a day, and I only need to check my blood sugar before and after meals and before bed. My fingers are singing hallelujah choruses. Do you hear them?
Once the endocrinologist was done, I had to wait for the diabetes education folks to visit and teach me how to manage the GD. Luckily, the dietitian had visited me earlier in the day, so I didn’t have to wait on her.
Before all this, GD sounded like a royal pain in the ass. Everyone made the diet sound restrictive and difficult. My reality? It’s really easy. I’ve been cut off from white starches – including my beloved taters – but as a veteran of a low-GI diet (which I did to help control my PCOS), this new diet I’m following is actually more lenient. They’ve got me on a high-carb (high for the diet, not high in normal standards), double protein Jovanovic diet. I am actually almost having a hard time eating as much as they’re requiring me to eat.
I can no longer eat whatever I want, whenever I want. This new food regimen requires planning and good timing. It might be a pain in the ass if I had normal life to work around, but since I’m on strict bed rest, the planning is probably a good thing. It gives me something do and look forward to!
I am no longer on any regular doses of medication, but I have terbutaline pills to take should I feel any contractions. It’s a small safety net – and one that wouldn’t be used without a call to my doctors – but it’s the very drug that worked best on me in the hospital.
So what does strict bed rest mean? Again, not as bad as it sounds. I’m to keep my butt planted and my feet up as much as possible, but I can do that in bed, on the couch, or in my lovely recliner, Betsy (I really need to show you a picture of the pretty girl). I can be up and on my feet 10-15 minutes at a time to shower or retrieve something I may need from the kitchen, but I’m mostly to just stay stationary and cook babies.
Lucky for me, I have a decent to-be-read pile already waiting for me on my bookshelf. I also have a decent little pile of PaperBack Swap credits to cash in when my pile finally runs out, with a long list of books I’ve been wanting to read. What does that mean? Bed rest entertainment shouldn’t cost me an extra cent! Well, I do want to pick up a copy of “Dash and Lily’s Book of Dares,” by Rachel Cohn and David Levithan (they wrote “Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist), but that’s just one teeny book. It’s too new for PBS, and I can’t wait to read it.
Being sent home is an amazing answer to our prayers. It may seem like it’s all about personal comfort. I won’t lie and say it isn’t amazing to be sleeping in my own bed, hanging out with my pets and being surrounded by my own things.
On a much larger scale, though, being sent home means we’re that much further from danger. I have an amazing team of doctors who are actually quite cautious folks. I know they wouldn’t send me home if the babies and I weren’t safe. Sitting here at home is the biggest confidence booster and tension reliever I could have hoped for.
I’m 26 weeks, 2 days pregnant today, and I love my three amazing little babies more than potatoes and being in public and freedom to do whatever I want.
p.s. Rob and I are eternally grateful for all the thoughts and prayers dedicated to us and the babies, from family and friends and complete strangers alike. If I could, I would hug each and every person who has taken time from their lives to care about us, but no amount of hugs or brownies or cocktails or Rob’s homemade chocolate chip cookies could ever cover how grateful we are. Just know how humbled we are and how much we appreciate all you’ve done for us.
It’s true. It’s something I’ve known all along, and OF COURSE the plans/goals/aspirations I had for this pregnancy would be tossed into re-evaluation while I’m blogging about them.
Because that’s precisely what happened.
On the morning of Wednesday, Nov. 3, I was parked in my desk chair, blogging my little heart about about how thrilled we were to learn that PB&J are average-sized babies for their gestational ages of 25 weeks. I was holding off on talking about my own average experience as a pregnant lady (rare, considering I’m carrying triplets), because I was waiting on a phone call from my OB’s office. The day before, I just barely failed the three-hour glucose test for gestational diabetes and wasn’t sure if I’d actually be diagnosed with the condition or if I’d be given a chance to retest.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thanked God that I was tired and sore that morning. I was just sitting, not up and moving around the house doing laundry or cleaning up. Because I was quietly sitting and focused on the babies and my pregnancy, I noticed that my belly was rhythmically tightening.
I should pause here and say my belly often feels tight. It’s going to happen when you have three little boogers pushing up against each other and me. Sometimes, I have a baby butt, back or head sticking out of each side of my abdomen. When that happens, my whole belly feels tight only because it’s being stretched on the outsides. It happens. It’s normal.
But on Wednesday morning, it felt like someone was inflating a balloon inside my belly, and no babies were fighting to poke out my sides. I’d feel the inflating feeling, note it, then feel it again just moments later. Over and over. After about 20 minutes of touching my belly and trying to figure out what was going on, I called the OB’s office. I wasn’t sure if it was Braxton Hicks, if it was because of babies, or – God forbid – I was having contractions.
They told me to head into labor and delivery to have triage check me out. I asked if they’d check me at the office, but they said they didn’t have the equipment to have all three babies monitored at once. Before leaving for the hospital, I decided to check in with the high-risk OB group I see to monitor the babies’ progress as they grow. My OB group takes care of me. The Maternal Fetal Medicine group takes care of the babies. Totally makes sense to call them, too, right?
They concurred with the OB, so off I went, fully expecting to be one of those silly pregnant ladies you see on TV who are shamed out of the hospital for being concerned about gas or Braxton Hicks.
Wrong.
They got me hooked up to four monitors – one for each baby and one for my uterus. The monitors showed no distress with the babies, but it did show that I was having mild contractions every two minutes. At that point, it had been an hour and a half from when I first noticed the inflating- balloon sensation.
The OB on call came in to check my cervix and found it was closed and long, so she wasn’t concerned. I sat, and we waited, hoped and prayed for the contractions to stop on their own.
That didn’t happen. Eventually, my cervix was checked again, and the OB discovered I was starting to dilate. They administered a fetal fibronectin test. If it came back negative, it meant I wasn’t in danger of delivery within two weeks. If it came back positive, it didn’t necessarily mean I was about to deliver. False positives on fFN tests are common. Good news, though. Mine came back negative.
I breathed a sigh of relief and went back to waiting to hear that the contractions stopped and that I could head home. I was given a terbutaline injection to relax my uterus, and I soon heard that the contractions were slowing. Once the terb wore off, they started back at two minutes apart. Then the OB checked my cervix again. I had dilated even further – between 2cm and 3 cm – and she thought she felt bulging membranes.
Not. Good. News. They told me I was being admitted to labor and delivery, and they were inserting a catheter and starting an IV drip of magnesium sulfate to stop the contractions along with administering a steroid shot to help mature the babies’ lungs should they be unable to stop the contractions. Up until that point, they were saying an irritable uterus was causing my contractions. Suddenly, the game changed. I was in preterm labor.
This is the point where Wednesday, Thursday and Friday start to blend together in a haze of drug side effects and terrifying information. My mom had been with me in triage, but Rob came up after work, pretty much showing up when they were transferring me from triage to my own L&D room. My mom tried to hug me goodbye and offer words of encouragement, but I stopped her, saying I just couldn’t do that without crying, and I really couldn’t afford to cry and stress my body out any more than it was.
I don’t dare complain about how awful those medications to stop preterm labor made me feel. We all know I would have felt infinitely worse – in much more horrible ways – had they not done their jobs. That should go without saying, but I just can’t let it.
Disclaimer aside, the drugs were ROUGH on my body. Magnesium sulfate creates severe flu-like symptoms. I felt like I had a raging fever, complete with the weakness that accompanies that. Worse, though, was how HOT I was. Fevers are treatable. This was not. I stripped down to nothing but my sports bra, and I had the room air conditioning cranked with a fan circulating the cold air. Rob, who is normally warmer than me, was shivering with a sweatshirt and a blanket. I was nearly naked and sweating, drinking ice water like it was going out of style and tearing through disposable ice pack after ice pack. After nearly six hours of magnesium sulfate not doing anything but make me miserable, I asked them to revisit the terbutaline. It at least slowed contractions down earlier, so I was hopeful it’d be the ticket. Finally, contractions stopped around 3 a.m., and I continued on my medications. The mag made me feel feverish. The terb made me shake like a leaf. Together, they stopped me from delivering.
It was during the night on Wednesday that we were visited by the neonatologist on duty that night. I tried with all my might to pay attention to what he was saying, but I just couldn’t. The medications and fatigue got the best of me, and that was probably a good thing. I do remember hearing that our sweet babies would have a 70 percent-75 percent chance of survival, but even those chances were in the face of nearly guaranteed lung and brain problems. If I hadn’t been in a fog, I would have lost it.
The next morning, I was given my second dose of steroids, and they continued to monitor the babies and wait for contractions to start again. I stayed on all the meds and just basically survived the day, one hour at a time. I hardly slept. I became a human pin cushion between my regular terbutaline shots, blood sugar checks and insulin injections. I had asked the Internet world for prayers the night before, so I knew I had to keep updating. It took me several minutes and sometimes several attempts to just compose an update on my Twitter feed, but the bit of time it took for me to compose a message was good for my soul. I couldn’t speak very well, and trying to make my emotions physically shown was really difficult. But, in my updates, I could focus on the positives with minimal (although tedious) effort.
Wednesday, Thursday and Friday all run together in my mind. It was one long day of looking for the next bit of good news. The best news of the experience came Friday morning, when one of the MFM doctors stopped in to examine me. He finished and declared that delivery WAS NOT IMMINENT. My body looked completely different from how everyone expected it to after all I’d been through. Yes, my cervix has dilated a bit, but it isn’t in danger of completely giving away. He gave the orders to pull me off the magnesium sulfate first and keep me on terbutaline the longest. If I made it through the night without contractions resuming, I could be moved from labor and delivery to a room in high-risk obstetrics.
I finally got two, nearly two-hour stretches of sleep Friday night once the immediate effects of the magnesium sulfate started to dissipate. Mid-day Saturday, they removed my catheter, all my IVs, the contraction monitor and the leg cuffs that forced my legs to keep blood circulating. I was allowed up and out of bed for the first time, and they transferred me to my new, much more quiet room.
I’ve been here since, waiting on more good news. Each day has been a huge victory, and they no longer suspect the contractions were caused by an infection from Baby A. It looks like it was just a thing that happens in several multiple pregnancies. They say I’ll soon be able to head home to spend the rest of this pregnancy on strict bed rest.
I’m OK with that. Several people have sent me messages telling me not to worry about bed rest, not to stress about it, etc., but you know what? I’m thankful for bed rest. Maybe it’s just because what we’ve been through in the last five days. Maybe it’s because of all we went through to conceive our sweet triplets in the first place. Or maybe it’s because I’m a mellow person to begin with. My top hobby has always been reading, so the idea of sitting around and relaxing for weeks (and weeks and weeks, I hope!) doesn’t sound like anything to worry about. I’m a homebody. I don’t need to be out and about.
Most importantly, I need to continue doing what is best for the three tiny people who are depending on me to keep them alive and well. We don’t know how much longer they’ll stay inside babies, but I’m willing to do whatever it takes to keep them safe and sound, free of fighting the outside world, for as long as it takes.
I’d love to go back to saying I plan to make it as close to 35 weeks as possible, but that just feels greedy. It feels ignorant. On the other hand, I can’t set a sooner goal without worrying that I’m cutting us short and saying I’m OK with giving up once X weeks hits. Each day and each week we can safely put behind us at this point is an absolute blessing, and I’m not about to take time for granted or wish it away.
After what I’ve been through this week, I’m back to my early-pregnancy mantra: I’m pregnant today, and I love my babies.
Remember when I blabbed about not accepting average? Well, perhaps I spoke too soon. Average can be pretty awesome.
What made me change my tune? PB&J had wonderfully average growth scan on Monday at a gestational age of 25 weeks, 1 day.
That’s right. Three babies growing in one uterus doesn’t mean they have to be small. They can be perfectly average. I suppose they can be bigger than average, but I’m not going to press my luck. Or my back.
Baby A’s estimated weight is 1 lb. 12 oz. Baby B’s estimated weight is also 1 lb. 12 oz. Baby C was a bit smaller than her sibs this time at 1 lb. 10 oz. Comparing them with other babies, A and B rank in the 56th percentile, meaning they’re bigger than 56 percent of others their age. Baby C obviously ranks a little lower, but she isn’t far behind in the 41st percentile.
I’m so, so proud of my little average trio.
If you care to do the math, you’ll find that I’m not carrying just over 5 lbs. of just baby (plus all the extra weight that comes with their luggage). Paired with my overextended uterus, I physically resemble a woman pretty close to delivering a full-term baby. It’s no wonder I’ve slowed down lately! I’m still under no restrictions, but I do a whole lot of sitting with my feet up or laying down. I’m not about to risk overdoing things just because a doctor hasn’t told me I can’t. Doctors aren’t with me all the time – my body is. I’m listening to it the best I can.
I only took home four ultrasound photos that day, so I don’t really have much to share. In fact, they don’t look much different from past photos, so I’m not even going to bother scanning them. Why only four? Because it’s a giant mess of body parts in there. Someone’s head or butt was inevitably in the way of the different views the tech was trying for, and you can’t really make out whose leg is whose unless you’re an expert at that stuff.
I am not.
What I was able to see was that Baby B – our lone boy – was more or less sitting on Baby A’s head. Baby A is cramped up at the bottom of the pile, which is probably why I don’t feel her as much. Or it could be that she really is as mellow as she’s always seemed. Baby C was stretched out in the top/center, which wasn’t a surprise at all. She and her brother are the two who regularly test their limits by trying to break through my sides.
Speaking of those times, I learned that it’s Baby B’s head and Baby C’s back that I feel when they push up against my sides. When they poke out, I pat or rub them, trying to coax them to relax and go back in. I’m pretty sure that Baby C is going to need a ton of backrubs when she comes out because she gets about five a day at this point.
Speaking of Baby C, I told Rob last night that I think she’ll be our rowdy, attention seeker. She is the most active by far, and she presses up against me the most often. I’m not sure how much a baby’s “personality” in utero transfers to outside life, but I really won’t be surprised if she’s always the center of attention.
Yes, that would be Ninja Baby. The one who we thought we lost back at 7 weeks who then made a miraculous comeback, gaining two weeks of growth in the next week. She was stealth, but she made her presence known.
Loud and clear.
I’m expanding, yo. Just for funsies, let’s compare today’s photo with the first side view of my triplet belly, taken at 11 weeks and change. I think.
Below is what I look like today, 24w5d pregnant. I think I look just a little different. Don’t you?
But! Today’s photos aren’t just about my big ol’ belly! Blog readers, the babies’ room is PAINTED! Rob will be installing the new floor this weekend, the rad area rug will be put down, and the cribs will go up! I’d show you those details, but I’m a butthead and want to make you wait until they’re actually all together and in the room.
I know. SO RUDE, right? Deal with it! Tra la!
A declaration of sorts: My uniform of the summer consisted of skirts and tank tops. My uniform of the fall (it finally came back to NC!) shall consist of yoga pants, tank tops and zip-up hoodies.
And since I’m apparently too good for paragraph transitions (my ninth grade English teacher would smack me), I’ll just throw out there that I had my prenatal checkup this week. My blood pressure is till borderline high, but it’s no higher than it has been since my first OB visit. I failed my one-hour glucose test by TWO little numbers. I go back for the fun-sounding three-hour test on Tuesday. It’s a great thing that I have no body-image issues because the number on the scale is downright scary. It’s also good I am logical enough to know it’s for the best reason in the world.
I have nothing to report on the babies because their checkup isn’t until Monday. I can tell you they’re moving around in there – something I now find entirely awesome. I think I love the kicks so much because the bulges they create from, oh – I don’t know – trying to find extra room by living on my sides, those bulges are freaking WEIRD. They’re uncomfortable, and I can’t push whosever butt or head back in because their neighbor across the way will then poke out from my other side.
Triplets in utero. They’re so silly.
I still expect to see bruises in the crook of my left arm from frequent monitoring blood work.
I can’t hear women and/or couples make plans to get pregnant together without automatically adding, “… until miscarriage or infertility ruin the plans for one of you.”
I have to fake a certain amount of excitement for early pregnancies because my two early losses taught me to prepare for the worst.
Finish reading Infertility’s Wounds May Always Sting at Alphabet Soup, Fertility Flavor, my blog for FertilityAuthority.com.
