The Breaking Point

Ok, it's official.  Rigby and I are on the same page on this one, we are DONE with this place!

MOST of the staff (with one notable exception who shall be FULLY discussed in a moment) have been completely lovely, supportive and calming.  It's not their fault.  It's just that a week away from your own bed when you're NOT on vacation is just awful.  Also - it is IMPOSSIBLE to cuddle with your husband in a hospital bed.  The best you can hope for is to awkwardly hold his hand as he tries to get comfortable in the Naugahyde rocking chair clearly much to small for him. 

Last night, just before James left to spend the night with our increasingly neurotic and frantic dogs, I reached my end point.  I just wanted to go home with him.  Nothing sounded more heavenly than cuddling on our couch with our dogs just being US instead of being "patients."  I was done with this hospital stay, for sure.

This morning, it quickly became apparent that Rigby shares my sentiments.  He gets monitored on two different types of machines each day - a fetal heart tone Doppler where they just listen to his heart rate for a minute or so, and then a more lengthy non-stress test where they hook me up to monitors that keep track of his heart rate for 20 minutes and see if I'm having any contractions (which I never am.)  Both machines use sound waves, and as the days have gone on, I've felt him get increasingly more agitated when he's monitored.  This morning, however, he took it to a whole new level. 

First, he wouldn't sit still for the short fetal heart tone monitoring.  The nurse had to satisfy herself with listening to the heart rate in the placenta, since he wouldn't stay put.  Then we went downstairs for the non-stress test...

Basically, for half an hour, it looked like earthquake tremors were shaking my stomach.  He was clearly PISSED at the barrage of sound.  My little monster kicked, punched, rolled and squirmed.  The nurse irritatingly told me that I'd have to stay on until she could establish his "baseline."  We tried rolling me in different positions, and nothing seemed like it was going to work.  Rigby was tired of playing by their rules; willful disobedience took over. 

I have a feeling this personality trait will blossom into something much less easy to contain once Rigby's actually here.  I should try to squelch it early I guess.  The problem is, it's already my favorite part of him.  Maybe I interpret too much out of the actions of my semi-conscious fetus, but to me, it's like he's sticking it to The Man in utero.  Strident stubbornness and an inborn unassailable belief that your way is the only right way is a trait both mommy and daddy have in spades.  I like to think we've passed that on to our little rebel.

Anyway, back to the monitoring.  When laying on different sides didn't seem to work well, I tried talking to him.  This was slightly awkward, since all that separated me from the other moms being monitored was a series of curtains.  The nurse probably thought I was nuts, too.  Don't worry, I didn't try to rationalize with a fetus.  I just started talking outloud, thinking maybe something about my voice would calm him down a little bit.  Honestly, either the kid got tired from all his antics and fell asleep, or maybe me talking to him did calm him down a little bit, because finally he stayed relatively still enough to get a baseline.  I didn't tell him he's still got to make it through at least 3 more days of monitoring... That just seemed cruel :)

As for the WORST STAFF EVER, I can now officially say I've met the employee at this hospital with the worst bedside manner imaginable.

Every day, I'm supposed to spend the majority of the time wearing some plug-in compression stockings that help make sure I don't develop any blood clots.  I realize that this is important.  It's just that these stupid things are constrictive, non-breathable, and make me get really warm ON TOP of the inflated warmness I already experience as a result of being pregnant.  They suck.  Bottom line. 

Apparently, SOMEONE (and I will find out who) told on me, that I wasn't being a model patient and wearing them as much as I should.  They sicked this old lady on me, who is apparently in charge of "education" on the maternity floors.  Here's our exchange, in as exact detail as I can render it:

Old Lady: So, it doesn't look like you're wearing your stockings much.
Me: Yeah, I know I should, I'm sorry.
Old Lady: Do you want me to put them on right now?
Me: (already not liking her tone) No... my husband will put them on as soon as you leave, I promise.
Old Lady: (eyes narrowing) You know this is really serious.  Do you know why you're supposed to wear them?
Me:(perhaps annoyance is already flittering across my face) Yes.  They are to prevent blood clots.  I promise I will wear them.
Old Lady: (adopting a more intimidating, I'll-show-you kind of manner) Well, just so YOU take this seriously, blood clots are the leading cause of maternal death in this country.  And it happens more often than you think.  So you really need to put them on.
Me: (probably not keeping the pissed-off-ness out of my voice very much) I understand.  As soon as you LEAVE I will put them on.
James: (several audible snorts of laughter spontaneously emit from him during this last part of our exchange)

What I WISH I'd said: Listen, you horrible old woman.  Clearly, your favorite part of your job is the fake authority you get to wield over people as you wander through the halls telling them what to do.  You're probably under the delusion that your scare tactics are effective.  They are NOT.  Do you know what is? The thought that if I wear these stupid things, you will never come into my room again.  That is why they are on right now.  That is the ONLY REASON why. And if you come into my room again, I will remove them and never put them back on again to teach YOU a lesson.  I don't know if you noticed, but I've got enough things on my plate to worry about right now.  Perhaps you didn't care to read (or have too bad of eye sight to see) the part on the chart that says I'm here because my baby is coming several weeks too early, and he might suffer complications from his preterm birth.  Maybe you missed the note on there as well that I'm dealing with preeclampsia, another threat to both of our health.  TRUST ME.  I have enough things to freak out about without you not-so-subtly suggesting that I'm going to die unless I wear your damn socks.  So, bite me old lady.  Between the two of us, I'm pretty sure something is going to take you out sooner than me.  And at least I will have the decency not to lecture you about something you were probably already aware of, just to make you feel bad about yourself.

...Ok, maybe I don't wish I'd said ALL of that. But at least part of it.  Like I said before, Rigby and I are ready to be OUT of here!