Flowers

It’s very hard to be in that “nesting” stage of pregnancy and yet more or less bedridden. I am feeling far enough along now that I am starting to let myself think about all those things that were too hard a few weeks ago. Double strollers, decorating the bedrooms, knitting baby blankets. My doctor said if we get to 28 weeks, order flowers; if you get to 30 have cake and if you get to 34 time for bubbly! So we’re just a few days away from ordering flowers.

The babies are growing well too, if the last ultrasound was accurate. I can’t remember exactly what their weights were but at they said Baby A was around 1500 grams, which is over three pounds. And Baby B was around 1200, which is well into two-pound territory. All these numbers take on overwhelming importance to me because I am constantly calculating and recalibrating the premature birth statistics. I have no real baby in front of me to marvel over – just probabilities.

The odds get better but the symptoms of PPROM get scarier as time goes by. A week doesn’t often go by without some new and alarming physical symptom. I’m learning to take them more in stride. And when I get a bit panicked I call the nurse or the doctor. Having a non-stress test every couple of days eases my mind a lot too. I try to remind myself that in obstetrics, despite what you read, things rarely happen without any warning at all.

Despite the roller coaster, my stress level is much lower than it was two weeks ago. I’m not bursting into tears when the local botanical garden refuses to extend my membership (which I can’t use!) or sobbing randomly in the evening anymore. The doctor’s visits are far more optimistic. We’re starting to discuss the end-game here, which wasn’t always on the table earlier.

I watched a Netflix documentary last night called Little Man. I wouldn’t have been able to handle it much earlier, as it deals with the birth and treatment of a 25-week, one pound, growth restricted baby. But it certainly shows the kinds of moral hazards associated with resuscitating extraordinarily preterm babies. I don’t envy the jobs of neonatologists – all of us parents want miracles. But for now I’ll settle for at least three more days of being pregnant! And then two more weeks… And then Baby A flipping down so she’s not breech… and then, and then, and then.