A Morning Spent in the Hospital - Navigating Pregnancy Fears After Loss
As we prepared to go in, both my husband and I were wrestling with worst-case fears. I did not eat anything before we went in, just in case we had to have a c-section. We hid a key outside, just in case we needed to ask someone to get clothes since the hospital bag is not packed yet.
We decided to not text friends or family because we did not have enough information yet. If there was an issue, we would let them know. If everything turned out fine, we did not want to cause unnecessary worry. We also did not have the energy to be concerned for how other people were feeling when we were barely holding it together ourselves.
During this pregnancy, I’ve been told nearly every visit to come in for monitoring anytime if anything feels off. Before now, I did not need to. But today, his movements were different and I had flashbacks to the last week I was pregnant with Isabella. Four days before she was born, she was less active than usual for a little over an hour. I called my OB office, drank juice, switched positions, and eventually she started moving again. I never went to the hospital since she did perk up. However, something happened that week that caused her to go into distress and ultimately led to her death. So this time, we immediately headed in.
We called the hospital on our way over. As we pulled into the parking lot we took extra note of where we parked so we could tell someone in case we were admitted to the hospital. Walking through the doors was hard. I was instantly taken back to wandering those hallways after Isabella died, arms empty and body aching. I started to cry as we neared the elevator. A man riding up with us said he hoped everything would be okay, and I (likely) overshared as we rode up to the third floor. Rough way for that guy to start his workday.
We walked into triage and the tech told us to head into room two. This was the same room we were in when our lives fell apart before and I asked for a different room. We were put in room three and I was immediately given a sugary drink and hooked up for monitoring.
Both my husband and I were struck by how quiet the triage room felt. The only other time we’d been in triage, there were ten people in my room within a few minutes of arriving. Today, it was contrastingly empty. The nurse came by a several times and was monitoring at the triage station. We also met with the midwife and OB on call. Thankfully, there was not the mad rush of people that accompanied Isabella’s birth.
We decided to not text friends or family because we did not have enough information yet. If there was an issue, we would let them know. If everything turned out fine, we did not want to cause unnecessary worry. We also did not have the energy to be concerned for how other people were feeling when we were barely holding it together ourselves.
During this pregnancy, I’ve been told nearly every visit to come in for monitoring anytime if anything feels off. Before now, I did not need to. But today, his movements were different and I had flashbacks to the last week I was pregnant with Isabella. Four days before she was born, she was less active than usual for a little over an hour. I called my OB office, drank juice, switched positions, and eventually she started moving again. I never went to the hospital since she did perk up. However, something happened that week that caused her to go into distress and ultimately led to her death. So this time, we immediately headed in.
We called the hospital on our way over. As we pulled into the parking lot we took extra note of where we parked so we could tell someone in case we were admitted to the hospital. Walking through the doors was hard. I was instantly taken back to wandering those hallways after Isabella died, arms empty and body aching. I started to cry as we neared the elevator. A man riding up with us said he hoped everything would be okay, and I (likely) overshared as we rode up to the third floor. Rough way for that guy to start his workday.
We walked into triage and the tech told us to head into room two. This was the same room we were in when our lives fell apart before and I asked for a different room. We were put in room three and I was immediately given a sugary drink and hooked up for monitoring.
Both my husband and I were struck by how quiet the triage room felt. The only other time we’d been in triage, there were ten people in my room within a few minutes of arriving. Today, it was contrastingly empty. The nurse came by a several times and was monitoring at the triage station. We also met with the midwife and OB on call. Thankfully, there was not the mad rush of people that accompanied Isabella’s birth.
Our baby was monitored for over an hour first. His heart rate looked pretty good, but did not have the accelerations expected. So we had an ultrasound where they had to use a buzzer four times to try and wake him up for adequate movement. Then we had more monitoring. The entire time in the hospital, he continued to feel more sluggish than usual. In the end, he looked good and we were exhausted after the emotional roller coaster. We were sent home after about three and a half hours, with plenty of encouragement to come in anytime something feels off. I have no regrets about going in.
While sitting in triage, hooked up to the fetal monitoring machine for a second time after being told that things looked good so far, my husband and I talked about how frightening the morning was. How we both came in wondering if we would, again, walk out of the hospital with empty arms. How we now know monitoring looks for accelerations and decelerations in heart rate and that this information can indicate serious issues. We understand that counting kicks and keeping track of movement is important because it can indicate a baby’s health. We have trauma scars that change how we hear that “everything looks good.” We pay close attention to any changes and are cautious. Even though I felt our son (finally) moving several times on the drive to the hospital, I had also felt Isabella moving on that drive to the hospital.
Since we came home, he’s been moving normally. Thankfully, we both work in jobs that we can take off when needed and not have any concerns that there will be repercussions of taking care of our baby first. I ended up staying home the rest of the day and napping. Tomorrow I have a routine ultrasound that was scheduled last month. We continue to pray that he arrives safely and I’m struck by how much harder this pregnancy is emotionally the closer we get to 38 weeks, when everything fell apart last time. We’re walking that tightrope of fear, hope, trusting God, and waiting to hold our living son in our arms.
While sitting in triage, hooked up to the fetal monitoring machine for a second time after being told that things looked good so far, my husband and I talked about how frightening the morning was. How we both came in wondering if we would, again, walk out of the hospital with empty arms. How we now know monitoring looks for accelerations and decelerations in heart rate and that this information can indicate serious issues. We understand that counting kicks and keeping track of movement is important because it can indicate a baby’s health. We have trauma scars that change how we hear that “everything looks good.” We pay close attention to any changes and are cautious. Even though I felt our son (finally) moving several times on the drive to the hospital, I had also felt Isabella moving on that drive to the hospital.
Since we came home, he’s been moving normally. Thankfully, we both work in jobs that we can take off when needed and not have any concerns that there will be repercussions of taking care of our baby first. I ended up staying home the rest of the day and napping. Tomorrow I have a routine ultrasound that was scheduled last month. We continue to pray that he arrives safely and I’m struck by how much harder this pregnancy is emotionally the closer we get to 38 weeks, when everything fell apart last time. We’re walking that tightrope of fear, hope, trusting God, and waiting to hold our living son in our arms.
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