Encouragement (verb): to inspire someone with the courage or confidence to do something

The thing about pre-term labor that most people won't tell you is that they can't actually stop it.

They can only slow it down.

So know, whenever it starts, you'll be counting contractions and pressure and movements and a plethora of other things until the moment you deliver.

I spent four long and excruciating days in the hospital.

For the steroid shots to boost lung development and the magnesium sulfate to stop the labor caused by the steroid shots.

And I'm 99.9% sure I'll be going back in for another round.

I've been through some pretty awful things, but there is absolutely nothing worse on this earth than 'the mag.'

I'm guessing having your in-laws come live with you is worse. But that hasn't happened to me, so I can safely say the mag is pure hell on earth.

I got to come home, but to strict bed-rest, a cancelled vacation and an impending Easter and a long week of spring break.

Before my tale of woe began, our sitter informed us she would take spring break off to help her daughter strip wallpaper.

Stripping wallpaper falls right behind an IV drip of magnesium sulfate and your in-laws moving in with you.

Nonetheless, there we were with a restless toddler and a whole week of care to figure out. It's not as simple as you might think. If I'm home, LB wants me.

I've heard "up mama" a thousand times in the last seven weeks. It's almost painful. Not as painful as an endless loop of Barry Manilow's Copacabana. But close. Very very close.

There's nothing more heart wrenching than not being able to care for your own child. Easter activities triggered a full day of contractions and cramping that had me on my back for two days. At one point I told Kevin it was time to pack a bag, I would need to go to the hospital to get them to stop it. Which for me to willingly go to the hospital means things have reached an all time low.

I doubled up on the medicine and downed 50 gallons of water, took the recommended warm bath and finally felt relief.

From the contractions.

But by Tuesday I was fighting the medicine hangover.

The meds lower your blood pressure and slow every normal bodily function to a snail's pace. When your body recovers from that, the headaches are excruciating, add to that the abdominal soreness from the effort it just made to start the delivery process (once again) and now, sweet God in heaven, you can add nosebleeds to that lovely list of ailments.

It was mid-week before I could think straight and hold my head up properly.

And now you know more than you ever wanted to about pre-term labor.

I've learned a lot in the last seven weeks of bed rest. Amazon prime was designed for the bed-ridden, my mom and my sister will stop their lives to help the ones they love, and you most definitely find out who your friends are during times of turmoil.

A lot of people will offer to help and it will sound exactly like the "how are you today" mindless-not-really-interested-but-I'll-ask-anyway-because-it's-the-socially-appropriate-thing-to-do.

Others won't do anything at all and live right up to your low expectations of them.

And then some...will surprise you. With their texts and cards and phone calls and "hey, I'm just going to stop by for a minute because I know you and Kevin haven't gotten out."

Maybe we go through things like this and we see how better to reciprocate care for someone else in their time of need. I hate to say it's a lesson of sorts, but it is one in which I am taking notes.

First of all, nothing makes a person feel more useless than asking someone else to come to their house and unload their dishwasher for them...or do any other mundane task for that matter.

So it's not going to happen.

I am sure some women are fine to sit on the couch with their feet up and a pint of rocky road while life continues around them.

But, I am not that woman.

Once, while we were on vacation, my sister, needing the dryer, took our load of laundry and rather than leave it in a pile on the bed, kindly folded it for us. I was mortified.

I don't care how close we are. I don't care if we are so close I am the person you call at 3 o'clock in the morning because you found a dead hooker in your bed.

I still don't want you to fold my unmentionables.

And I like the feeling at the end of a hard day's work.

And maybe those feet up-wish-I-would-get-put-on-bed-rest-women are happy to let their spouse take the load on their shoulders, because it's-about-time-they-realized-how-hard-I-work-and-all-the-shit-I-do-around-here.

But I hate it.

Except for the grocery store. I'm fine with that. I take no shame in feigning illness or a bum knee if I thought it would buy me a reprieve. It's only slightly behind stripping wallpaper in the list of things that are hell on earth.

So, for those of you with friends, family, a neighbor, or someone you sat next to on a train once and don't mind helping out because they need a dose of encouragement, here are a few pointers.

Kevin doesn't cook.

And as much as he might like for me to believe it, a grilled cheese sandwich with a side of fruity pebbles, does not a meal make.

So if we are to eat something more than complex carbohydrates and high fructose corn syrup, I will have to prepare it.

It's ok to call and say you are bringing a meal. No one is going to turn you away at the door. And if it's grilled cheese and fruity pebbles, I will thank you profusely for it, because remember, I have not seen anyone but Kevin, LB and the models on Ann Taylor's website for weeks.

I won't stop you from loading my dishwasher while you are here, but I will somehow try to point out that I once again did not fully seal the package of hot dogs and now hot dog juice, scum and an undiscovered strain of the swine flu are growing in my refrigerator.

Call. Text. Facebook message or tell the neighbor to tell your brother's sister's cousin to tell me you are thinking about me. It makes those shut inside feel less invisible.

Stop by. Even if it's just for 15 minutes. Because aside from the UPS delivery man, who has made his sixth trip in a week to deliver yet another box from Amazon.com and who has the decency to refrain from asking me to make all my purchases at once so he doesn't have to make 25 trips in a month to my door, I haven't seen anyone in a while.

Call, text or invite Kevin out for a beer, because the spouse is just as cooped up and in need of some normalcy.

If they have kids, go play with them, give them a bath, read them a story, help them build something. Because trips to the playground are few and far between.

And, when you go upstairs, you may see a ceiling fan that needs to be installed.

But you won't be folding my laundry.

35 more days to go...

Funneling

I was in college the first and only time I ever funneled a beer.

A well known 'get drunk fast' method to drinking.

I still remember the hangover. And while I hardly remember that collegiate effort to get drunk quickly, I do recall it being one of the few studies I excelled at.

Last week, the nurse practitioner gave me a tutorial on a different kind of funneling.

Did you know a cervix could funnel?

It's the same concept as in drinking only no one is having any fun and you wake up with all your clothes on knowing where you are.

I wouldn't necessarily say cervical funneling is better than this.

From the experts (or as I like to call it, the Internet):
Cervical funneling is where the cervix starts to dilate from the inside out. It is a small change seen on an ultrasound, showing changes in the cervix. It looks like a funnel forming from the inside of the cervix. It can come and go and doesn't  necessarily mean early delivery, but does show an unstable cervix and risks for preterm labor.

I will go through yet another ultrasound to look for changes.

Oddly enough, the medicine I am on  to stop labor offers the same 'hangover effect' as excessive drinking does.

I wake up every morning with cottonmouth, intense splitting headaches and nausea. And, if I'm lucky enough to have a bout of contractions requiring me to take additional medicine, that is accompanied by abdominal soreness, the inability to put proper thoughts together and a tiredness that is inexplicable. It isn't like fatigue. It's more like having the flu in a fog.

I am fighting with chemicals what my body is trying to do naturally and will spend the better part of two months like this...in a suspended form of labor.

Based on what little information is available, my physical and emotional reaction to my circumstances are common.

But I can't believe it isn't more widely talked about.

Facebook is littered with rants over the slightest injustice or opposing viewpoint. Social circles belabor, attack, support or commiserate over what someone wore, how much weight they gained or which 'Real Housewives' is better. (Atlanta if you believe the experts, and by experts I again mean the Internet.) 

While women remain silent on the physical and emotional turmoil of preterm labor.

Google returns over 340 million results for a search on The Bachelor and a slight 1.9 million for preterm labor.

I think one of the reasons why women don't talk about it is that grumbling over the medicinal side effects, loneliness of bedrest and discomfort of early stage contractions is seen as preferring instead the alternative...giving birth early and putting the baby at risk.

This. Is. Not. True.

Our lives are upside down and we just want to be our normal selves again. Removed of the worry over every twinge of pain, counting contractions in the 25th week and the freedom to run after a two year old in the park.

Most mothers will endure a hardship ten times over if it will spare her child a moment of struggle.

In the grand scheme of things, two months is a short amount of time to adjust your life for the sake of another life. And yet, there are people willing to carry a grudge for months or even years just for the sake of being right.

57 days to go...

A Lesson in Labor

I'm a nervous flier.

I sit with my butt clenched and arms tightened in the hopes that by doing so it will keep the plane in the air and not crashing to the ground in a ball of fire.

Obviously, this is working.

I was stopped in my tracks two weeks ago. No amount of butt clenching seems to keep me from feeling like at any moment this plane could come down.

I watched a line on a monitor go up and down in regular intervals and Kevin pace back and forth for 45 solid minutes.

Once again, we heard things like 'bedrest' 'medical intervention' 'early labor signs' 'viability' and a discussion about our baby's chances for survival.

The only good thing about it was the fact that I was better prepared this time, knowing what to expect and what questions to ask.

And we knew it was coming.

But not at 23 weeks.

And nothing really prepares you for the haze you enter.

This Huffington Post article really hits the mark:

"My patient left with the facts, a prescription and instructions for bed rest in the hopes of prolonging her pregnancy. What she didn't receive was advice for handling the fear and anxiety associated with the news that any day she could deliver a premature newborn who might have difficulty breathing, neurological impairment or blindness. Or tips on how to handle the loneliness, isolation and guilt...Usually it's a short-term inconvenience, but for some women, the recommendation to go on bed rest can come early in a pregnancy and turn a joyful experience into a months-long nightmare."

Kevin and I have spent the last two weeks preparing for what we think may be an inevitable hospital stay. Knowing that is the result of any potential change or labor advancement.

I can't fathom two and a half months in the hospital.

The only thing worse would be a newborn fighting for his life.

We have friends and family providing support, help, and much needed humor. A doctor that assures me we have a number of medical options available before my 'feet go in the stirrups.'

And Kevin, who stays solid, practical and optimistic...always.

I know when I'm on an airplane that I can unclench my butt and fists. The plane's ability to stay in the air does not depend on whether I'm chanting like a Buddhist monk on meth.

(Although, try this sometime and see if you don't get a one way ticket to a TSA screening.)

They put you on progesterone to stop early contractions in the third trimester. The side effects are:
stomach upset, changes in appetite, weight gain, fluid retention and swelling, fatigue, acne, drowsiness or insomnia, allergic skin rashes, hives, fever, headache, depression, breast discomfort or enlargement, PMS-like syndrome.

It is as awesome as it sounds.

Just ask Kevin.

In 64 days, on the day I turn 40, I reach 35 weeks.

The magic week when activity resumes and they no longer try to stop labor.

And his chances for a healthy birth and going home with us from the hospital go up to 99%.

64 more days...