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...
