Sunday, November 25, 2012

I'll call them from November 25 to February 17.

I don't know why I wanted to see What to Expect When You're Expecting this weekend.  I should stay away from any pregnancy and childbirth movies for the next few months. [awful movie by the way, not funny!]

I love that scene in Meet the Parents when Ben Stiller's character gets a call from his mom reliving his birth. Or is it Billy Crystal's mom in City Slickers? Doesn't matter. You're not going to remember. How does this relate to me. Let's stick to the important stuff.

I'm calling both my babies, every day from November 25th to February 17th, for the rest of their lives. That's the time from when I started bedrest, to when they were both actually home.

I get very nostalgic this time of year and a bit depressed, reliving those times. I was very scared.


Don't get me wrong- we are incredibly blessed and lucky to have two beautiful and healthy children now, but our story is anything but normal. It wouldn't even make a good screenplay; it's too unbelievable.

That's why I'm going to have to bore you with it. Probably in many parts. And them, for as long as I can pick up the phone, or telepathically transmit it to them. Whatever technology they develop next...

Two days before Thanksgiving 2008, we were having our weekly sonogram and then preparing to head to New York to be with our families. Hubby had already been commuting to Philly for months, Monday through Friday. On this week, he stayed home in D.C., hit the sono with me, and then all Hell broke loose. 

Two weeks prior at week 23, we had gotten news that Baby A may be experiencing Intra-uterine growth restriction, or IUGR. The baby's torso was not in proportion to the rest of the baby's body according to their measurements. 

This was week 25. And the situation was looking worse. To add to the IUGR, it looked like Baby A had low fluid, and was not growing. The Perinatologist wanted Baby A up to 1 pound, pronto

Hence the news: BEDREST. 
"So I can't go to New York to be with my family?" I started to tear up.
"I'll let you travel; but you cannot drive. And you MUST. STAY OFF. YOUR FEET." 
Hubby and I looked at each other. We've never been so terrified. We were Googling it all the time: survival rates by week of gestation. We needed to get to 32. 30, at least. 28, maybe. But 25, no

2009 babies were our goal.

Hubby took action, and told me the plan. We were going to go straight home, pack a quick bag, and drive to Philly, where he would drop me off on the train to my mother's. Platform to platform, I would be taken care of. He had to work for two more days, and she would take care of me. 

Scared and tenuous, we followed the plan. I remember sitting next to a woman who was knitting the entire time. I told her half the story; she sympathized. I tried not to cry. I reached my mom's house and was directed to the couch. Where I stayed. For the entire. Weekend. No trip to hubby's family's house for dessert; no helping my mom with the trimmings; not much sleeping; mentally listing the things I would no longer be able to do: application deadline at my admissions job; audition scheduling; walking/swimming; packing up our condo; shopping for Philly real estate; cooking my own meals... But what I could do was receive a lot of hugs. And belly rubs. And sweet moments. 

We got through that week. 

Hubby drove me home on Sunday and came up with the next plan: he'd stick around for the next sonogram, and then the grandmothers-to-be would take turns staying with me for a week at a time, until we got. through. this. pregnancy. 

Hopefully, to 2009. 

Maybe, to 34 weeks. 

But hopefully, to 2009.

That was my Thanksgiving weekend, 2008. 

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