Every morning for weeks now, being 34 weeks and a couple days, I kick count before I even rise from bed. Sometimes I could count before I've barely opened my eyes. They are 10 of the most valued movements.
Last night I was exhausted and I slept the best night of sleep that I've slept in weeks. My usual, almost hourly waking was cut to waking just once at 3 am for the briefest of moments. This morning I woke up and her usual movements were absent. Noticably so.
So I got out of bed, and drank a large glass of juice thinking she'd just needed a boost. Nothing. And then I ate breakfast. Still nothing. And then I began to panic.
I'd stayed at my in-laws house and D had been gone for the night. I sent him a message.
"I'm waiting for baby to move. She's quiet this morning."
I went to rest in bed hoping I could coax her to move. Quiet motionless belly. Tears. Fear. Another message.
"She's still so quiet. I'm scared."
He started on his way to me. 25 minutes away I'm sure he did at least 70mph.
I didn't want to scare the whole house. So I sat in the bedroom and stared down at my belly, big tears dropped to my shirt. Please move. Please move. Please move.
D's mom found me this way, and then she didn't leave me until he'd come. I didn't want the house to panic.
On the way to the hospital he held my hand. I cried. I tried not to cry. He said he was scared too. I said I just want her to move. We made small talk. I talked about how if the flutter I felt when I sneezed was her, it still isn't right. She's not the same. She was usually so active, moving my whole belly.
When we arrived at the hospital I said I hope they just hook me up right away and tell me she's ok. He held my hand tightly, told me to breathe. I'd never been to Suburban. They had no information about me other than what my doctor had told them when she called ahead, and they were great.
On the way to the hospital he held my hand. I cried. I tried not to cry. He said he was scared too. I said I just want her to move. We made small talk. I talked about how if the flutter I felt when I sneezed was her, it still isn't right. She's not the same. She was usually so active, moving my whole belly.
When we arrived at the hospital I said I hope they just hook me up right away and tell me she's ok. He held my hand tightly, told me to breathe. I'd never been to Suburban. They had no information about me other than what my doctor had told them when she called ahead, and they were great.
They took very little information before connecting me to the Doppler and sonogram machine, wasting no more time than it took me to get undressed.
The sweetest sound on earth is a baby's heartbeat. The relief on D's face mirrored the flood of it in my heart. And I cried. And the nurse got tears in her eyes. And she reassured me many times that the heartbeat we heard was the baby's and it was perfect.
After a sonogram, the doctor confirmed that apparently in the night, she had flipped completely around. Transverse, her head was now the only thing not beneath my anterior placenta. Her position was a "c" curling towards my spine and because of the extra fluid and the nerveless placenta any movements she made were nearly undetectableble deep in my belly.
I cannot explain the fear this morning. The sheer terror that it was happening again is irrational, consuming, and intense. The 2 hours of expecting movement and finding none produced a panic that is so raw.
But the instant quick and steady heartbeat of a very alive baby girl in my womb is also equally unexplainable. Perhaps, it is alike what seeing a glimpse of heaven through the cloud.
This morning was sobering, and perspective drawing. I've been much more sad lately at the thought that this pregnancy is drawing to an end. I want to know the ending but have been afraid to skip to the last page. I've been contemplating being done having babies after this. But this morning, the decision has been made so clear.
When my husband brought up getting a procedure himself after this (something he's been adamant against), and the smile on his face when he heard her heart too was brilliant and soft and glistening, I knew, this had to be it. I cannot do this any more, I cannot watch him go through this fear anymore either. If, and mostly when (I say with trepidation) this baby arrives safely in our arms, she will be our last.
After a sonogram, the doctor confirmed that apparently in the night, she had flipped completely around. Transverse, her head was now the only thing not beneath my anterior placenta. Her position was a "c" curling towards my spine and because of the extra fluid and the nerveless placenta any movements she made were nearly undetectableble deep in my belly.
I cannot explain the fear this morning. The sheer terror that it was happening again is irrational, consuming, and intense. The 2 hours of expecting movement and finding none produced a panic that is so raw.
But the instant quick and steady heartbeat of a very alive baby girl in my womb is also equally unexplainable. Perhaps, it is alike what seeing a glimpse of heaven through the cloud.
This morning was sobering, and perspective drawing. I've been much more sad lately at the thought that this pregnancy is drawing to an end. I want to know the ending but have been afraid to skip to the last page. I've been contemplating being done having babies after this. But this morning, the decision has been made so clear.
When my husband brought up getting a procedure himself after this (something he's been adamant against), and the smile on his face when he heard her heart too was brilliant and soft and glistening, I knew, this had to be it. I cannot do this any more, I cannot watch him go through this fear anymore either. If, and mostly when (I say with trepidation) this baby arrives safely in our arms, she will be our last.
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