I remember waking up that Wednesday morning for the obligatory 4 am potty break and uneventfully making the trek down the hall to the bathroom and back to the bedroom. I always hated this one, because it meant I only had 2.5 more hours of sleep before the alarm would go off, and I would have to get up, get ready and drag Sean out of bed before we piled into Freddie Mercury (my lovable '94 Toyota Corolla) and head through Chicago rush hour traffic into the loop for work.
The alarm never had a chance to go off. I woke up again at 6 am, aware that something wasn't right. I heaved myself out of bed (as most pregnant women do in the third trimester) and padded back down the hall. I checked my pantyliner (I had been wearing them pretty much the whole pregnancy, thanks to an increase in vaginal discharge that NO ONE seems to tell you about until you ask) and found it was soaked through to the underwear. Now, the Beast had been using my bladder as a comfy pillow of late; more than once in the previous weeks had I inadvertently peed my pants when she decided to fluff it up and settle in for a nap. But this was different: I felt no pressure on my bladder, and (yes this is gross, I know) it didn't smell like pee. The liquid was clear and had a sickly-sweet smell to it, and it continued to slowly drip down my legs even after a clean-up session. This is about the time when I started to piece things together.
I hobbled back down the hall to the bedroom and began the attempt to rouse Sean from his snore-laced bliss. Eventually he came to, and I expressed to him that something wasn't right and I needed his help to figure out what to do. I think he could sense the slight panic in my tone, because he was out of bed faster than he had ever been and immediately at the computer, searching "broken bag of waters." We followed some information that instructed us to change the pantyliner and lay down for 15-20 minutes; if, when I stood up, liquid continued to drip, we were to call the Doc for further instructions.
As we both laid down again, my mind took off and left me no chance to even attempt to follow it. A thousand thoughts raced neck-and neck:
She's way too early. The nursery isn't ready. The crib isn't put together. I don't have a hospital bag. We haven't had a chance to practice relaxation techniques. I need more time to do my Kegels. I haven't shaved my legs this week. We haven't gotten to make our belly cast. The apartment is a WRECK, and I haven't had a chance to grocery shop yet! The laundryZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Sean's snore cut through my thoughts, and brought me back to reality: A reality in which I was now in an all-out panicked pregnant lady hysteria:
"Sean," I called softly. He answered with another wave of snores.
"Sean," a little louder.
Nothing.
"Sean, I love you, but if you sleep through this, I will fucking murder you."
His eyes fluttered open, and he asked me what I needed him to do. I explained that I could feel myself starting to lose control and all I needed was for him to hold my hand and see me through the next few minutes until we would stand up, and figure out where to go from there. His hand found mine and we waited.
When I stood up, I felt the trickle of liquid before I saw it. Damn. We called my OBGYN office and got connected to Dr. Archie, the Doc on call. I had only previously had my visits with Dr. Biester, a rad female OBGYN at the Partners in Women's Health Practice: we shared a love of handmade jewelry and telling it like it is. I had yet to start going to the office for my weekly check-ups; this was when Dr. Biester said I would get the chance to meet the other doctors in the practice (there were 3 others - one other female, 2 males) in case she was not on call when I went into labor. All I knew of Dr. Archie was that he was in his 70s, what Biester described as "old school," and totally NOT who I wanted to be talking to about what was gushing from my vagina at 6:30 in the morning.
Both Sean and I traded off the phone and gave him the play-by-play of that morning's activities. He asked some specific questions about what was going on down below, and if I was feeling any contractions (Nope.) Then he asked how far along I was.
"Almost 35 weeks."
Silence. More silence. An ETERNITY of silence.
"Why don't you both head down to the hospital and we'll go ahead and check you out and see what's going on, okay?," he said. He gave instructions to come through the ER, since it was just before the main hospital entrance opened for the day, and told us to go straight to triage. He would call the nurses to let them know we were on our way and they would update him once I was examined.
The call ended, and I looked up into Sean's worried face. I relayed to him Dr. Archie's instructions. He took a breath, nodded his head, and told me he would start getting a bag together. I acknowledged this, but my mind had already started racing again. Oh no. The panic: I couldn't control it. I couldn't control what was happening. The control freak that I was hit a brick wall of realization that I no longer had any semblance of control over ANYTHING that was happening this morning.
I marched into the bedroom to find Sean, Tazmanian Devil-style, throwing random items in a suitcase. I calmly instructed him to stop packing. He looked up at me, but continued to sort and stow items:
"What?"
"STOP. PACKING."
And that's when the breakdown occurred.
All the thoughts and fears that had been swimming around in my noggin since I felt the first trickle run down my leg that morning somehow made their way out of my mouth. I choked them out to Sean through my sobs, and he just listened and held me. When I finished, he told me that he knew everything I was going through, because he was going through it, too. He was scared; he was anxious; he also felt unprepared. But then he told me something that would stick with me the rest of the day - something I would continuously return to for comfort:
Our life with this child was going to be full of moments just like these, where we felt totally blindsided, powerless and out of control. That's the thing about being a parent, and if we couldn't start accepting that now, then we were majorly, majorly screwed. Something clicked then, and I realized I could either fight what was happening to me (as if I even had a chance of "winning") or I could just let go.
Right.
We fed the kitties, got dressed, grabbed our phones, and headed to the hospital - placing calls to our respective workplaces on our way out to let them know of the possibility that we may be *slightly* late coming in that morning.
To Be Continued...
