Hours of channel surfing later, I still have not seen a doctor and have not been measured again. They allow me to eat dinner. What can you expect from hospital food? Is that a trick question? Soylent Green would have been more interesting. We are bored. Again, I am still convinced they will be sending me home. Mind over matter and creative visualization techniques versus a tragic character flaw that allows me to identify myself with Sisyphus and the boulder. By 11pm, I am informed the doctor has left without evaluating me... but has not left me empty handed. I am offered sleeping pills and morphine, if I wish. I think it is a bit much. Especially considering the guy never even took my temperature or peeked at a toe, for God's sake! I choose ice chips. I tell my husband to go home and rest.
After flipping from side to side, twirling like an alligator feeding on a dead animal, I finally give up and get up at 4:30am. More monitoring. I take a shower. I am convinced that hospitals could NEVER be as clean as they want you to believe they are. More flipping through horrible cable. I do watch a show "How to Bathe your Baby". And, I think, "I'm going to break my children." Breakfast at 7am of a bagel and tea with the Morning Times. Great, I read that Erie is again in the national news for a woman using her four week old child as a weapon.
Lo and behold! Shifts change, Raisinette is back. She hooks me up to the monitor, and tells me Dr. Levinson will be in soon to check out the tapes and measure my cervix. FINALLY! Wait, what's this? Suddenly, thanks to Raisinette's crypt-like finger stylin', I have no more contractions registering. Yes, labor starts and stops... but I blame you, Raisinette. Yes, you. After a few minutes or more (I refuse to track time under less than pleasurable circumstances), a female doctor I will refer to as Dr. Aloo-Matar comes into the room. That is not a racist slur, it more speaks to this fact: I have never spoken to the woman before in my life and have no clue what her name might be! She snaps on the latex, greases up, and assaults my cervix. Nope, no change... I can go home. The whole encounter takes about five minutes.
Whahhhhhhh? (Get a mid-wife if you can.)
Raisinette tells me she's gonna leave me hooked up a few minutes more and then I am free to go. I call my husband. I cry. I wait about fifteen minutes and then say, "Hell with this!" While I undo the paddles myself, I realize one is dangling anyway. Ummm, hello? Has anyone noticed the lack of heartbeat on this one child??? I know, I am NOT the only pregnant lady in the maternity ward. No, it is not called, "The Melissa Sullivan Wing". I wipe off the goo, get dressed, cry more, and wait for Matt. As we leave, I stop by the nurses station to sign decharge papers. Everyone there seems very preoccupied with their conversation.
Raisinette's teeth glow like someone shone a black light on them, "Okay, just keep your regular appointment next week. If you even make it that far! I'll be waiting for you." I reply, "I am not coming back here unless someone drags me in by my hair." "Oh," she asks, "did you want something for the pain?" I shake my head thinking, "Yeah, a shotgun." At this point, Dr. Levinson shrugs and says, "A little crampy." I conclude there is no socially appropriate response to this. So, I say nothing... but "crampy"??? Let me tell you something, sir. Crampy is you just ate a bad hotdog at the baseball game, you are experiencing gassy rumblings, and you are trying to evaluate the quickest route to the toilet. What I am feeling would be more akin to small reenactments of Hellraiser. Maybe my brain is limited, but I can't see the correlation.
We get home. My husband offers to stay with me. I figure spending an afternoon watching me cry and sleep won't be much fun. Plus, I know he doesn't want to miss work, no matter how much he dislikes it. He leaves (and brings me caramel apples home later... I am so lucky). I cry and sleep.
Then, my dad calls. My father is a difficult man, who comes across usually as unhappy and intolerant. But, he is a good, smart man with a DRY sense of humor. Someone who definitely earns your respect and keeps it. But, he demands you earn his respect in return. Doesn't sound like a lot to ask... but it is. Anywho, "Dad" is now a nurse after decades of being a graphic artist. I review my night and day with him. And, with most things my father encounters, the whole ordeal is "bullshit". I agree. He's got a good "bullshit" indicator. He tells me to call the office tomorrow, tell them I am on my way to the hospital, and that I want to be induced. No ifs! I tell him I'll call. But, really I have no intention of speaking to anyone in that office or hospital. I have hit my "Immaculate Deception" phase of pregnancy. I saw Blue Lagoon when I was young! I know what to do.
Minutes after I hang up with my dad, my mom calls. She wants to know, "Are you sitting down?" Yup. "Dr. X (my OB/GYN) killed himself."
WHAHHHHHHH?
We were referred to Dr. X after we lost one of the babies. When we were no longer expecting triplets, and Dr. ABC realized he wouldn't be getting his name in the paper, he dropped us like a hot potato and decided to stick with his original plan to retire. But, Dr. X, we were told, was a specialist of "high risk" pregnancies. Okay, we made an appointment. He seemed like a pretty quiet guy who looked like an extra from Miami Vice. But, after the first three or so appointments, I started getting scheduled with other doctors in the practice. I inquired as to why when we were specifically "referred" to Dr. X. The receptionist explained, impatiently, I would need to see all the doctors and this was normal practice... because you never know who will be the attending when you go into labor. I never saw Dr. X again (except in passing).
I find it twisted that someone who brought hundreds, maybe even thousands of babies into this world would decide to take his own life. Giveth and taketh away. Of course, he probably wasn't even cold before rumors started up in this small enough town. And, no matter how messed up I think it is that this happened during my pregnancy (ME! ME! ME!), I am trying to have compassion for the man and his surviving family. It does, however, explain some of the preoccupation and/or absence of the other health care providers during my hospital stay.
Coldly-- drama! I don't need it! Coldly-- this goes on my list of other people I knew who committed suicide. My first babysitter, my first date, etc. Coldly-- my friend Drew says our daughters have no choice but to be Goth now. Genetically, with my husband and I as the source, they have no choice but to be dark, stubborn, incredibly witty, stunningly beautiful, and outrageously talented children anyway. Right? Right.
We have had many people give us imdepending dates. A psychic at work said Sept. 29th or the full moon or Uncle Steve's birthday or Friday the 13th is creeping up. We have also tried many things to naturally induce labor: raspberry leaf tea, spicy foods, sex, etc. Like I said, these are stubborn children. A friend says she has a plunger and she knows how to use it. Hmmmm, that seems reasonable at this point.
So, that is where we stand. I am still in one piece, not three. Now, you don't have to ask. And, we will fill you in if any other news breaks. And, by news I mean, water.
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