I woke up Sunday at 5:30 feeling absolutely icky. Nausea, cramping, Braxton-Hicks, the works--hell, my bod even through in the potential of a bit of a fluid leak that may or may not have been amniotic (I never thought that would be something ambiguous, but circumstances can arise that make it so; trust me, you don't want the details). I shuffled around for an hour, trying various and sundry things to make me feel better. No dice. So I figured I'd call the after-hours care line and see what they suggested. Hauled my butt into the hospital for an unexpected, fully-functioning peek at the Labor & Delivery ward where Andrew's going to spend his first days.
The labor rooms are very large, gorgeous, and have amazing views of the front range. Private bathrooms with big tubs. Nice cabinets to conceal all that fun equipment they need for the actual birthing process. Somewhat comfortable couch for the exhausted father-to-be, rocking chair, radio/CD clock. TV. Really nifty.
We were there for about 2.5 hours, with me hooked up to a fetal monitor. They did the oh-so-fun cervix check and a quickie ultrasound. Andrew's fine, he knows what he's doing, and he seems to be keeping my cervix in line, too. My uterus just has that twitchiness whenever something goes remotely differently than what it's expecting. And absolutely no membrane rupture to be found.
So they sent me home. As happy as I am that Drew's healthy and not trying to arrive early, I'm really getting sick of these piddly, annoying things that keep adding up to give me worrisome symptoms that make the nurses drag my butt in for urgent checkups. They're not enough to warrant any sort of bed rest discussion, but it's just enough to make getting through 40 hours of work each week a chore, and then I have next to no energy for writing. I can feel my sanity fraying a little more with each unplanned trip to the doctor.