Bedrest isn't forever...

For the last several OB-GYN visits, the doc has been expressing some concern that Shirley is a bit "small for dates." Which is a fancy medical way of saying that given my expected due date, she isn't measuring nearly as big as they would expect.

So yesterday I had another ultrasound to determine... something. (Unfortunately, I can't post the pictures from the laptop, as it has no scanner.) Brian and I were under the impression that the ultrasound was to sort out precisesly when Shirley was due, but the radiologist made a big point of saying that ultrasounds this late in pregnancy are unreliable for predicting due dates. (Something like a plus or minus three week margin of error.)

The ultrasound showed that Shirley is still smaller than would be expected given my due date, but she's completely normal. As Brian and I are both skinny people who come from families of skinny people, I'm not really expecting to pop out a 9 pound Amazon!

Apparently the OB is going with the first due date of March 3, 2008. Which means that I'm actually 34 weeks along. She also said that if I can get to 36 weeks gestation, I can get off the bedrest and the medications! (The risk of "neonatal mortality and morbidity" (more medicalspeak for "infant death and/or lasting handicaps") from prematurity drops significantly after 34 weeks, and anything after 37 weeks is considered "full-term.") While I won't be able to go back to work, I'm really looking forward to going out in public for things other than doctor's appointments!

Triage part II

Shirley's chances of being an only child go up with every trip we make to MPHS' Labor and Delivery triage.

And thank God the health insurance kicked in on the first!

I had regular contractions pretty much all of last week, but they only happened when I was standing or walking. And if the contractions go away if you're lying down, it's not "real labor." (To which I would like to point out that if it's called "false labor," it should NOT cause real pain.) The OB told me she wanted me to stay off my feet as much as possible ("no sex, no vacuuming, no scrubbing the floors." If I don't feel like having sex, what are the chances I'm feeling like doing heavy-duty housework?) and wouldn't let me go back to work until after Shirley arrives.

While the idea of not having to get up at 0500 five days a week does have a certain appeal, the lost income worries me. We've had worse financial crises in the past and God has gotten us through them--but the fact that rent and utilities here equal what my monthly paycheck was in Kansas makes me a bit nervous.

So I spent most of last week laying or sitting on the couch. All went well until church yesterday afternoon, when I started having contractions that didn't go away when I laid down. So off to the hospital for yet another round of baby monitoring, followed by IV fluids and more good drugs to make the contractions stop. (Terbutaline is a very useful and powerful medication. Unfortunately, it also makes me feel as though a gerbil on methamphetamine is running around inside my head.)

And now I'm officially on bed rest (I can get up to the bathroom, and take a quick shower, but other than that I'm expected to be laying down. Good thing this couch is well-padded--I would have hated to do this on our last one!) until Shirley shows up. The doc also put me on meds EVERY 4 HOURS to make the contractions stop and hopefully ensure that Shirley arrives on time, rather than seven weeks early.

I can use a laptop laying down, but knitting and spinning from this angle require some creative arm movements. I'm not sure how much I'll be able to do. Which really is a shame, because that Mongolian cashmere/mulberry silk top is calling to me.

Contractions hurt!

Everyone who reads my blog title and has children is no doubt laughing their heads off right now at my grasp of the obvious. (If I were a superhero, I'd be "Mistress of the Obvious." I'm not sure if I'd have a cape or just wear a sparkly leotard. Perhaps both.)

I started having contractions at work yesterday. I was able to finish my shift without too much problems, but have you ever considered how awkward it is to call the obstetrician on your lunch break while you're surrounded by nurses? However, I did get more offers of help the second half of my shift, as well as some very interesting tips on how to tell the difference between false labor and real labor.

"When you go home, put up your feet and have a couple of glasses of wine," one of the most experienced nurses advised. "If the contractions stop after that, it's not real labor."

"Brooke, I don't drink," I replied.

"Oh, then make sure you buy the good stuff, not some rotgut." (Methinks Brooke and I had a bit of a failure to communicate...)

So when I went home, had put my feet up, eaten something, had a nice drink (of herbal tea) and was still having contractions every twelve minutes, I knew it was time to call the doc again. (At this point, I didn't care if it was "real labor" or "false labor." I just knew that I'd exhausted my bag of tricks for making them stop and it was time for professional help.)

He told me to go to the labor and delivery floor's triage to get checked out. They slapped a monitor on me, and told me that both I and Shirley were fine, but yes, those were contractions. Then they gave me some drugs to stop the contractions, told me to call the doc again this morning, and sent me home. Total time in MPHS' L&D: one hour, 45 minutes. Those gals are efficient!

I spent most of today resting and trying to ignore the periodic random contractions that were still happening every hour or so, but was strangely comforted by the fact that Shirley did her regular dance routine as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

So tomorrow I get to see the doc/nurse practitioner/somebody who can deliver babies and have more tests run before I find out if/when I can go back to work. I'd planned to work until 38 weeks, but we'll see what happens. If I have to go on maternity leave early, at least I'll get lots of spinning and knitting done.

Brian spoiled me rotten for Christmas. Let's see.. the brown bag is baby camel roving, the yellow bags are buffalo roving, the one with the pink label is 50/50 Mongolian cashmere and mulberry silk, and the little white baggies are yak. I've no idea what I'm going to make with any of it, but I'm sure I'll have lots of fun.

Solidarity

In spite of all the insanity of the last month (which has included two patients leaving AMA, learning the hard way what "mandatory reporter" means under California law, and caring for an elderly Spanish-speaking lady who refused to believe that I was a woman until someone told her I was pregnant) I like my new job. I'm still getting used to it, and there are many days where I get done with my charting, drive home, and think "Thank God it's day shift!" but overall, I enjoy my work.

Unfortunately, I was hired on in the middle of a six-month long labor dispute between the hospital's parent company and the California Nurses Association. In mid-October, I was actually in the Kansas City airport preparing to visit family in Washington when I saw "[Name of Corporation] nurses on strike at ten Bay Area hospitals!" on CNN and realized "Oh my God! I just got hired by them!"

So as the negotiations between the union and the administration have continued and bogged down once more, I have made no secret of the fact that "I have no idea what's going on!" When they voted to strike again, it wasn't hard for me to decide what to do. I mean, how difficult is it to not show up for work?

Picketing, however, is another story. Picketing implies that not only do you support the cause enough to hold up signs and demonstrate about it, but that you are willing to share your convictions with others. And although I've been deluged with competing propaganda from both the union and the administration ("[Name of Corporation]'s Last Best and Final offer refused to address any of your concerns!" "We're sorry the California Nurses Association values their profits more than you our your patients...") I still find it difficult to filter through all the spin to sort out what the real issues are.

So I told the union rep that while I wouldn't cross the picket lines this weekend, I wouldn't picket for them, either. And I asked if they had some form of e-mailing list for keeping people up to date on what was going on. Receiving official e-mails has been a marked improvement over listening to workplace gossip for sorting out what's going on, but it leaves quite a bit to be desired.

For one thing, I'm getting sick of "solidarity." I think the concept is fantastic, but the word is starting to be just a bit over-used.

And then there's Jim. Jim goes to our church, and is also my uber-manager. I'm not sure what his official title is, but he manages at least three nursing units, one of which I work on. He's several steps above me on the org chart, and I'm reasonably certain that he's been a nurse longer than I've been alive.

He's also single-parenting two toddlers.

While my part in this whole strike and lockout mess has been fairly simple (don't show up for work) Jim has been working eighteen hour days to make sure patient care continues and all goes smoothly for the hospital. (Yet another reason why you couldn't pay me enough to work in nursing administration.)

But the church has really rallied around Jim and his kids. Families from our church have been watching his kids for the last several days. Just to make sure that in the midst of all the strike insanity, Jim has one less thing to worry about.

Union politics be damned--now that's solidarity.

The family that freezes together...

(Front row: Larry, Mom, Grandma, Audrey, Jevan. Middle row: EJ, Shawna, Aunt Sharon, Shannon, Aunt Tig. Back row: Uncle Al, Jesse, Me, Brian, Aunt Bonnie, Uncle Stan.)

At the very end of last month, Brian and I flew back to Washington state for Grandpa Honn's funeral. It's been in the 50s here in San Francisco for the last month, so we knew we'd have to do a bit of adjusting to the usual winter weather in Whitman County. (Which is generally 25-30 degrees, and snowing. With nasty wind.)

So I packed the amazing silk long johns I bought when we were living in Nome. (Being true Nomeites, my coworkers at Nome's outpatient clinic got much amusement out of my complaints that I was wearing long underwear all summer--and was still cold. Meanwhile, they were celebrating 22 hours of daylight and 55 degree weather with tee shirts, shorts, and lots of fishing.) And my thickest socks, gloves, hats, scarves, and as many layers of other clothing as I could still fit my pregnant body into.

And I still was cold! The worst part was at the graveside service, where it was snowing and the wind was driving it in our faces. My teeth were chattering too hard to hear Pastor Dennis' kind words. (As I've never known any minister to complete a graveside service in under fifteen minutes before, I take comfort in the fact that I was not the only human Popsicle at Winona Cemetery.)

Brian finally got to meet almost all of my first cousins on Mom's side. (The only one who's missing from the pictures is Rachel, who gave birth three weeks earlier.)


(And my cousin Larry (in the Hawaiian shirt) wins this trip's award for what not to say to a pregnant woman: "I know I shouldn't pat your belly, but you're like my sister--it's so weird to see you fat!" He's fortunate that potlucks always put me in a good mood.)

I also got to see my friend Renell, who I hadn't seen since high school.

Grandma said that since we were all together, she wanted to make sure that family pictures got taken, so we took lots of family pictures. Have you ever considered how hard it is to get sixteen people to all look at the camera at the same time, let alone "smile naturally"?

Here's Mom and her sisters and brother:

EJ got back from Iraq less than two weeks earlier, so he was able to make it. Since we were there for less than 48 hours, I didn't get to spend much time with him, but he and Brian were able to squeeze in a round or two of pool. This might not be the most flattering family portrait we've ever done, but the matching shifty expressions are true-to-life.

my un-vacation

When I visited Grandpa last month, I told him if it was at all possible, I would be home for Christmas.

Since I made that promise, I have learned that I am scheduled to work December 23, 24, 25, 26, and 27th. I'm not really sure when I'm going to celebrate Christmas.

Grandpa went to be with the Lord on Thanksgiving, so now I guess it's a bit of a moot point. (Toss in the fact that this is probably the last week that the airlines will allow me to fly, and you've got an interesting situation.) So instead of flying back for Christmas, Brian and I flew back to Washington for his funeral.

The funeral was Friday, and I've rarely had such a good time. I shed some tears when they sang "The Way of the Cross Leads Home," but it was alright. I know that Grandpa is with the Lord, and few things can compare with that. I miss him horribly, but he was in such poor health these last few months that I'm glad he's finally at peace.

When my friend Travis was killed in Afghanistan two years ago, I had a great deal of trouble understanding his death: What does it mean to say that someone is "with the Lord?" The traditional imagery of clouds and harps and insipid angels left over from the Victorian era didn't help in the slightest.

Then I had a dream where I saw Travis and some of my other friends who'd died playing poker with Jesus. And while that metaphor undoubtedly would make many people a bit queasy, if you knew Travis at all, you'd know that it fits.

Grandpa was never one for cards, but he loved hunting and fishing. I don't know what forms of entertainment there are in heaven, but I do know he is enjoying himself immensely.

more family pictures

I visited my family and some of Brian's family about a month ago.

Grandpa Honn (Mom's father) was in the hospital again with sepsis and pneumonia, so it was good that I got to visit him. I told him that if there was any way I could finagle it, I'd make it for Christmas. Unfortunately, as the newest person hired at work, I am working Christmas Eve, Christmas, Boxing Day, and the day after that. I'm afraid that by the time I'm able to request enough days off in a row to go visit, I'll be too pregnant to travel!

I got to spend lots of time with the "parents" (Mom and Aunt Tig.)

Aunt Tig is one of the three women named Shirley who we're naming the baby after.

And the obligatory grandma and baby-to-be picture:

Since these pictures are all a month old, (baby) Shirley is now much more obvious. I had to go pants shopping again this week. Tomorrow, I plan to go shirt shopping, as I'm down to three long sleeved shirts that still fit. (And I refuse to wear scrub tops out in public if I'm not working.)

Brian's sister Meegan quit smoking 25 hours before this picture was taken!

(My somewhat manic expression is explained by four plane flights in five days.)

We're slowly but surely getting the house set up. The living room looks quite nice right now.

We've still got many boxes of books to unpack, but the two large bookcases really helped make the place feel more like home.

And unlike any of our previous residences, we have a BACK YARD! (This is the view from our bedroom window.) I was so excited I went out and bought books on gardening.

I'd love to make it look like the neighbor's yard. Hopefully the plants will feel the "peer pressure" and decide they want to live.