August 31, 2009
Pre-Eclampsia: It’s All Coming Back To Me Now
Part 1 of 3
I pulled into the parking lot of the medical center 27 minutes before my scheduled appointment. I never arrive right on time anymore, because they make you sit and wait for twenty minutes before calling you back to see the doctor, so I might as well arrive that much sooner if I’m going to wait anyway, right?
I hunted for a parking space closest to the door. It’s getting harder to walk these days. Doug says I’m waddling. I told him to swallow a whole watermelon, which was a nice way of saying “kiss my butt”. If he had another person inside his body, he’d be waddling, too.
I found the perfect parking spot. First row, third stall, directly across from the entrance. I hurriedly marched toward the revolving doors and was nearly ran over by a medical shuttle dropping off many elderly people for their appointments. It never occurred to me that a bunch of 80-year-olds would be in a hurry, too.
Walking to the elevators, I avoided contact with nearly everyone in my path. Perhaps it was because I was carrying a white sandwich bag which contained the clear cup with the blue lid filled with my required urine sample for this 32-week appointment. Everyone knows what’s in the bag. A pregnant woman loses every thread of dignity once the blossoming belly appears.
I got into the elevator and found my spot in the back corner. A woman and her two daughters entered behind me, followed by one of the 80-year-old women and her case worker. We were all going to the third floor. I made my guesses as to which departments the others in the elevator were going to. My choices were OB/GYN or Optical. I bet myself $20 that I was the only one going to see an obstetrician that afternoon. I was right.
I stood in line at the reception desk while I waited for others in the OB/GYN department to check in for their appointments. When it was my turn, the receptionist asked me the same five questions they ask everyone, every time. Name, date of birth, address, insurance carrier, person to notify in case of emergency. Never mind the fact that this same receptionist called me 24 hours prior to confirm my appointment and asked these same questions as part of their pre-check in procedure. So much for saving time. Another three minutes wasted in the name of redundancy.
I found a seat in the waiting room and realized it was like a high school reunion at my doctor’s office. A gal I haven’t seen since high school was there with her newborn, waiting to be called back for her 6-week check up. Another girl was there for her first prenatal appointment. She was pregnant with Baby #4. I tried to imagine life with four kids. I could only cringe. I’ve always wanted lots of children, but cannot imagine how I’d manage. Of course, thinking about getting pregnant again before I’ve even given birth to this baby was rather crazy. Ask me how I feel about more children, in say, a year?
There’s a television in the waiting room, and the channel was set to the HGTV channel. I pretended to watch these designers make-over a college dorm room. I didn’t want to have to talk to anyone else. The show was fascinating. Lots of hip fabrics and decor was chosen for the two guys who would be occupying this college abode.
Then, the logical side of my brain kicked in and wondered why anyone would spend time and put money into making over a college dorm room? These kids would only live there four years, maybe. Most of the college kids I’ve known can’t wait to escape the confinement of the dorms to live in student housing or some other rental off campus.
I looked at the clock. 1:50 p.m. My scheduled appointment time. Still not called back for my appointment. Great, I thought. A young girl was at the reception desk, checking in for her appointment. She walked past me to find a seat, and left a horrible smell in her wake. It was as though she bathed in Marlboro Lights. I fought my gag reflex. It would be rude to choke in public. As a former smoker, I wondered how I ever thought that smell was delicious enough to inhale carbon monoxide and tar and other chemicals into my lungs for many years. Now it was making me nauseous.
Thinking about the smoke smell made me realize that I have been smoke free for over a year. It would have been 26 months had I not smoked for five days after my father’s accident. I was a social smoker. A stress smoker. Add alcohol or crisis to my life and Marlboro Lights chant my name. I made a vow never to smoke again. This time, I’m going to stick to it.
Finally. The nurse called my name.
“Do you have your urine sample?” she asks, as I follow her back to the exam room.
Sarcastic thought: what does it look like I’m carrying in this white bag, my mucus plug?
“Yes,” I said. “It’s right here.”
Once in the exam room I sat in the chair next to the doctor’s desk. The nurse placed my sample on the counter by the sink, and then proceeded to take my blood pressure. The reading was 142/92. My heart sank. It was happening again. Deep in my heart I knew it. I let out a sigh. The nurse took note of my audible reaction.
“Hang in there,” she said. “I’ll dip your urine and we’ll see if there’s any reason to worry.”
I took note of her tone after she dipped the pee.
“Um,” she began. “There is a trace of protein in the urine.”
“I knew it,” I said. “I knew that something was bound to happen this week. I’m 32 weeks. This is the same time I was diagnosed with pre-eclampsia with Dawson.”
Saying the word aloud was hard. I felt like I was jinxing myself. Obviously, the doctor would make the diagnosis. I was jumping the gun. I couldn’t even remember if I’d taken my blood pressure pill that morning. Perhaps that explains the high reading, I thought.
The nurse realized she had forgotten to document my weight so I stepped on the scale. I reached the 15-pound mark. At my first appointment, Dr. F instructed me to aim for only 15 pounds of weight gain. I have 8 weeks to go, I thought, and I’ve already hit the mark. Perhaps I can get away with only gaining twenty?
The nurse told me Dr. P would be with me shortly and left the room. My mind began to race as I waited for the doctor.
I cannot be going through this again.
This is not happening.
No, I didn’t take my BP meds. That’s why the reading is so high. I’ll tell the doctor and he’ll make me come back tomorrow. We can check again. Everything is fine.
Except it wasn’t fine, because the second Dr. P entered the room, I could see he was in panic mode.
In his familiar Russian accent he said, “Okay, so the blood pressure is high today. You have trace amounts of protein in urine. I’m going to order 24-Hour urine collection. We’ll need a blood sample today, and you come back Thursday for ultra-sound. Then we do BPP and NST and we probably admit you to hospital for monitoring.”
He was speaking so quickly I barely had time to register anything he said. I heard that dirty word, hospital, and freaked out.
“Hospital? What? Can you please back up? I don’t think I’m understanding anything you’re saying.”
Dr. P assumed I couldn’t understand his accent, and began speaking in almost perfect English. Slowly, he repeated all the tests he was ordering, and again, said the H-word. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes.
“Wait,” I began. “I work from home, I have a son who starts school next week. I can’t go to the hospital. Can’t I just do bed rest at home? It’s what this practice prescribed last time. If I’m in the hospital, no one will be there to care for my son. My husband cannot take time off work. If he doesn’t work, you don’t get paid.”
I realized I was rambling and promptly shut up. My doctor tried to feign calm, and told we’d start with the tests and go from there. He asked if I had any other questions. I couldn’t think of anything through the shock. He then told me to “hang tight” while he arranged the tests with the nurse.
After he left the room I called Doug on my cell phone.
“Say a prayer. A Rosary. Something. I think they think I have pre-E. But this time they threatened hospital monitoring. I don’t even know if I took my pills this morning. I can’t think straight…”
At this point I was crying. I don’t even remember what else I said. Doug told me to calm down. I told him I’d call him back after the appointment.
Next I called my parents. My father answered the phone and I knew he could sense the worry in my voice.
“What’s wrong? Are you nervous about your appointment today?” he asked.
“I’m at the appointment. They are ordering more tests. It might be pre-E, again.” I told him.
He relayed everything to Mom while I was on the phone.
“We’ll say a rosary,” I heard my mother say to my father. “Right now. Tell her we will pray.”
This Tuesday is starting to suck, I thought.
I hung up the phone and Dr. P and a nurse came in with several papers. One for the ultrasound on Thursday, one for the blood draw, one for the BPP (bio-physical profile) and NST (non-stress test). Another for the next doctor appointment at 33 weeks. And still another for a repeat ultrasound and NST on Monday.
My insurance carrier will love all this testing, I said to myself.
The doctor tried to tell me things would be fine, and left the room. The nurse took over and explained each procedure. Then she said, “If the blood work and 24-Hour urine tests come back normal, you won’t need to do the last ultrasound or NST.”
I left the exam room and went to the appointment desk to schedule every appointment. The scheduler tried her best to accommodate me. At one point had to call Doug and ask him if he could manage Dawson on certain appointment days. We worked around most of the conflicts. The only problem was that under such short notice, I’d have to see a doctor a despise for my 33 week appointment.
“Is there anyone else?” I asked the scheduler.
“I’m sorry, no.” she said. “Dr. B is on call that day.”
“Okay…” I hesitated. “I’ll suffer through it.”
She smirked. This doctor is hated by many. I could sense that she understood my disgust. I was thankful she was so kind.
The walk to the elevator was in slow motion. I was still trying to digest everything I had just been fed. I made my way to the lab for my blood draw (and to pick up the urine collection jug). After a short wait a phlebotomist called me back.
I told her she’d need to take the blood from my hand. The veins in my arms never cooperate. She did as I asked and several minutes later I was making my way through the revolving doors and toward my car.
I cried for a few minutes in the car. I called Doug and my parents to let them know what was going on. Then I went home to see my husband and son. I tried not to worry. I still worried.
It was going to be a long two days to wait for test results.
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August 31st, 2009 at 10:56 AM, Dana Says:
I recently found your blog, and I am enjoying “getting to know you.” I am anxious to hear the rest of your story. . . I was diagnosed with pre-E with my second pregnancy. Luckily for me, it was way later than for you, but it was still no fun. It is much worse when you already have a child at home. I will be thinking of you and hoping that things turn out well. AND I love your name!
.-= Dana´s last blog ..Dr. Cuddles/ Dr. Phil =-.
August 31st, 2009 at 8:56 PM, Headless Mom Says:
Praying that everything goes ok!
.-= Headless Mom´s last blog ..Spontaneous =-.
September 3rd, 2009 at 2:17 PM, The Dana Files » Pre-Eclampsia: Here I Am Again On My Own Says:
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