Another day, another ounce for the little guy. I’ve decided to name him Ian. The name stuck relentlessly in my head, maybe because I was reading a friend’s blog and her little boy is named Ian, or maybe because I watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Either way, I couldn’t get it out of my head and it seemed to fit better than Ben, Nathan, or Simon. Christopher has a first cousin named Ian, and I have a second, but neither of us could remember the last time we had seen them, so no worries.
Today has been a lazy day. Not one of us has gotten dressed. Christopher is sick with a bad cold, so he’s been pretty grumpy, but Brieanne and the kids have been good sports. We are, at this moment, rooting for the Gators in the Florida/Alabama game. I’d rather watch USC and UCLA, but Christopher is obsessed with Tim Tebow.
I went to the doctor again yesterday and am getting quite annoyed with the lack of communication my doctors have with each other. The four days I spent in the hospital were horrible. I was visited constantly by obstetricians, high-risk perinatologists, residents, nurses, and specialists– and each had a different idea of what my treatment would be. Luckily, since this is my third time doing this, I was very aggressive with what I wanted to happen, but it was pretty ridiculous. At one point, I was visited by an OB-GYN who prescribed modified bedrest, where I would only lay down for four hours a day, followed by a perinatologist, who prescribed self-administered Heparin shots because I was only allowed to get up to use the bathroom. One doctor prescribed a rare progesterone suppository, and after the nurses jumped through hoops finding a pharmacy that carried it, and getting my secondary health insurance to pay for it (after the primary denied it), another doctor told me it wasn’t approved by the FDA and she didn’t recommend it. They fed me nothing but Jell-O and apple juice for two days, then complained when my blood sugar was too high. They brought in a diabetes specialist, sent me home with an expensive meter and 200 lancets, and haven’t mentioned my blood sugar in three weeks of follow-up visits.
So yesterday, when I went to the OB-GYN, I was pretty annoyed. I was aggravated because I had been laying on the exam table for 45 minutes, which made it worse. The doctor came in, and I really like her, but she mentioned modified bed rest again, then started talking about when I could stop taking the Nifedipine (34 weeks). “Listen,” I told her. I was a little snotty, because, like I said, I had been waiting. “I’m not going on modified bed rest. Just walking from the car to the elevator made me feel so much pressure I thought I was going to have to sit down. And when I the doctor lowered my Nifedipine dose with my first at 34 weeks my water broke. With my second, I stopped taking the pills at 36 weeks and had him the same day. So no, I’m not going to start moving around, and I’m not going to stop taking my pills, until I think this baby is good and ready to be born. Because I assure you, if I change something, I will have this baby.”
She blinked. “Sorry,” she kindly replied. “I forgot you are our resident expert on preterm labor.”
“I’m not an expert,” I said. “I just know my body.” At this point, the third year med student standing in the room cracked a tiny smile.
Better to inconvenience everyone in my life for a few weeks than have a baby in the NICU for just as long, or with problems that might last him a lifetime. That’s what I keep telling myself. Better safe than sorry.