At 30-weeks pregnant I was directed to the high-risk antepartum unit by my doctor.
The trip to the hospital was an exhaustive blur. Forget preeclampsia, I needed sleep.
“Where do we check in?” said Jimmy after he braked for a red light.
“I don’t know. The emergency room?” We didn’t get a tour of this hospital – or any maternity ward for that matter. “That’s what the Clovis hospital had us do.” We’d gone there when I was 27-weeks pregnant for tests.
Jimmy headed that way. Well, at least in the direction we thought it was. The street the entrance used to be located had a multi-story building plopped in the middle. I surmised it must be the new trauma wing.
“Well, where do we go now?”
“I don’t know.” The last time I was here was on Jay’s birthday 16 years earlier. So much had changed. Maybe we could go home, grab a few hours of sleep and then come back. “Just drive around it until there’s a sign.”
Sigh. It was better to just get this over with. Besides, if we went home I wouldn’t get any rest.
Nights were the worst. The ache, pressure and sickness increased ten-fold as the birds, freed from the city’s busy noise, began to chirp in the twilight. Fear, panic and discomfort kept me awake until morning light brought relief – proof I survived another day.
Many times I felt desperate and would reach out to Jimmy in the dark for help. Before I could press my fingertips on his bare shoulder, I’d scold myself. He was working fulltime, handling all the household chores, cooking dinners, raising the kids and taking care of me. The last thing he needed was to have his sleep disturbed. Besides, I wasn’t feeling worse – merely letting heavy thoughts trample in the quiet.
“Here it is.” Jimmy had drove the loop and found the new entrance. He pulled up to the curb. “Go get signed in while I park.”
I was thankful the automatic doors were only a few yards away. It was raw willpower that kept me upright. Beyond the entrance was a guard stationed behind bulletproof glass. I had to talk to him before being granted access to the waiting room.
Only, he directed me to a different area of the hospital. Pregnant women were to report to the third floor from a location on the other side. I almost cried.
It took a few minutes, but I shuffled out and around the building. Jimmy caught up with me and looped his arm through mine for support.
“Are you going to be able to do this?”
“No, I need to sit.” He guided me to an empty seat and then went to find a wheelchair.
There weren’t any. So after a few minutes I stood and we made our way to the elevator. On the third floor, a guy behind a counter had me sign lots of paperwork. He explained what each was for but I couldn’t focus. I could barely write my signature. Once that was done he directed us to the fifth floor.
It felt like a never-ending hell of constant motion. The carrot that kept me going was the hospital bed. If I could just make it there, I’d be OK.
On the fifth floor we were guided down a long hallway to the antepartum nurses’ station.
Finally, we were in the right spot and I was shown my room. Now all I had to do was layback and let them slap on a blood pressure cuff. Then I could sleep. I’d even succumb with relative peace knowing I’d be monitored overnight.
I should’ve known better. My arrival would be the easiest part of the night. …
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Genevieve Hinson is a social media coordinator for Children's Hospital Central California. She's also a writer, wife and mom to two boys and a girl. The opinions she expresses here are her own, as is her obsession for coffee.
