Gentle Calm

I wrote in my last blog entry that I wasn’t worried about the odd things that started happening near the end of my pregnancy. I was in good hands, being watched carefully. I was at the weekly check-up point. Everything was okay.

EERRRT, Hindsight yelled. Wrong answer.

Things change quickly in pregnancy. And it’s hard to see the bigger picture when you’re measuring day-to-day. Over and above that fact, my body doesn’t play by the rules.

So, at thirty-nine weeks pregnant, I drove myself thirty minutes down the highway for my prenatal appointment. I waddled into the office, a little out of breath and a lot exhausted. We discovered another five pounds in water weight when the nurse weighed me. My feet were white Shrek feet. My blood pressure was high.

My doctor was very calm. She didn’t tell me what the blood pressure numbers were, and I didn’t think to ask. She simply told me that I needed to go to the hospital straight away. Her voice was even and soothing when she explained that the nurses would check the baby with a non-stress test, and the on-duty OBGYN would check my cervix and decide whether or not to admit me and induce.

With a smile, she said I would more than likely be a mom in the next few days.

The receptionist offered to walk me to the hospital, but I didn’t want to leave my car in the wrong parking lot, so I drove. She told me later that she was really worried about me and the baby.

But when you’re that sick, people do everything possible to keep you from freaking out. Soft and gentle tones and facial expressions are a must for everyone with high blood pressure.

They were expecting me in the maternity ward. After they got me settled into a comfy green gown and onto an exam bed for the non-stress test, I called Tim. I was eerily calm myself, though only as a reflection of what I’d seen so far.

The baby was still doing great – no worries there. I was admitted into the only single room on the ward. In case you’re wondering, that is not a good sign, but I didn’t know it at the time. The single room happened to be right next to the nurse station.

They were monitoring my blood pressure every thirty minutes. Again, the nurses didn’t tell me how high it was, and I was too stunned to ask. The OBGYN decided to induce. He told me that it would be a long process, so it was okay for Tim to finish his day at work, pack our overnight bag (yes, I was unprepared), and then drive to the hospital.

When he got there, he saw the numbers on the blood pressure machine. 199 / 119 (with medication).

No wonder people were worried! Normal blood pressure is below 120 / 80, and hypertension is defined as blood pressure consistently higher than 140 / 90.

Preeclampsia is a serious complication that can result in the death of the mother and child. It can only be cured by giving birth. The good news: the baby was developed enough to make this a very attractive option. If I was diagnosed with preeclampsia before the baby was ready to survive outside of my uterus, we might have had to wait.

Also under the category of good news: I have no doubt that I would have died, maybe my baby too, if we weren’t in a hospital. As little as eight-five years ago, we also probably would have died.

What happened in the next few days is a blur, but I’ve pieced it together with some help.

Just Jenn

I spent a lot of time in that sleep study lab because it was the Heart Function Clinic by day.

Every month for three months, and then every other month after that, I walked through the hospital doors with my heart in my throat, wondering if it would be the month I got the bad news. I thought I'd have to have surgery. It never occurred to me that the bad news was over.

They kept track of my weight because swelling is a bad sign with cardiomyopathy. After I weighed-in at the start of each appointment, they hooked me up to the ECG machine.

I had to get undressed in one of the sleep labs, put a hospital gown on backwards and lay down on the bed. When Nurse Heart came in, she would stick about five suction-cup-thingies on my chest, stomach and ankles, and then plug them into the wires that fed my heartbeat to the fancy machine.

If the printout looked like a mountain range with peaks destroyed by a crashing plane, then I still had PVCs. As I laid on the bed, waiting for Nurse Heart, I would wish the pilot had finally checked his engines before boarding his plane, but those flat mountains stayed with me for a while.

And then I’d have to tell Nurse Heart how many pillows I slept on and if I had been out of breath enough at night to wake up. She would take my blood pressure while I sat on the bed, and then again when I stood up.

Dr. Heart would listen to my chest, check my ankles for swelling and ask me the same questions.

They were both really good at soothing my fears when I was brave enough to talk about them. Even if there wasn’t an answer, Dr. Heart had a way of focusing on the now and on the good possibilities.

He was never impatient with me or dismissive. I didn’t know him before the PVC discovery, but I think he’s the kind of guy who would have treated me with respect no matter what.

Cardiomyopathy changed the way many people treated me. Suddenly, I wasn’t wasting their time.

Since I was diagnosed, doctors have been calm and sympathetic. The lab techs taking my blood, the receptionists at the cardiogram clinic and the volunteers at the Heart Function Clinic have all been extra-nice.

Friends and family members who knew about my heart got really serious about my health. The light well-that-sucks-but-at-least-you-won’t-die attitude was abruptly changed to an oh-shit-this-is-not-good attitude.

People were worried; people were just-in-case-nice. As in, just in case you die; just in case you’re life-changing sick.

I wanted to have a life outside of nice and away from the hospital. When I took off the gown and didn’t talk about it, I was just Jenn.