I didn't get it, and that just gets me now. I had no clue how bad things were starting to become, only that when they told me my skyrocketing blood pressure and the fluid climbing in my lungs and the other bits of health terror bought me a ticket to the next hospital, I insisted my sister take me through the drive-thru for food first.
That's right. I nearly sold my soul for Taco Hell.
I didn't comprehend what the beneath-the-breath anxiety of the medical staff meant, had never contemplated anything wrong with the pregnancy. I guess because I was just beginning to come to terms with the pregnancy.
So they examined me, they monitored my pressure, they did everything they could to bring it down and when it just continued to move up, it was time for more urgent medical intervention. So I was sent down the hill (via personal vehicle with a stop for a burrito first) to the second hospital. And admitted into the room where I'd planned in three and a half more months to actually give birth.
Nurses, doctors came and went. Tests, questions came and went. The afternoon and then the evening came and went.
My son marveled at the room, said it was as wonderful as the 5-star resort we'd stayed in in Puerto Vallarta. Didn't want to leave me. He drew pictures on the dry erase board and erased them with a hospital-issue washcloth. I remember this vividly because the picture he drew was of two separate fetuses in two separate amniotic sacs. They were himself (because he'd been born at the same hospital) and the baby still inside me. For some reason I was too terrified to ask, he erased one of them. I also didn't ask if it was himself or the baby he left behind.
I have that washcloth still, with the smears of green dry erase ink bordering the stamped "hospital property." It was the first thing of all the things I kept during the whole experience. I seemed to need to hoard all the bits and pieces because the loss of any one of them symbolized a much greater loss. That giving up one little thing could only set off a domino chain of even greater loss.
So my sister took my son home, after I told him I'd soon follow. After I wiped away his tears at having to leave me and reassured him I loved him. After I told him I'd soon follow.
I promised him I'd be home.
I was SO mad at that point, that I had to stay overnight. I was so bored. I keep thinking, "They'll do one more test and then they'll release me." I kept asking when they could take out the IV needle and assorted bandages taped to my inner arm. I watched nurses change shift, the new one asking what she could bring to eat. I declined, assuming I'd soon be leaving.
She stayed to take care of me, I guess understanding that I had no clue. She helped take the toe ring off my rapidly swelling feet. She talked to me.
I just wanted my son and my own bed.
I wouldn't see either for a week.
