I wanted to write this post last week but Craigy placed me on a blog ban. He says the reason for this is because he wanted me to rest and recover from my recent stay in the antenatal ward, but I suspect it’s because he knew I was likely to fly into a tirade about the care I received and offend the very midwives who are likely to be delivering our baby in a few weeks time. As always, my bloke had a very good point.
Things have definitely ramped up considerably this month and I can’t see Mini Madam waiting until April to meet her family. 
The whole saga began when Dex bought home a sicky bug from playgroup and infected his daddy with it. With a full clean-up operation in progress (I won’t go too far into it but I was sorely tempted to throw away our sofa) it was only a matter of time before my body decided to have a bit of it too. Given I’ve suffered with gastroesophageal reflux disease throughout this pregnancy, the situation was made ten times worse and I had a really shocking time of it. I struggled to keep down anything at all and began to suffer from a few mild contractions. 72 hours later I called my GP in a panic. Of course, he quickly referred me to the hospital to check on the baby.
Inevitably, baby was fine, but I wasn’t. My wee was the colour of Lucozade and at the insistence of the consultant I was instructed to stay in and receive IV fluids. Given the sickness had resulted from a bug, I was quarantined with suspected novovirus - quite the leap in diagnosis methinks - and I endured a full night of hellish barrier nursing, misadventures to my en suite (dragging a drip stand with dodgy wheels that could have given the trolleys at Sainsburys a run for their money) and extreme claustrophobia. I sobbed the entire night and was inches away from ripping out the cannula by the time 7am rolled round.
With no spare knickers, no purse, and no toothbrush - I felt like a tramp in the morning. To protect the other women on the ward, I’d been barely tended to all night and was feeling like a leper. In fact, after a lot of crying and a few hours worth of deliberation, I discharged myself. I’d like to pretend this wasn’t an easy decision but I’d be lying. I knew Mini Madam was okay and just needed mummy to calm down. I knew I couldn’t manage this in hospital and I needed to be at home with my boys. It was the best decision I’ve ever made and I’m happy to report I’m now eating and drinking without any problems.
The only positive thing to come out of the whole experience was a scan of baby that revealed her little head is down. This means we can go for the natural birth we wanted and I won’t have to endure a 5 day post-op stay in hospital. As hospitals and I clearly don’t get on too well, this is a HUGE relief. To be fair, given I officially hold the title of the World’s Shittiest Inpatient I suspect the midwives won’t want me in their care for a second later longer than is strictly necessary anyway. If I didn’t need IV antibiotics throughout the birth (thanks to Dexter’s history of Strep B) I’d be ordering a paddling pool this very second.
Now back home again I’ve had a whole new raft of symptoms that have got me frantically fake tanning and painting my nails in anticipation of an early labour. My inner thermostat has gone on the blink and I’m constantly sweltering (I even managed a spot of gardening in my undies this weekend!). Perhaps thanks to the fluids, I also feel like I’ve been inflated and my bump is now rock hard. Finally, I can literally feel my hips widen to accommodate baby. My contractions are persisting but are getting lower and longer in length - but are as yet too mild to take seriously. It all certainly seems to be adding up to a rush-job and I’m pretty sure she’s had enough in there.
Tomorrow I’ll be 35 weeks. I’ve got my fingers crossed she’ll manage another two weeks but it’s definitely a case of placing your bets now!
