I thought I had everything figured out.
That’s how these stories always start. The thing is, I thought I’d accounted for Murphy’s Law, too. “How can things go wrong?” I’d ask myself, and I’d try to work that into the plans, as well. Then I’d ask, “How can things go even more wrong?” and go from there. I’m no stranger to Murphy’s Law and the ways it’s affected my entire life.
On Tuesday, around midday, things got a lot stranger than I ever could have accounted for. Ever.
Monday evening at the library was busy, but no worse than usual, really. It’s summer after all. This is our busy season. It’s nothing I haven’t faced since June, if not earlier. So, when Tuesday morning rolled around, I was ready to tackle the errands I had piled in front of me. Time was running out, rapidly hurdling toward the September 17th due date the doctors had given us for the Broodling. My husband and I told ourselves that we’d have everything done by mid-August by the latest. We’d learn from last time when our daughter was born seventeen days early.
This pregnancy had been anything but easy from the get-go, but we managed. I kept spotting past the first trimester. When the doctors told us there might be something wrong with our son’s heart, we took it in stride and kept marching forward. And when the doctors told me I might have complications with the afterbirth, we took that in stride, too. We were going to get through this: one day, one ultrasound, one scan, one checkup at a time.
In fact, I was on the phone with my OB’s office, waiting to schedule an MRI to scan the placenta and contemplating the next week’s dinners for the grocery list on Tuesday around midday while I waited. Then I felt that eerie leakage of fluids. And it wasn’t just a tiny bit.
It was a lot.
If it stopped, then it was no big deal, really. That was my understanding of it. I moved to go upstairs and get changed; that’s when it kept leaking. Sure enough, my water had broken. Just a day shy of 32 weeks of the pregnancy.
You win again, Murphy’s Law. You win.
So, long story short, I’m staying here in the hospital’s special care OB ward, trying to keep the Broodling inside for another two weeks. While the water breaking at 32 weeks isn’t the worst that could happen to the Broodling, those extra two weeks to get to 34 weeks is the real key. I’m not on formal bedrest, but they want me to minimize movement because further agitating the ruptured sac is just bad juju, obviously. If the contractions and labor start up again, however, they’re gonna have to stick me back on the IV tree, which is literally a drag.
And, as with everything else in this pregnancy, we’re going to take it one day at a time, and we’re going to take it in stride. So, keep your fingers crossed. We’ll see where this strange turn of events will take us this time.