The worst blogger ever

Yes, I have now officially been called that. Many thanks to my dear friend (who will remain nameless), who called me that and moved me to action. Not that negative reinforcement actually works, mind you.
The problem is, I could write meaningless little tidbits like, "The Donger appears to enjoy Chicago blues and electric blues guitar, like that of Bonnie Raitt. Or, maybe it's just the subwoofer vibrating the seat of the car that he's responding to." That would be nice, and fun to read, and easy. And I frequently decide to do that. But then something big happens and I know it's going to take me a while to write about it, so I have to gear up for it, and I can't seem to get up the energy for it (that's a whole other story), so I procrastinate, then it seems like I've waited so long that I can't possibly start, but I don't want to skip writing about it entirely, so I have to gear up for it again, and the vicious cycle continues. So that's my excuse (No, still no wedding pictures. The ones I took really turned out bad, so I might not put any up — you'll just have to deal.), and here's the big thing that happened:
We were driving home from dinner downtown a couple Saturdays ago around 9:45 or so, south on the Dan Ryan (I-94), for any of you familiar with Chicago. There's a ton of construction around there right now because they're completely redoing all the exits and widening the highway. So, we were just passing 69th street, driving in the right lane, and out of the corner of my eye (same thing with Joe) I saw someone on the other side of the construction barrier haul back and throw something. It was like it was slow motion, like a car accident: I saw it, I thought, "He's throwing something, and it's going to hit me," and it did. Well, it didn't actually hit me, thank God.
Some stupid f*@!# threw a piece of concrete from the construction area onto the highway, and through the passenger side of our windshield, where I was sitting. The sun visor slowed it down enough that it dropped between my feet, but we were traveling around 60 miles an hour, so Joe and I and the car got sprayed with glass pretty good. Ever wonder how you're going to react to something terrifying and shocking and unlike anything you've ever experienced? I started screaming. I don't know why, I guess out of fear and shock and disgust. But I heard Joe ask several times if I was okay, which made me realize I was fine, and shut me up, because I could tell the more I screamed the more it worried him.
We didn't stop, and Joe didn't swerve, hit the brakes or otherwise put us in more danger, he stayed really strong and focused, which kept us safe, I think. I called the cops while we were driving, and Joe went the next day to file a police report, but there's not really any chance that they'll be caught. It's one of those times (along with seeing someone I know is involved with dogfighting) where, if for some reason I had a gun, I'd have gladly pulled over and shot the moron, with not an ounce of regret. I'd still like to face the punk — I wish he'd get caught so we could press charges.
Anyway, although I thought I was fine, we decided to go to the emergency room anyway, because after our last car accident (oh, I didn't tell you about that? Yeah, two incidents in the space of a month. Joe and I have been considering locking ourselves in the house.), my doctor scolded me for not calling him right away and going to get checked out, even though I thought everything was fine.
So, we go to the ER and they ask if I'm in pain or having contractions. I said I wasn't in pain, and I didn't think I was having contractions, but since this is my first baby, I couldn't be sure. They take my blood pressure and send me to the waiting room. I was bleeding a little bit, just from the tiny little specks of glass that had hit me, but they didn't clean me up or anything. Whatever, I figured I'd get in to see the doc soon and would get cleaned up then. Then we sat. For six hours.
It was one of those things where the beginning went so quickly, and everyone seemed so concerned, that I kept thinking, "Any minute now, I'll get to see a doctor and they'll check on the Donger." In the meantime, we got to experience the best the ER has to offer. From an entire family waiting with one guy (he was in a wheelchair, but I don't know what was wrong with him), who were having what seemed to me more like a party than an ER visit, to a group of rowdy teenagers that included a very loud, obnoxious girl who apparently lost a tooth while messing around with friends and exclaimed over and over, "I'm the only one who's bleedin' why I got to wait!" I felt like asking her how she lost the tooth ... maybe from one of the blocks of concrete that she and her friends had been throwing at passing cars? The way I was feeling, I probably would have shot her, too, just out of annoyance. Good thing I don't have a gun, I guess. We were also treated to a lovely older, fat woman (I'm not just being mean, she wasn't just overweight), whose knee was swollen for some reason. She didn't want to be there, because she had come in when she had fallen the week before (it was the third time in a week that she had fallen), and had seen a doctor with long hair, who said that she was fine. But now her knee was swollen and she was in excruciating pain, and didn't that mean that she wasn't fine? So, she didn't want to be there, but if she had to be there, she didn't want to see Dr. Longhair again, because he didn't know what he was talking about, and her husband should just go home and get some sleep because she didn't want to deal with him if he didn't sleep, and he should send their son to pick her up in the morning because she was sure she'd be there all night, and "What time is it? I can't be here all night, I know they're going to keep me waiting. If I have to see that Dr. Longhair again, I'm going to file a complaint. Why don't you go home and go to bed? I'll wait until 2am and if I'm still waiting I'm going to go home. What are you here for? How long have you been waiting? I'm not going to wait that long, if I have to wait that long I'm going to go home. I'll give it until 3am, then I'm going home..."
That was pretty much the end of my rope. It was probably the only time in my life where I've closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep in order to avoid eye contact with a stranger. I wasn't even worried about seeming rude. On the upside, it did give me a chance to practice relaxation techniques for labor — tuning out everything that's going on around me and relaxing all the muscles in my body.
So, I tuned her out ... mostly. I was getting increasingly more uncomfortable, but that's understandable, considering it was now 4am, and I hadn't slept, or eaten, or had anything to drink. They finally called me back into triage (The fat woman was still waiting. She was going to give it until 4:30, then she was going home.), they took my blood pressure and said, "Okay, you're free to go." Umm. Excuse me? I waited for six hours to have my blood pressure taken twice?
I said, "What about the baby, are you going to check him out?"
The nurse said, "Well, you're not in any pain, you're not having contractions, so it's not about the baby."
I said, "That's the whole reason I'm here. I know I'm fine, I wouldn't have come if I wasn't pregnant." By this point, I was crying, out of exhaustion, frustration, disbelief.
She said, "I'm not allowed to send you upstairs to labor and delivery unless you're complaining of pain or contractions."
I said, "Well, I'm certainly uncomfortable. My pelvis feels heavy and my lower back hurts." I know for a fact that these are both signs of preterm labor, and should have sent off warning bells. I was feeling those things, but I wasn't worried about going into labor I was just trying to get my baby checked out.
She said, "Well all pregnant women have lower back pain." Uh, yeah, but those who have just been through a traumatic event might have it for another reason ... ya think?
I finally said, "Fine, I'm having contractions that feel like Braxton Hicks." (These are sort of practice contractions, women get them when their uterus starts warming up for labor, but they're not anything to worry about. Remember that episode of Friends?)
She said, "Okay, I'll send you upstairs, but we have to get our stories straight, what do you want me to tell them?" As if we had to lie to get me, a woman who was 7 months pregnant, obviously shaken up and uncomfortable, seen on the labor and delivery floor after a block of concrete had been thrown at her.
So, she told her lie, and they finally sent me upstairs, where the nurse, when she heard what happened, asked, "So, did you go home and then start having contractions and come back?" I told her, "No, I'm not in any real pain, so they kept me downstairs for the last six hours. I had to insist on coming up here." She was suitably appalled and angry. Another nurse told me she'd been on the phone with the ER, supervisors, etc., reaming out everyone who had any contact with me and didn't send me directly upstairs. Apparently L&D had no idea I was down there, and it was NOT their policy to keep pregnant women in the ER for any reason. I guess it would have been small comfort if something was actually wrong with the Donger.
But as it turns out, everything was fine (really, I knew it was, I just wanted reassurance, and was following my Dr.'s advice to go to the ER if something like that happens). I did get a number of tests, and a third ultrasound, because the glass that sprayed me actually penetrated my sweater to give me some scrapes on my belly. So, you know how you don't really comprehend stuff during an accident? They just wanted to make sure that I really didn't get hit and just not realize it, so they did the ultrasound to check for placental abruption (where a trauma makes the placenta unattach from the wall of the uterus, a serious emergency that would have meant I'd probably have to deliever the Donger that day). But he was fine.
I was, however, having contractions. But, like I told the triage nurse when I first walked into the ER, I didn't know what they felt like, so I didn't know I was having them. Basically, I was severely dehydrated, which happens to me fairly easily. (Remember those 12 glasses of water I have to drink every day?) And I was exhausted and stressed (duh).
They pumped two bags of fluid into me via an IV to stop the contractions and we got to go home around 11am. I have to say, that after all the trouble with the ER, the L&D staff was fantastic, and I felt well cared for. I even got to nap for about an hour while they were monitoring me, which was nice.
All this really goes to show the importance of being a consumer of your own health care, I think. That's something that we're learning about in the childbirth class we're taking (I'll write more about it later). Basically, yes, doctors and nurses want to do what's best for you, and they will take care of you. But sometimes something gets in the way — bureaucracy, miscommunication, whatever — and you have to be prepared to ask for what you know you need. If I had gone in there and said, "I'd like to be hooked up to a fetal monitor because I'm concerned about my baby," and not just blindly thought, well, I'll get in to see a doctor any time now, I might have gotten the treatment I needed, sooner. Like my doctor said when I told him about it (he's not affiliated with the hospital where we went to the ER, so he didn't hear about it until my next appointment), if something had been wrong, six hours would have been too late to do anything about it, probably.
So, that's my big thing. Whew. I've got that written about now, so hopefully I can keep you all entertained with the mundane, day-to-day happenings of this pregnancy (which is almost over, by the way).
Belly button update: Yes, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it's an outie. I can't really see it, because it's on the underside of my very large belly, but if I contort myself and pull up on my skin, I can tell it's definitely popped. Contrary to popular belief, though, just because the turkey timer has popped doesn't mean that what's in the oven is done. I just hope he doesn't stay in too long and come out all dried out and tasteless.