I'm finally in my lovely green hospital gown, hooked up to multiple monitors and a saline drip. The nurse has given me a tiny pill that should get this party started. Let's do this.
I've got a contraction monitor strapped to my belly that produces a tiny seismograph print-out every time I have a contraction. I'm having small ones already; I feel a couple of larger ones, and I marvel at the tiny mountain that appears on the monitor. It's happening!
The baby's heartbeat is whooshing in my ear, a constant white noise that is easy to tune out at this point.
Jimmie brings the rest of our overnight stuff to the room, including my bag of tablets. I only brought three (five, if you include my Kindles). I didn't want to over pack. Jimmie hands me my iPad; I'm feeling pretty good so far, so it's time to check in on Facebook and let everyone know what's going on.
I've just about gotten the iPad connected to the wifi when the nurse comes back in the room. She says she needs me to roll over on my side, and she starts propping me up with pillows. Ok, whatever. I'm still looking at my iPad, wondering why it's taking so long to connect.
Another nurse comes in. She tells me to roll over to the other side instead. Meanwhile, the first nurse is moving the heartbeat monitor on my belly. I'm starting to pay attention.
A third nurse now. "Is that real?" she asks. Now I'm scared. I hand my iPad to Jimmie, and I wait for someone to tell me what's going on. "Yeah, it's real," the first nurse replies.
Now I have an O2 pulse monitor on my finger and an oxygen mask on my face. No one is talking to me, no one is telling me what is wrong, but it's obvious that something serious is happening. "It's only been 15 minutes since I gave her the pill," the nurse is saying.
Finally, I realize that I can hear the heartbeat again. It hadn't registered to me that the heartbeat was missing until it was audible again. The first nurse waits for a minute to be sure that it's steady, and then finally explains that the heartbeat had stopped momentarily.
Evidently, that burst of contractions that I had watched with interest had severely disturbed the baby. It didn't like being squished so much. As a precaution, the doctor on call decides that we will skip the next dose to make sure we don't cause the same problem again. If it does happen again, an alarm will sound at the nurses' desk; interestingly enough, no alarm sounds in our room for that situation.
The first nurse assures me that the baby is fine; she says that she's sure many babies do the same thing with the first contractions, but since we don't monitor all babies, we just don't know how common it is. She leaves, and I concentrate on breathing.
Another nurse enters the room and starts asking me questions about the baby. I answer her, but I have no recollection of what she's asking me. She seems somewhat oblivious to the fact that I'm in a full-blown panic attack.
Finally, it's calm in the room again, except for me continuing to shake with the letdown of adrenaline. I can't sleep. I feel that I can't stop listening to the heartbeat again, or else it will stop. Jimmie offers me my iPad, but I refuse to take it. I've now associated the iPad with one of the most frightening experiences of my life. I've consciously decided not to touch it until this is all over. I know how silly it is, but it's something I have control over, and I've suddenly realized just how little control I have over this entire situation.
Later, Jimmie tells me that the bassinet is still on and warm. Still? Yes, apparently there had been another nurse in the room preparing the baby station for an immediate birth. I'm grateful that I didn't notice that at the time. I would have completely lost it knowing how serious the situation was.
And it's only been a couple of hours since we arrived.