I had a text message from my girl yesterday while she was working at home and I was at my dayjob. She told me she had been having pains and to be warned that we may have to go to hospital. As I work two minutes' walk away from where we currently live, I rushed home at the first available opportunity to check on her. She was in a lot of pain and was feeling sick, but had talked to NHS direct and a midwife and was apparently going through a normal part of the third trimester.
If the pain persisted or got worse, we were to go to hospital and get it checked out. I kissed her and hugged her and returned to work, only to get a phone call half an hour later from her, very distraught, as the pain had indeed increased. I rushed home again, and good friends of ours jumped in with an offer of a lift to hospital.
While our friends were on their way with the car (as we don't currently have one), we hurriedly got ready for a hospital visit, even going so far as to take the birthing bag we had already assembled for just such emergencies (birthing bags are a great idea folks – look them up and what you should take for when it happens to you – they're essential). Soon we were whisked away to the hospital we have chosen to be our son's birthplace to get my lady and our wriggling offspring checked out.
Upon arrival at the hospital, we discovered a bizarre welcome party – about two hundred people rammed up against each other outside the hospital entrance. A fire alarm had been triggered, and everyone was waiting for the all-clear to be sounded. Thankfully, there were medical staff on hand who were very helpful in rushing us and our precious cargo through the crowd and into the building so we could head to Antenatal Triage and have my lady tested to see if she was in labour.
The hospital was deserted, and me being a fan of horror movies, my thoughts turned to Halloween II and Resident Evil. It was more than creepy, and our rushed footsteps matched our thunderous heartbeats in volume as we went deeper into its labyrinthine corridors.
As we made our way to triage, we both prayed that we weren't about to meet our son just yet, as there's two months to go! Once we were seen by a doctor and a nurse, tests began. We held hands tightly and I tried to reassure my lady through her pain and the waves of sickness, and we both waited with concern for the doctor's findings.
Thankfully, those findings were that my girl is suffering from Braxton-Hicks, i.e. practice contractions. Baby is still where he should be and there are no signs of him attempting to make an entrance just yet. This is most reassuring, as his premature arrival is one of our biggest fears. It's too early. Too much is going on. It's not time yet. There is so much still to prepare.
We are most grateful to the doctor and the nurse who tended to us, and hope it's a good long while before we have to see them for the real thing. On the upside, it meant that we knew roughly how long it would take to get to hospital and to where we needed to be when the time does come. Since this happened, my girl has still been very unwell, with sickness and discomfort, but we are told this will pass. I'm glad all is relatively well, but am approaching the coming weeks and months with caution. I'm not afraid to admit that I am scared. I want it known. I want people to know how much I care. I want all to be well. Yesterday was scary, but necessary.
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