My blood pressure was 128/80 this morning. And here I thought we’d have a repeat of my ah-mah-zing 107 from two weeks ago. Not so my friends. My fluctuating blood pressure has earned me weekly visits to the doctor, complete with a restful twenty minutes of fetal monitoring and a weekly ultrasound. Yeah!
What? Am I using sarcasm to cover up the screech of fear that’s crawling up my back? Why, yes… Yes, I am.
Part of me is okay – I know my daughter is fine. I’ve seen it. I’ve heard it. I have terribly aggressive doctors who are making sure I’m healthy, that she’s healthy, and are all about the monitoring. K is keeping me company and making me laugh through it all. I have insurance. Why, then, am I so tense?
Because it’s my baby. It’s my body. And oh-holy-hell, I cannot be screwing up my daughter already.
The plus side of this – once a week I get 20 uninterrupted minutes with my daughter. In a small, quiet room (with a recliner, no less) I hold a small joystick-like thing and mash it every time the baby moves. It’s rare that I get to focus that much on one thing. It’s just me and C^3. It’s sort of lovely.
There’s no preclampsia. I’m back on track size wise, despite two weeks of major weight gain. My blood pressure isn’t bed-rest worthy. I’m still going to Chicago next week, and I even have a doctor’s note with a smiley face.
What is it about writing that helps me lay all this tension down? I dunno, but I feel a lot better already.