This week has been a blur. It all started innocently enough, Husband and I had been celebrating his birthday and setting up the baby furniture that came piling in from friends and relatives over the past ten days or so. We were shopping for baskets at Ross, the most mundane of married life activities, when things suddenly changed.
I lost my breath, and at first thought nothing of it. I loose my breath all the time, and attributed it to sharing my lung space with the baby. Husband got me a chair, and I rested until I felt well enough to keep going. But then it happened again, and this time, it got bad. I couldn't breathe, I was disoriented and could scarcely speak. Husband quickly called Labor & Delivery while I tried to gain some semblance of control over myself. Eventually, we were told to go straight to the E.R.
I loathe being in the E.R., and fought against it with whatever stubbornness I could muster, but even I had to admit, I was a little worried. When we got there, I was given oxygen and an artery blood level test declared I was not getting enough. Doctors got worried, and started talking about a pulmonary embolism. The next twenty-four hours was a hellish circus of tests and IVs and desperately sucking on ice because I wasn’t allowed anything to eat or drink. Eventually, a pulmonary embolism was ruled out, and I was released with a confused bill of health and told to see my OB. Husband and I went to dinner to celebrate what remained of his birthday, feeling shell-shocked and stunned. It had all happened so fast.
Now, the morning after it all, I am sore and bruised up and down my arms and still a little shocked, but so grateful to be home. I’m looking at the mountain of pastel-colored baby laundry that has been waiting patiently to get washed, and thinking about the future. I’m trying not to worry about what my next Labor & Delivery experience will be like.