It’s hard to believe it has nearly been two weeks since we had Ames. He’s 11 days old as I’m writing this, although for me it might as well be 12 days since I went into labor on Saturday morning.
It had started rather simply. My sister texted me from her room across the hall, asking if I wanted to grab some breakfast at Chick-fil-a while the boys (AKA our husbands) were at the men’s Bible study. I was game, but when I rolled out of bed at 9 AM that morning I noticed that where I had been laying on the bed was a bit damp, as were my shorts. My doctor had informed me that I would know when my water broke because liquid would not stop coming (TMI?) and indeed it wasn’t. I quickly changed and walked down the stairs where my sister was already dressed and gave the awkward “I think my water broke” statement. We both just stared at each other a bit, not quite sure what to do.
“I suppose I should call Colt” finally came from my mouth, and I did. Did he answer? Nope. The thought I’m nine months pregnant, you answer when I call you! shot through my head. He texted me that he couldn’t talk so I texted him.
Apparently, he had just joked to the other men that my water could break any second, so yes, I blame him.
We scrambled to throw everything we needed into the car, bringing all of our wedding clothes because I was determined to make it to our best friend’s wedding even if my water had broken—my contractions hadn’t started as far as I could tell, so I could handle a 20-minute ceremony.
I filled the hour’s drive to Fredericksburg with calls to multiple doctors, hospitals, and my mom. See, the doctor that delivered my baby was my third doctor during this pregnancy (one confirmed, one was in France, and then one to deliver), so I needed to get some information from varying sources. The doctor was in Stephenville—nearly 4 hours away from San Antonio, but he had told us that if I went into labor while in San Antonio to try to make it to the hospital in Fredericksburg (he used to practice there and highly recommended it).
We arrived at the hospital and I was quickly taken and hooked up to monitors (after putting on that awkward hospital gown of course). They had to test to see if my water had actually broken or if the little alien inside of me had simply delivered a massive kick to my bladder (I looked at my nurse and thought this is no “accident” I assure you). If it revealed my water hadn’t broken I could leave, if it hadn’t, well I would be stuck in the hospital even though I wasn’t feeling any contractions (but was having them every 30 minutes according to the machines).
Colton had popped out to grab some snacks, it was around 11 at this point and we had both been on an adrenaline rush at this point, although he had had breakfast, me? I had managed to scarf down a banana and snack bar (the nurse did give me Jell-O, which got brownie points with me). While he was out she asked me some routine questions, including “Do you feel like anyone is abusing or harming you?”, all I could think was don’t be sarcastic, don’t be sarcastic, don’t be sarcastic.
So sure enough, my water had broken. Some will say it was because I did too much to help decorate for the wedding the night before, others would suggest that it was caused by excessive laughter during a game of Curses, the bride says it’s because it’s my child and therefore a brat who would come on her wedding day. Whatever the cause, I was officially not allowed to leave the hospital, which meant no wedding, which meant I was pouting like a toddler and tried to work any angle I could to leave for the wedding (I could totally make the ceremony and be back in time to deliver right?).
Our nurse returned with another option, I could leave BUT not for the wedding (I think I was more upset about this than the bride; she was more upset that she couldn’t be at the hospital when I delivered). We could, if we wanted, sign an AMA (against medical advice), drive to Stephenville (3 hours away), and deliver at the hospital in Stephenville with my doctor (and hopefully not on the side of the road by ourselves). She later revealed that this idea came from another nurse, as she was against it because we were “just so cute” so she wanted us to deliver there. After a conversation with the on-call doctor while another RN talked to my doctor on the phone, we decided to hit the road and make the drive. Although, after we left we regretted it a bit—the nurses were super sweet and requested that we inform them the minute we arrived at the hospital (or just call them every hour until we arrived to let them know we were OK).