Last night I sat down to write my funniest, wittiest post EVER (I’m absolutely sure of this) and then I started bleeding.
Like a lot.
My doctor told me to come to the hospital immediately. My husband was already on his way into the city for a night shift at work so he headed for the hospital and I drove myself. Luckily, my dad was visiting and available to stay with our girls.
The entire drive I sucked Tootsie Pops hoping the sugar would make the babies move so I would know they were ok. Then I would hopefully stop crying and panicking. It did not seem to work or maybe I was just too focused on crying and panicking.
As soon as I got there, the doctors hooked me up to the fetal monitors and I heard two sweet, perfect heartbeats.
I stopped panicking.
What the hell had happened? It had been such an amazing afternoon. I had taken Dylan and Summer to the beach for a couple hours. The girls loved it.
Yes, that’s my belly in the picture (not a beach ball). By the way – if you don’t like being stared at, don’t go to the beach when you’re 8 months pregnant with twins.
And just a few hours later, I found myself at the hospital. The doctors wouldn’t let me drink anything or get up to go to the bathroom which is pretty much the same as torturing a pregnant woman.
Let me assure you there is nothing sexier than blood and bedpans.
I never did use that bedpan. I convinced one of the nurses to let me use the bathroom.
And when I wasn’t peeing, I was reading.