Confinement

Sarah Montgomery

Word count 1,408

"We're going to have to admit you," someone in scrubs said, "your water broke. The risk is too high." By now, it was eleven at night, and I hadn't had any dinner.

"Ok," I said. "Overnight?"

"Until the baby is born," she said, with a small shake of the head,

This presence bouncing around inside me, knocking into my bladder and spleen, had just started wiggling in earnest a few weeks before, the familiar rising of bubbles turning into pokes saying hello. Twenty-two weeks out of forty. "I can't stay here for months," I said.

"It's likely to be at any time, maybe a day or two. I'm very sorry."

And so began my confinement.

They told me not to google. I googled. It turns out when your water breaks, it isn't always a dramatic gush like in the movies. Sometimes, like with mine, it can be a slow leak like a balloon a few days after the party. The good news is that it replenishes - although we couldn't know if it would be enough. The bad news is that a hole in the amniotic sac can rapidly turn into infection or hemorrhage that could be life-threatening for both of us, or create a cord prolapse cutting off oxygen to the baby, or lead to early labor. Everything was stable for the moment, but we had to be vigilant for any small change that could signal a problem and stay within moments of an operating room and the neonatal intensive care at all times. Walking might increase the risk, but lying down or sitting all day could mean blood clots. I moved carefully, listening with my whole body for warning signs.

My mother called a close family friend whose mother has what I am told is a powerful prayer chain. My mother swears it got me through my bar exam and got me married at a ripe 37 years old. My mother is an avowed student of Buddhism, but I suppose there are times in life you need to call out the Baptists. They prayed for us.

After a few days, I stopped wearing hospital gowns and put back on my well-worn maternity sweats. I had one window with a giant tree outside. I watched the shimmering summer heat give way to dripping fall. July slowly crept toward September.

The rhythm of the days. The night nurse comes on shift at six and writes her name on the whiteboard. Mask on, blood pressure, temperature, questions. Are you bleeding? No. Any signs of fever? No. Baby moving, ok? Kicking up a storm. Facetime with my one-year-old girl at home. The pandemic is a wall between us. We read books and sing the song I made up when she was a baby. I hope she remembers me. I hope she knows I didn't want to walk out one evening and not come back. She is a new person every few days, and I can't hold her.

I settle in for home renovation shows with tidy endings and books about bakeries. 10PM the nurse comes. Mask on, shots, temperature, blood pressure, ask me the questions: blood, fluid, baby moving? Lower the blinds. Sweet dreams to my husband on the tiny screen. Try to sleep.

Harsh yellow hallway light as the nurse comes in. Find my mask in the bedsheets. Blood pressure, temperature, ask me the questions, fall back asleep.

By 4 or 5 AM if I'm lucky, mask on, pre-rounds with the intern - same questions. No bleeding, no fever, yes it kicked me all night.

Then the resident- same questions. No change, thankfully. A nurse comes in for temperature, blood pressure, asks me the questions. No change. Order breakfast. Update the calendar. How many weeks, how many days pregnant. One more than yesterday. Mask on. Bra, if I care. Walk down the hall for coffee. This is my permitted exercise. I like the doughnut shop blend better than the morning blend that tastes sour as well as stale. I say hi to nurses coming on shift, residents in their blue scrubs and clogs coming through the double doors I can't go through.

Rounds with the specialists around 6AM. I know them now. I know their schedules and where they go on vacations. When they leave for a week, they don't expect to see me again, but here I am. At first, I quiz them about obscure studies I wasn't supposed to research. As the summer wanes, we chat, but I run out of questions. No one knows quite what to say when every expectation has already gone out the window.

The day shift nurse says hello and writes her name on the whiteboard. I already know her name.

I am an insider now. This is my home. The nurses are my aunts, clucking over me and my growing belly. They come by even when I'm not their patient to celebrate the weeks. These are shared wins. They attached my bar-coded wristbands loosely so I could slip them off and leave them on the table. The plastic chafed. I counted the needles. The two steroid shots at the beginning. Now blood thinner twice a day, which increases the risk of hemorrhage but lowers the risk of clots. My sheets are covered with tiny specks of blood, my hips and belly and arms with coin-sized bruises. One of the young perky nurses found a different needle they use on the babies, so it won't hurt as much. Then a blood draw every 72 hours to test my blood type - as if it would change. A new IV location - hooked to nothing now that I finished the antibiotics - every few days, or even up to a week, if it holds. Elbow crook, hand, wrist, arm. My bruised veins protested, and we run out of new spots to put it.

I finish my coffee on Facetime with my daughter, her sleepy face snuggled into my husband's arms as she reaches out to touch the screen.

Around 8 AM, I switch from bed to chair and log on to my work laptop because this is America. I set video backgrounds, so my clients don't know I'm in the hospital. So I can pretend this is normal. A cleaner comes through to take the trash and mop the floor. We smile behind cloth. Yes, I'm still here. They are rooting for me.

10AM mask on, shots, blood pressure, temperature, vitamin, questions. I don't order lunch because my blessed husband works out his anxiety by feeding me. I hear him coming down the hall. I know his steps. He brings peppers from the garden I planted for the nurse who loves spicy food. He brings the air in with him. We both work on our tray tables in our beige chairs. We watch bake-off shows and sports on my laptop. He takes short, fierce naps, sinking into oblivion after long nights and days of solo parenting.

In the afternoon: mask, blood pressure, temperature, questions. A new medical student comes by to practice asking us questions. After lunch, they put the sensors on my belly, and we say hello to the baby. The nurse has to chase the heartbeat around because this kid is always moving. The nurses are delighted by my strong, stubborn, cheeky baby. I am proud of us. Not ready to arrive yet. Stay in there, baby, stay cozy.

When the light starts to tip toward evening, my husband packs up the food containers and my laundry and fills my mini-fridge with yogurts and sparkling water. He leaves to make it home before the daycare closes. As the weeks pass, they pretend he isn't always late - we are always holding on for a few more minutes. We will be back on Facetime soon, reading with the toddler, singing her goodnight song. The very last thing before he leaves, he makes another X on the whiteboard. They slowly march across its worn surface. Our army of days.

Ninety-four days on the carousel. I have a son. Red and squawking. He is statistically impossible. We are surrounded by joy.

The day before Halloween, I walked out into a chilly evening drizzle. The shops were boarded up, bracing for the impending election. My baby was upstairs without me, not yet ready to go home, a tiny celebrity of the maternity ward. I walked slowly, victorious and broken. I could smell the rain.

Sarah is a writer and lawyer who has been published in McSweeney's and Motherly. She lives in the Washington DC area. When not otherwise occupied by work, family, and dog, she is a competitive rower and coach.