This is what the seizure box looked like. But it was older, [This week marks the anniversary of my pregnancy saga, so for the next few days I'm going to take some time to reflect on what happened last year and how it's affected me since.]
The on-call doctor was one I’d never seen, and when she called me back, she yelled at me. In a nutshell it went like this: “What is wrong with you? Why didn’t you call earlier? Get to the hospital now! Stat!”
Throughout my pregnancy, I’d worried about the moment I would travel to the hospital for delivery. We live about 35 minutes from the hospital, and my husband worked evenings. I just wasn’t sure who would take me in an emergency. And there I was, not going to the hospital to deliver, but still pretty sure I shouldn’t drive myself 35 minutes in traffic to the hospital.
After calling my husband and parents, they decided, due to where everyone was at the time, my parents would pick me up and Mark would meet us at the hospital. While I waited for my parents, I packed a bag with some extra clothes, a magazine for Mark and toiletries, I gave my cats extra food and water, took a shower and shaved my legs. Just in case, you know.
I checked into the hospital that night and had the painful experience of getting an IV. Painful because nobody could find a vein. I was that puffy. Not that they didn’t try. Oh, they poked and prodded my hands and arms and finally, my neck. Thanks to an hour of work from an anesthetist with steady, cold hands.
At some point that night, a nurse brought a big black case into my room labeled, “Seizures,” and placed it on the counter. Directly across from my bed. All I could do was laugh, because that was probably the least comforting thing someone could have done after telling me that my blood pressure was spiking like crazy and oh, by the way, pre-eclampsia can cause seizures and yes, even death.
Awesome.
