Look at that

I talk to her this morning, and things are looking up. The contractions have spread out, and really only arrive--with a vengeance--when she gets up to shower or move about the room for one reason or another. She watches bad TV; I show up with hugs and kisses and magazines. The doctor hasn't been in for quite some time given the blitz Labor & Delivery has received in the past few days, but we take this as a good sign. (Doctors, in hospitals at least, seem to rather reliably track the number and severity of problems--more doctors usually = more problems.)

I'm there for a little while, and she encourages me to go home. Nothing much is happening, anyway, she says. The second shot of steroids to speed up the development of the baby's lungs will come in about an hour or so, and then about another 24 hrs is needed for the substance to do its business. We presume that at the outside, best case, she'll call this bed home at least until tomorrow, though we have no real reason for our optimism given the first go around with our son. But still.

Interesting picture: My wife, when nature calls, needs to pass about 15 feet to the bathroom in her room. She's got an IV and two--wait three-- monitors hooked up to her. Accordingly, she unplugs two cables and loops them over her neck like the nurse showed her, unfixes the IV bag from the stand, and pads to the toilet in the slippers I brought her from home. It sounds a bit laborious (pardon the pun)--and is--but with the constant drip into her arm nature is calling often and won't leave a message. She's now expert at the maneuver, so much so that the nurses are impressed and forget her even more. Remember, though, forgetting is good--you need to leave their minds before you can leave their doors.

She wants me to go home so that I can work (instead of, presumably, blog it all out like this, but I can do both I think). So I leave and walk out into the 73-degree NYC day, beautiful as all get out. The hospital is extremely busy on all fronts (the line at the Garden Cafe is simply precarious), and news cameras stalk the fancy revolving doors (Channel 7 "Eyewitness News" reads one camera man's camera and polo shirt). This is the hospital that recently patched Clinton's heart and even took care of the Shah (among others) back when people had heard of him, so they know something about publicity here. We know lots about the inside, and we don't want to know more. Fingers crossed.

If I had to speculate, I'd say that she's coming home soon. Probably not much fun if she is released, though, since she'll no doubt be on rather strict bed rest. But still, one's own bed, and one's own beautiful and talky ("Saw Scoop!") son nearby makes for an easier time on one's side. We'll see, won't we.

My speculation gets moved to a hypothesis and one step closer to fact when I talk to her this evening. I've passed her room telephone number around, and so the first four times I try calling the line's busy. She is loved. When I do get through, she says that she hasn't really had any contractions and that all signs point to labor basically having gone away. The thought. I'll be. Swell. Odds are she will be able to come home tomorrow. Which is to say we might not even need to have the elevators stop on the 6th floor (read: the NICU) at all this time. Whew.

Good night.