Getting to the hospital room had been a challenge. I was 30-weeks pregnant, battling preeclampsia and ready to drop. The risk I’d deliver my daughter prematurely was as high as my blood pressure. And that was the best-case scenario.
(By Eve Hinson, originally published Summer/Fall 2009)
After I had changed into a gown and climbed into the air-pressurized bed, I wanted to sleep but there was too much commotion. It didn’t matter. I was light-headed with relief.
The nurse and her aide orbited like satellites while Jim sat in a chair, out of the way. Between the two an IV was inserted, a pressure cuff wrapped and a baby monitor strapped. Circling intermittently was a tech to draw blood, a woman delivering dinner, and two giggly girls with a portable ultrasound machine to measure fetal growth and amniotic fluid. There were others, but I was too spaced to…
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