The next 72 hours passed and I hadn't gone into labour. She was hanging on in there. Everybody began to relax. They now said that the chances of going into labour were getting less and less. I was told stories about ladies that had managed to get to over 30 weeks, some even full term. The day after I was admitted I was told that I would be an inpatient for the forseeable, basically until my baby was born. It's a strange feeling; wishing to stay in hospital for as long as possible, but I knew that the longer I was there, the more chance my baby had of surviving. So I pretty much made myself at home; I was transferred into a side room and came and went from the ward and hospital as I pleased. Ian and I would venture out for lunch or to the park if I felt up to it and we started to get our hopes up that our baby might actually stay put for at least another 4 weeks. Looking back I guess this was a bit naive but what did we have if we didn't have hope?
The following Friday, a week after I had been admitted, I had an appointment with Professor Robson for a scan and a repeat MRI. I wandered over to the fetal medicine unit in my unsightly compression stockings and we sat in the now familiar fetal medicine waiting room. How I longed for a pregnancy where you didn't have to come here and you could just go to the antenatal clinic next door. I had many moments like this, moments of total despair where I just wanted to scream at the world, "Why me?! Why my baby?!" But Tilly was doing her bit, so I continued to do mine and I tried to stay positive, for her.
We were called into the scanning room and the Prof admitted that he was surprised at how well Tilly was doing. It felt like she was beginning to prove him wrong. He now said that I had to get to 27 weeks to give her any chance of survival. This was just 2 weeks away. He even toyed with the idea of letting me go home for a few days. I was used to the way he carried out his scans now; his odd facial expressions, his prolonged pauses and his folded arms. He sat back in his chair, arms folded and as he looked over the top of his glasses at us, he told me that there was no chance I'd be going home. Previously in the week, if labour had started then Tilly was lying in a position that made a "normal" delivery entirely possible. She was however now lying transverse which changed everything and basically meant that her only way out was by classic c-section. He also said that although she was showing no signs of heart failure, her heart was now beginning to look enlarged and her lungs, small. He put this down to the fact the heart is a muscle. It was having to work harder to pump the blood, not only around her little body but around the tumour as well. He said it wasn't a deterioration as such but an inevitable reaction to the tumour. He'd always said that the worst case scenario would be having to have a classic c-section and a baby that didn't survive. This was now becoming a very real possibility. The risks he had told me about 4 weeks ago were now becoming the reality.
I broke down in tears, barely able to hold myself up as we made our way down to the MRI scanner. I was beginning to give up. I didn't know how much more of this I could take. I've never been a particularly anxious person, I've worked in hospitals and I've had MRI scans before. But that day as I laid down on that scanner, strapped down and unable to move, I began to move through that tunnel and I felt like I was being suffocated. I struggled to breathe, streams of tears rolled down my face and I shouted for them to stop. I couldn't get out quick enough. Still strapped to the bed, I sobbed. I told them I couldn't do it. Ian thankfully was allowed in the room and tried to reassure me, as did the wonderful staff. I eventually calmed down and they gave me an eyemask and played music in my ears and asked if I wanted to try again. I just tried to focus on the fact that I was doing this for Tilly and 40 minutes later we were done.
We wandered back to the ward and the staff met us with expectant smiles. They knew that it wasn't good news seconds after seeing my face. I remember that evening Ian saying to me that he hated so much to see the sadness in my eyes. It felt like a long time now since my eyes had shown anything but sadness.
The following Friday, a week after I had been admitted, I had an appointment with Professor Robson for a scan and a repeat MRI. I wandered over to the fetal medicine unit in my unsightly compression stockings and we sat in the now familiar fetal medicine waiting room. How I longed for a pregnancy where you didn't have to come here and you could just go to the antenatal clinic next door. I had many moments like this, moments of total despair where I just wanted to scream at the world, "Why me?! Why my baby?!" But Tilly was doing her bit, so I continued to do mine and I tried to stay positive, for her.
We were called into the scanning room and the Prof admitted that he was surprised at how well Tilly was doing. It felt like she was beginning to prove him wrong. He now said that I had to get to 27 weeks to give her any chance of survival. This was just 2 weeks away. He even toyed with the idea of letting me go home for a few days. I was used to the way he carried out his scans now; his odd facial expressions, his prolonged pauses and his folded arms. He sat back in his chair, arms folded and as he looked over the top of his glasses at us, he told me that there was no chance I'd be going home. Previously in the week, if labour had started then Tilly was lying in a position that made a "normal" delivery entirely possible. She was however now lying transverse which changed everything and basically meant that her only way out was by classic c-section. He also said that although she was showing no signs of heart failure, her heart was now beginning to look enlarged and her lungs, small. He put this down to the fact the heart is a muscle. It was having to work harder to pump the blood, not only around her little body but around the tumour as well. He said it wasn't a deterioration as such but an inevitable reaction to the tumour. He'd always said that the worst case scenario would be having to have a classic c-section and a baby that didn't survive. This was now becoming a very real possibility. The risks he had told me about 4 weeks ago were now becoming the reality.
I broke down in tears, barely able to hold myself up as we made our way down to the MRI scanner. I was beginning to give up. I didn't know how much more of this I could take. I've never been a particularly anxious person, I've worked in hospitals and I've had MRI scans before. But that day as I laid down on that scanner, strapped down and unable to move, I began to move through that tunnel and I felt like I was being suffocated. I struggled to breathe, streams of tears rolled down my face and I shouted for them to stop. I couldn't get out quick enough. Still strapped to the bed, I sobbed. I told them I couldn't do it. Ian thankfully was allowed in the room and tried to reassure me, as did the wonderful staff. I eventually calmed down and they gave me an eyemask and played music in my ears and asked if I wanted to try again. I just tried to focus on the fact that I was doing this for Tilly and 40 minutes later we were done.
We wandered back to the ward and the staff met us with expectant smiles. They knew that it wasn't good news seconds after seeing my face. I remember that evening Ian saying to me that he hated so much to see the sadness in my eyes. It felt like a long time now since my eyes had shown anything but sadness.
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