Life's Not Fair, Exhibit A

Lately, I've read a few blogs of women who are yearning for children, whether through adoption or through infertility treatment. I remember well back when I was enduring the same sort of emotions. That feeling of not being in control of your own family-building, the helplessness in the face of shitty circumstances just sucks. 'Cause see these women? They will be great moms when the opportunity arises. So, thinking about their potential greatness and their frustration made me think about all the instances of life's unfairness. Thusly, I've gotta get it out of my system. We'll start with:

Exhibit A

At around 30 weeks of pregnancy, it was discovered at my routine live baby check that I was having pre-term labor (PTL), with fairly strong contractions at an alarmingly (to Dr. W) rate. This was news to me, as I felt nothing (did not know previously that one could have PTL and not realize it/feel a damn thing). So, was safely ensconced in hospital and whereby was given plenty of fluids and terbutaline to stop the labor that I didn't know I was having. The aforementioned terbutaline then proceeded to wreak much havoc upon my blood pressure (which was already slightly weirding out) and Dr. W. and Dr. V., after much wringing of hands, decided that I would need to be held hostage at the hospital at least for overnight.

When you're a recovering infertile suffering from PTL and the resulting excessive DBTs*, a smallish community hospital is the worst place to be. Not only is there no NICU, but around here, there is also Dr. W (espousing that you can't be delivered here and that your baby will be doomed if he is delivered now in this hospital at this time and that Dr. W will certainly not be a party to this madness, so out of luck there). However, what I hadn't realized beforehand is that there is little to no sound proofing. But what does that mean, you might ask gentle reader. What it means is:

There I was. Lying in my plasticky bed, hooked up to the terbutaline, having to listen to every goddamned laboring moaning groaning woman in the entire fucking hospital. (See? Proof positive that a pregnancy simply does not banish the bitterness or self-centeredness potentially caused by infertility.) And newborn babies wailing. All the while compulsively thinking about various ways that terbutaline, prematurity, high blood pressure, pre-eclampsia, etc could otherwise harm my own precious baby. Then obsessing about whether my baby would actually make it to the "newborn crying" part. And sweet Jesus gay, the incessant volume of the moaning and groaning and panting and screaming was growing louder every blessed minute. Make it stop, please please for the love of God please make it stop! It was worse (way, way worse) than spending the night in a cheap motel. I was like an unwitting voyeur in the world's weirdest, longest porno flick starring laboring pregnant chicks. But I digress.

Anyway, this particular incidence of unfairness started the next morning. For the duration of the night, I'd had my room to myself, in body if not in spirit. But the dawn (I do not exaggerate when I say dawn) brought a roommate. Roomie was there for an induction. She was hugely pregnant and complaining longly and loudly to anyone who will listen. Naturally, I'm feeling sorry for myself and wondering/praying that Please, Please let me get to the hugeness stage, to the large and in charge, full-term-live-baby-yielding point.

Roomie is rather, ahem, rough looking. And I don't mean "rough" in a holier-than-thou way, or in a snobby way or in a "fallen upon hard times" way, but in a "she looked psychotic" and "I was scared to share a toilet with her" way. She also has her two daughters (equally bad-ass looking) in tow. Her two teenage daughters (and isn't this a school day for fuck's sake?!). Her two pregnant teenaged daughters. Her two pregnant teenaged daughters who are whining longly and loudly about how they hate being pregnant. And happily, in turn, her two pregnant teenage daughters each have toddler child of their own in tow. Roomie also brings along a copy of. her. restraining. order. For her Baby Daddy. And guess what? Blonde Pregnant Teenaged Daughter has a restraining order for her Baby Daddy (ya never know when you're going to need it)! This amusement never ends! Now, I fleetingly consider getting a restraining order against my Baby Daddy for leaving me here alone to endure this torture. But, alas, he's taking care of the kids and gainfully employed, so I decide against it.

At long last, Roomie is hooked up to the monitor and labor-inducing-drug-administering ensues. After a few hours (days? weeks?), the nurse returns and Roomie is told that she can go home, and given instructions as to if/when/why she should return to the hospital and that if her labor doesn't progress, she will repeat this same procedure in two days. The nurse exits my own personal hell, I mean, our room and Roomie and Daughters start to gather up their paraphernalia.

As they leave the room, I hear them planning to stop by the local bar on their way home. Since Roomie will deliver soon, they figure there's no way a few beers can hurt the baby at this late stage.

No, they're not kidding.

How is this fair? Why do women like this get pregnant completely without difficulty or stress? And their pregnancies are seemingly easy and uncomplicated, in spite of their own reckless disregard for their babies? Why aren't they the unlucky ones? Why not them? I don't get it.



*DBTs=Dead Baby Thoughts