I ended my last entry with the one thing that matters most: the good health of the twins. But a few days later (it's Monday), I'm not ashamed to admit that a few other things matter, too. Like me. And I'm not doing too well in the hospital.
I'm sure you'll think I'm an ungrateful crybaby — after all, how could I complain after I thought I might lose my babies?? — but I have to say, it's pretty tough being here. There's a lot of things about the hospital I could complain about: the food (though this is the least of my worries); the unclean bathrooms; the highly uncomfortable beds; the fact that the nurses wake you up (that is, if you ever were able to fall asleep in the first place) every couple of hours during the night to take your temperature and check your blood pressure; the gowns that only cover half your body and twist around your waist in bed; the constant IV you have to have in your wrist that burns and itches; the constant shots and blood draws; the roommates who have visitors all day and talk on their cell phones all night; and the doctors who make their rounds, seriously, at 5:00 a.m., I think because they know their patients will be too groggy and surprised at that hour to ask any difficult questions.
But all of that is actually irrelevant. There's something undefinably depressing about the hospital. Lying in bed all day, staring at the drab walls, listening to your roommate moan, and knowing you're not allowed to leave or go outside (or even sit by an open window) is highly demoralizing. And it has gotten to me. The more I try not to cry, the more I do. My mother has been at the hospital every day and I find myself snapping at her and tearing up angrily at every kind gesture she attempts to make toward me. It's as if the moment I stepped foot in that emergency room, I fell into a deep depression. I've dealt with depression for many years in the past, and the hollow, hopeless, black-inside feelings I knew all too well took up residence in my soul so quickly, it's as if they never left. My guts are filled with tar.
And it's only day 4! How weak am I? Very, I think. But the doctors have said they're not sure when I can go home and that I might have to stay until I deliver, which could be five weeks or more. I beg them to let me leave.