Anonymous

31 weeks pregnant.
Placental abruption.
Admitted to antepartum.
Counting every single day.

If this feels familiar, you’re not alone.

I was 31 weeks pregnant when I woke up in the middle of the night with a sharp, constant pain in my abdomen. At first I thought maybe the baby had just moved into a strange position, but within a short time I noticed bleeding.

My husband drove me to the hospital while I tried to convince myself it was probably nothing.

After an ultrasound and several exams, the doctor sat down beside my bed and explained that I had experienced a placental abruption. Part of the placenta had started to separate from the uterus.

The plan was simple but terrifying: stay pregnant as long as it was safe for both me and the baby. I was admitted to the antepartum unit that night. Hospital life quickly settled into a routine.

Around 4:00 a.m., the door would quietly open and a nurse would come in to check my vitals. Blood pressure. Temperature. Oxygen monitor clipped onto my finger. Sometimes they would draw blood if labs were needed that morning.

It became my new alarm clock, my new routine, 4…8…12 checks. Later that day, they would place the fetal monitors around me. Two round sensors held in place with stretchy bands. One tracked the baby’s heartbeat. The other monitored contractions.

For about an hour I would lie still listening to the fast, steady rhythm of my baby’s heart while the machine printed long strips of paper beside the bed. Those strips became so important. Every little change made my heart race until a nurse reassured me everything looked okay.

Because of the abruption, I was on strict activity restrictions. Most days were spent either lying in bed or sitting in the chair next to it, moving between the two just to change positions. The doctors wanted me resting as much as possible. I watched a lot of TV. I tried reading books, but my mind wandered between anxiety and fear. I downloaded puzzle apps on my phone. Sometimes I just stared out the window watching the weather change. Unfortunately, where the antepartum floor is, it was mostly just a brick wall that I had to stare at outside.

Hospital time moves differently. You wait for the doctors to round. You wait for the next monitoring session. You wait to see if there will be more bleeding. And every small cramp or tightening immediately made my heart race. This was my first baby, and I couldn’t help but think about all the things I was missing. There was no nesting. No finishing the nursery. No baby shower with friends and family. The normal anticipation and excitement leading up to birth had been replaced with hospital monitors, doctor updates, and counting days.

At the same time, I often felt guilty for even feeling that loss. Many of the families around me had children at home. I would hear them on the phone saying goodnight to their kids or crying and trying to explain why they couldn’t come home yet. Seeing that made me realize how incredibly hard this experience was for so many families in different ways.

In the afternoons the doctors would come by to check on us. They checked the monitoring strips, asked about pain, and asked the same question every day: “Any bleeding today?” If the answer was no, it felt like a huge victory. Stable became the best word you could hear.

Evenings were the hardest. After visitors left and the floor became quiet, the reality of being there yet another day would sink in again. I missed normal life more than I expected. My own bed. Walking outside. Simple things like cooking dinner or sitting on the couch or even doing my own laundry.

But the nurses helped more than they probably realized. Sometimes they stayed an extra minute talking while adjusting the monitors or bringing medication. Those small conversations helped break up the long days. 

Every morning I woke up with the same goal: Stay pregnant one more day.

One more day for the baby to grow. One more day for the lungs to develop. One more day closer to a safer delivery. At 34 weeks, the bleeding returned suddenly and the doctors made the decision that it was time to deliver. My baby arrived early and spent some time in the NICU getting bigger and stronger each day.

Looking back, the weeks in antepartum were some of the most uncertain and emotional days of my life. But they also showed me something I will never forget.

Antepartum is something you can’t truly understand unless you’ve lived it. The waiting. The fear. The quiet hope that grows stronger with every passing day. Because in antepartum, every day matters. And sometimes the greatest strength comes from simply making it through one more day.