Third Time is No Charm.

Well I'm back in the hospital, for the third time, and it's not the nice one with wi-fi. No, it's the old one without wi-fi, and it looks like I'll be in for a good long time. (Nothing like typing my posts on my phone's keyboard!)..

I'm still clinging to the small possibility that the good docs will break with custom and let me go home tomorrow, as my situation is somewhat borderline. It's not a full previa, and I live close by, both facts that make the possibility of “the big bleed” (a) less likely, and (b) less dire if it were to happen.
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But honestly, in this day and age of hyper-litigation and medical malpractice cases gone wild, who's going to sign their medical-degreed name to my discharge papers?
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Probably no one.
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Boo hoo.
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But, as one of my lovely nurses said to me yesterday, “things change around here all the time,” so even the decision to keep me here until I deliver is not a given. I can keep on hoping that as my belly expands it drags the placenta along with it, or that they get sick of me and kick me out, or that I win the lottery and can hire a private nurse for my home (the challenge here, of course, is getting out to buy the damn lottery card).
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See? Lots of options. No need to panic about day after day after day after day of mass produced meals, shared showers, repeatedly interrupted sleep, and seeing my kids in hour-long intervals.
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Right?
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Right?
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Yeah, right.