Andrew dropped me at the door to Birralee and I waddled down the hallway continuing to feel like I was peeing constantly. The midwife who greeted me a the desk was the mother of a child I did therapy with last year and greeted me like an old friend. I felt far more at ease with a familar face and it was great as things dragged on over the next few hours to have someone to chat with and catch up, distracting me quite well form a knawing background fear.

I was hooked up to monitor (baby happy and well, and sleeping soundly through the drama), had blood tests for strep as this hadn't been done yet and the midwife did a test to establish whether my waters had actually broken (I didn’t doubt it, I didn't think you could wee constantly for 3 hours) and yes… they confirmed that they had.

A doctor came in to chat to me and told that new hospital protocol required that, given I was less than 36 weeks, I stay for 72 hrs (she grimaced as she told me and rolled her eyes at my friend the midwife - she clearly didn't agree with the person making said protocol!). I was reluctant to stay. I wanted to labour at home. I wanted to avoid intervention. And I know that I could have just said no and left, but felt myself also reluctant to sit around at home and wait… and worry, since they kept repeating that there were more ‘risk factors’ as I was only at 35 weeks. I still didn't fully understand these 'risks'. I had prepared myself for this kind of talk. Arming myself with the true stats and knowledge about so many different possible complications so that nobody could railroad me into interventions through fear of the unknown... but this was the unknown. I didn't research this scenario. For some strange reason, it never even occurred to me that I might go early.
So I stayed. Fearing I was going to be confined to this little room for several days waiting and wondering. Andrew went home to pack the hospital bag and buy me snacks. My sister came in and kept me company. Early afternoon I had a bloody show which the midwife wanted to see for some reason. It's very very odd showing your bloody, gooey pad to an ex client. Awkward to say the least!

By mid afternoon I was bored and restless already and questioning whether I should have agreed to stay. I resolved that I'd stay the night and if nothing was happening by the morning that I'd go home for a while. I was moved into a bed on the ward in a room with no other occupants. Andrew returned (triumphant with some fairly random items from home and a small esky FULL of treats... he shops when he's anxious, and this time seemed to have purchased half the supermarket!) and sat on the bed with me and mucked around, keeping me happy and occupied. He started playing with the bed controls. Quoting Homer Simpson... "bed goes up, bed goes down, bed goes up..."! Raised it as high as it would go (about 1.5 meters!) ... and of course, a midwife walked into the room just as we sat giggling at the top. Fortunately she seemed fairly amused and just left us to it.

At 3 or 4pm I started to get twinges that gradually grew to contractions. By 5:30 they were strong enough that I was hopping off the bed for each one and walking around as they were less intense if I was standing. A midwife warned me to not get too excited. That it could go on like this for days and the more intense they grew, the more horrific a prospect that became. I was managing, but knew that I certainly wasn't going to manage 2 or 3 days of this. I started to time them at 6pm. They were 5-10 minutes apart and varying in length and intensity. I had to tell Andrew not to crack jokes during contractions as I was finding that things were less and less funny the more intense they got.
My sister left to have dinner with Mum and Dad – under strict instructions to not tell them that labour had started - and Andrew fell asleep for a while on the bed. I tried to watch TV but it was very hard to relax. I did notice that when I managed to just concentrate on the TV the contractions intensified... then when I worried, or someone unfamiliar came in the room the contractions then eased off or sometimes disappeared. It was fascinating watching my body react to my mental state.
Andrew woke up and went for a walk up to Box Hill for dinner. I called a friend and chatted to her but had to hang up when a contraction came along as I couldn’t talk anymore.

I was amazed at the feeling and intensity of the contractions. So powerful and indescribable. Amazed that my body was generating such power and I had absolutely not say in it. I was starting to moan during contractions and having to stop pacing and hold onto bench or table and rock my hips at the peak of each one. By 9pm they were coming every 4 – 8 minutes and were getting really strong, but still varying in length, frequency and intensity.

At about 10 staff decided to move me into the labour room. It was a relief to know that they believed that this was really happening and that I wasn't in for several more days of this! The walk down the hall seemed to ramp things up even more. As soon as I got into the room I found myself searching for the right position to cope with each contraction. I really wanted something high (about head height) to hold on to and kind of hang from so I could drop my hips slightly but there was nothing that worked like this so I took to pacing the room and leaning on the wall, bed or Andrew for each contraction.

I gave the midwives our birth plan. The midwife looking after me read it and was very apologetic – ‘I want to give you the birth that you want but because you’re prem., we’ll need to put on constant monitoring and give you IV antibiotics etc.’ (all of which I hoped to avoid). I understood that things were different but I was thrown.

Although labour was clearly ‘established’ by about 10:30, the midwives told me they had decided to "ignore this" for a while in order to hold off on monitoring.