My weeks are no longer measured by what day of the week it is. Rather, each day is a countdown to my next doctor's appointment: One day until I go to my doctor, five days until I go to the specialist. Or it is measured by how far along my pregnancy is - today I am 17 weeks, 2 days.
Every day that I wake up with no major changes is another victory: I have made it one more day with my baby safely inside me. One day closer to the magic number of 23 weeks when I will be admitted to the hospital for the remainder of my pregnancy. I could never before have imagined a situation where I was looking forward to going to the hospital for possibly many months. But for me it is about being at that magic number when the baby is considered "viable" by doctors and they will actually try to save the baby if he is born past that time.
The next few weeks are crucial. The baby's lungs develop tissue between 18-20 weeks and without amniotic fluid they cannot develop properly. I might make it to 40 weeks but if the lungs are not developed when the baby is born, he will not be able to breathe. I try not to think about the horror of that situation. Instead, I am fervently praying for renewed hope at our appointment tomorrow afternoon. I pray we see a lot more fluid and see that the baby is still growing properly. I am praying, as someone told me recently, that this baby is our "miracle baby"!