As we rush down the halls towards the labor and delivery rooms, my heart doesn't even have time to race. It is caught up wondering what my body could possibly be doing to make it feel like it is in labor. I am obviously still in denial.

I am taken past a slew of doors and finally stop at an open one that is stashing two nurses. "I have a woman in labor, which room is open" the nurse exclaims to the others. "I actually don't know what this is?" I blurt out. "It could be food poisoning." Yep, still in denial.

Room 15 ends up being our lucky number (oddly enough, it has been mine since high school). I am immediately asked to disrobe, given a gown to wear, while vitals, health and pregnancy history are instantaneously assessed. After about 10 minutes, my husband Chris bounds into the room (he definitely got lost since the parking garage). His expression is an amalgam of curiosity, confusion and shock. He seems flustered so I try to act calm to squelch his nerves. Just then the on-call doctor strides in with a straight face, "You made it." "Yep, came straight here. Not sure what this is", I chortle. "Well, let's see where you are." Pause for uncomfortable examination. "Whelp, you're 8 centimeters dilated. You'll probably have her in the next few hours."

What? Come again? He can't be serious. He must have a soft spot for humor, yet no one is laughing. I immediately want my doctor; my happy, handsome and loving doctor that will make this all better. I am told that he is on his way, as I am hooked up to magnesium and shot with a steroid in my backside- all for the sake of little Vivienne who is trying to bum-rush into June. She must have not wanted to be a Leo.

I am settled by the fact that my birth plan is still somewhat intact if Dr. Finke arrives. That feeling is quickly vanquished when a team of doctors fill the labor unit, pulling on scrubs and gearing up for what they seem to think is Vivienne's immediate arrival. The NICU team is ready for her stage entrance. I am wondering if she will send me the same signal she just sent them.

Chris and I are briefed by the NICU lead doctor about the best and worst case scenarios. My body immediately retreats into a fog as she spouts off each way the baby can be affected by being pre-term. It feels like I am caught somewhere between complete unconsciousness and paralyzed but intense alertness. As she goes through her speech, hitting major organs and issues, Chris' hands are clasped together; switching positions from cradling his face to falling limply between his thighs. "I am not going to pay attention until you get to the brain," he manages. "We'll get there," she reassures. I swallow hard.

Just then Dr. Finke magically appears near my bedside; sweet, calm, and smiling. Is there a halo of light around him? I am definitely projecting. "She isn't going into labor just yet, we are going to try to slow everything down. We want the baby in there for at least two rounds of steroids for her lungs." Relief floods over me. "Oh great, than what are we doing here now?" the NICU lead chuckles. "Everything is going to be fine. If you need anything, please let us know. We will see you when she is here," the NICU team swiftly exits the room as swiftly as they appeared.