Today was my 40 week, 5 day appointment. Yesterday my midwife’s office called to confirm today’s appointment.
“Jessica? I just wanted to confirm tomorrow’s appointment at 10am.”
“Okay, thank you.”
“You haven’t had the baby, yet, have you?”
“*sigh* I wish.”
“Oh. Okay. I was hoping we could cancel the appointment. Heh heh heh.”
Yeah, great. Heh heh heh. Being this pregnant in the summer makes me a shitty, unhappy person. I’m not up for jokes. It made me want to rip her head off.
So, all night long I tried to convince myself and my body that it was going to be ready at the appointment tomorrow. I was going to be dilated. I was going to be effaced. I was not going to leave without being checked, without a set and ready plan to have this baby this weekend. I woke up ready for the best, despite my intuition saying otherwise.
We got a midwife I’d never met before. She was very sweet. They’re all very sweet. Well, except one who reminds me a little of a cold nun and who attempts to rip the baby out of me feeling his position. She said, “Well, you’re overdue. Looks like it’s time to check you!”
“That would make my day,” I was probably a little too enthusiastic. “I can’t believe it’d make my day, but it would.”
And that’s exactly what she did. I was much less enthusiastic once I felt exactly what checking was – a hand up to the wrist shoved in the most sensitive spot on earth, while the fingers thump at the most sensitive spot on the most sensitive place on earth.
“Well…let me try to massage your cervix to get a few contractions,” She says. This should NOT be called massage. A massage is something you enjoy, something to relax you and make your life okay. This does not make your life okay. In fact, I’d venture to say that it makes your life so completely un-okay that calling it “massage” should be illegal.
“Okay, well,” she removed her arm from my vagina and helped me up. I was still smiling, I was going to get good news, dammit. “You’re entirely closed and, well, uh, you could be softer.” My smile stayed plastered but I know my eyes turned into puppy-dog-who-was-just-kicked-for-licking-you-eyes. “BUT! It is anterior.”
“Well, that’s good,” smile still plastered. I wanted her to leave. I wanted to cry.
The minute she said I had nothing going on, I felt like a complete failure. I’m tired of being in pain. I’m tried of not being able to sleep. I’m tried of feeling like hell all the time. But those feelings I could deal with. It was the feeling that, at 1 week past my due date (2 weeks, if you go by the original one), I had made no progress that made my eyes well up and my heart stop beating.
NOTHING going on? How is that even possible? Half the pregnant women I talk to have something going on. Some of them are as far away as 3 weeks from their due date. What is wrong with me? Is my pelvis too small for the baby’s head? Is that why it’s not pressing down on anything and I’m not dilating? You know, that happened to my mom. She was too small, she had to have a c-section at 43 weeks, after a failed and extremely painful induction. Is that what’s going to happen? I’m scared of inductions and c-sections. Maybe I’m just not built to have babies. Or maybe he just doesn’t like me or doesn’t trust me. Maybe he’s just waiting for me to say he’s going to be adopted by a loving family in a better home with more money and the absolute competence to take care of him. Eric says this is ridiculous. I still feel dejected.
I know that a baby’s term can be as long as 42 weeks. I know “he’ll come when he’s ready”. I also know my family’s histories of first births and none of them are happy. My grandma nearly died with hers, my mom nearly died with me. I came out via c-section with nearly no amniotic fluid left, covered in meconium and scabs from staying in so long. I know waiting as long as they did to do something about mom’s pregnancy with me nearly ended up killing both of us. Being my child, I don’t know if I can trust that he’ll know when he’s ready.
“Let me call the hospital, see if we can get you in for an induction on Thursday the 12th,” she said it like it was nothing.
“I was hoping you could do it like tomorrow. Heh.”
“We want to give you enough time to go on your own.”
I wanted to say there was no point. There’s something wrong with me. He won’t come before the induction. You’re going to have to induce me and it will go on for days, like my mom’s labor. You’ll figure out that my body is just not made to give birth. You’ll figure this out after days of pain. I’ll end up with an emergency c-section. There just really is no point in trying anything else.
“What we do is use Cytotec the night before, then Pitocin in the morning.”
I flailed. She just said the two scariest words in the English language to me in one sentence. In one sentence that described what they were going to do to me. Cytotec and Pitocin. Cytotec – the cheap, ULCER medication that the manufacturer has repeatedly asked physicians to stop using as a cervix ripener. The medication that causes hyperstimulation of the uterus and uterine rupture. And Pitocin? The one drug everyone agrees is evil and I should knock anyone out that attempts to give it to me.
“Uh, what about Cervadil. I’ve heard some bad things about Cytotec…”
“We don’t use Cervadil in this hospital. We haven’t had any problems with Cytotec. We wouldn’t use it if we did.”
This didn’t make me feel any better.
“I’ll be with you on the 13th.” Here it dawns on me that he’ll be born on Friday the 13th. “And *insert cold midwife with the rip-your-baby-right-out-of-your-belly-hands here* will be with you on the 12th.”
So that’s going to be my birth? Major pain inducing medication, attached to an IV, resigned to being stuck in bed, being watched by the scariest midwife we had, probably ending up with the need for an epidural, and finally a c-section. That’s exactly what I feared the most. That’s exactly what I’m expecting.
She handed me my inducement paper and told me to make an appointment for Monday. A non-stress test, followed by an ultrasound to check amniotic fluid, followed by a regular check-up.
I walked out of the office, trying my hardest not to cry and feeling like a complete failure.
Eric’s been awesome. He keeps trying to ground me, “It’s fine. He’ll come when he’s ready. You will be fine. He will be fine. You’re doing your best and I’m proud of you.”
But I am not proud of me. I’m tired, I’m in pain, I’m dejected, I’m a failure and I feel like a complete jerk for feeling this way.
Yesterday was my 39 week appointment. We got the midwife that looks, sounds and acts just like Eric’s sister. Now, I like this lady, she’s sweet, but when the discussion turned to getting the kid out ASAP, it got a little weird.
MW: So, has your body been acting like it wants to get him out?
Me: On and off. Not as much as I’d hope for.
MW: Well, if he doesn’t come by your next appointment, we’ll set a date.
Me: WOOHOO!
MW: So…go home, have sex in the afternoon or morning. Have a little afternoon romp.
Me: Uh, okay…
Eric’s sister’s twin just told us to have sex. If we had been thinking about it before, I certainly wasn’t after that. As we left, Eric kept shivering, “I don’t think I liked that…It was like my sister just told us to have sex…”
The good news is that we now have a set day that we can say we’ll have a set day by – the 6th. I’ve already decided there will be no “setting a date” from there. If he hasn’t come by then, I will beg and plead and promise free work if she will admit me to the hospital, break my water and let that baby come on Saturday. I refuse to have this child hanging out for another couple of weeks. It is time to come out. Now!
I also asked her if she could give me an idea on the size. She felt around a bit and said, “7lbs…..4oz. But I could be off…” Wow. 7 pounds, FOUR ounces. Don’t get me wrong, I trust in her abilities. I trust in all the midwives abilities, but I think the addition of the four ounces was to make me feel more sure about the guess. Yeah, it didn’t work.
Still, it’s nice to know I probably don’t have a 30 pounder in there. Just maybe 29lbs, 4oz.
About a week ago, the child did some very strange rolly-polly move in my belly and suddenly I was being kicked and punched on both sides of my belly at the same time. I could no longer feel his feet in my ribs, either. Logic dictated that, “Shit, the child has flipped himself sideways” or transverse, for you folks who know what the hell you’re talking about. What other reason could there be for getting raging flails on both sides of my body? I was convinced it was due to those damn exercises, which I will never be doing again, just in case. Plus, the squats made it impossible for me to climb stairs for 3 days.
I bitched and moaned for the entire week about how shitty it was that the kid was sideways. How I was going to have to have a c-section now and how he was doing it just to be a total brat. I threatened to ground him for the rest of eternity unless he did the rolly-polly move the other way, ASAP. I told him I was going to tell on him to the midwives if he didn’t flip. No flipping.
So, today at my appointment I told on him. “I think he may have moved sideways,” I said.
“Let’s check,” she said.
Here’s where she proceeded to grab my belly, trying to find his head…and it hurt, again. It really hurt again. “Huh, I can’t find anythin…OH! There he is…he’s way down here.” Apparently his rolly-polly move was to sufficiently wiggle his way down into my pelvis. His head is so low, she was nearly grabbing my lady bits. I repeat, it hurt.
So. the child’s head is all the way down. My inability to lift my legs without severe pain is completely normal. The fact that my right foot has been swollen for days is completely normal. I’m having contractions every morning for an hour or so starting at about 7am, and it’s completely normal. I had contractions while in the waiting room, also completely normal. Somehow, I’m still pretty sure the child won’t be coming anytime in June but honestly, at this point, I’m very nearly hoping for it.
Since moving into the new house, a trip to the OB’s office ended up being an entire day’s ordeal. As much as I love my OB, getting up 3 hours previous to any appointment and driving for 40 minutes on a highway with pot holes the size of small lakes to get there was just not my idea of a good time. Not that OB appointments are ever a good time, what with the needles in the arm and the weird metal things in, you know, that place. Not to mention she doesn’t deliver at the hospital closest to me. I was not about to drive that 40 minutes on that damn highway while in labor. Imagine a very angry, violent woman throwing raw meat and amniotic fluid at cars on the way. It wouldn’t be pretty.
Since I am a tad bit of a hippy, I decided to look into midwives in the area. I’m quite lucky in that my hospital has a CNM practice that works directly with them. I’m also lucky that my hospital has jacuzzis, squat bars and birthing balls in every one of their rooms, and the CNMs are not afraid to use them. Again, as much as I love my OB, when I mentioned the possibility of a waterbirth, I got a very sweet, but frightening look. The look of blind amazement and intrigue, something you never want to see on the face of your doctor when you mention a procedure you’d like them to assist in performing. “How does the doctor deliver the baby if it’s in water, then?” And that was that.
I was a bit nervous going in to see the midwives for the first time. They were at a “women’s clinic.” I’ve never known anything good to happen at “clinics.” I was fully prepared for a waiting room full of very pregnant crack whores. Yes, I do realize how ridiculous I am. Thank you for pointing that out to me. One thing they do not tell you about pregnancy, you lose all brain function. Be prepared to say and think the stupidest things you’ve ever said in your whole life, and repeat yourself 400-500 times. Ben is eating my brain.
Needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised. The office was beautiful and the staff was as nice as staff generally is – you know, the type of people you’d never invite out anywhere but wouldn’t necessarily throw poo at either. The nurses were wonderful. It was all lovely.
We met with the midwife and she was a sweetheart. It’s a practice of 7, that I will probably not meet before I give birth. However, she assured me that although their personalities are all very different, their professional philosophies all remain quite consistent with one another. She took the time to answer our questions about when to call, cutting the cord, taking the placenta home, everything I could think of. She was wonderful. Really, as much as I love my OB, I always felt like she was on her way out the door. This woman sat down and talked to us for 20 minutes. It was incredibly comforting.
It also helped that I never once got that look. The midwife knows how to use and loves the jacuzzis. It’s quite comforting to know your healthcare provider is right on board with you. Again, as much as I love my OB, this just feels like it’ll be the better fit for me and I’m terribly excited.
Today was my first appointment with the midwives. I’d been calling my OB for a week to try to get my chart faxed over, they were closed every day at 1pm for God knows what reason. Today, I got up early and called. They weren’t open, yet. When I did get a hold of them, the conversation with the new receptionist went something like this:
“I need you to fax over my records.”
“You’ll need to sign a release.”
“I already did. It’s in my chart.”
“Oh. Well, when was that?”
“A month or so ago.”
“I wasn’t here a month or so ago so I wouldn’t be able to do it.”
“The release is already signed, it should be in my chart. There shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Let me see if they scanned it into the computer………Hmmm, nope…….Hold on, let me check your chart……………………..You don’t have a chart.”
“What? I was just there last week for my glucose test.”
“I can’t find your chart. You’re going to have to come in and sign that paper again.”
“Well, how would that help if there’s no chart to release in the first place?”
“Um….I’ll have to find your chart.”
Why not look for my chart before you have me come in and re-sign a piece of paper I’ve already signed that is probably currently sitting in my chart? I hung up with her, after she said she’d look for it and call me back. I called my midwives and convinced them I really had prenatal care up until that point so they would keep my appointment. They did, but had to threaten that if they didn’t get my charts by next week, I’d have to redo all my tests. Dear Lord, no! I just got a 108 on my glucose test! Are you insane?!? That’s like asking me to redo the SATs after getting a 1500.
10 minutes later, the receptionist calls. “I found your chart. I found the release, too. What’s the name of the practice and the fax number?” WOOHOO! She promised to get it faxed over before my appointment at 3, since “we close at 1pm today, anyway.”
Bull puckey! 3pm came. I asked the receptionist, the nurse, the other nurse and the doctor, they never faxed it over! I guess it’s a good thing I’m switching because I don’t believe I could have put up with that receptionist for another 2 months. I’d end up banned from every hospital, giving birth at home with Eric screeching at me to do it in the kitchen so I don’t ruin the hardwood floors. In turn, rendering our poor child fatherless, leaving both of us on welfare and Ben in therapy for years because his mother was forced to kill father during labor. And that wouldn’t be good for anyone.
