I went to see the doc and she poked around in the nether-regions for a bit. When she looked at me, there was a distinct crease in her brow. "You're three centimeters." she said with concern.
Just two days before I had had a version, which was an attempt to turn the baby from transverse to engaged (head down in the cervix.) My baby was not so cooperative, which may not bode so well for me when he's born if this is his attitude about life.
Now my baby was completely breech, which meant his feet were doing a Riverdance on my cervix and he was standing up inside me, using my insides as punching bags. I could feel him moving all over the place all the time, never breaking for a moment.
And now my doctor was looking at me with concern, saying I was three centimeters dilated. This was a problem, she said, because if I continued to have contractions, I could dilate further. And if my water broke, the cord could slip out before the baby which would be a major concern.
So now I was worried. After the version failed, the doctors hastily scheduled a cesarian for April 1st. Yes, our baby was a planned April Fool's Day kid, forever to be joked, teased, tortured on his birthday. And we CHOSE that date. Sadistic parents.
But now my doctor was saying she wanted that baby out...now. She wanted to schedule it for the following day, the 24th of March. I asked for a day to schedule a sitter for our toddler, and she hesitantly agreed to make it the 25th. Stress attacked my nervous system and I started tearing up from the impending freak out.
When I explained everything to my husband, he went into immediate planning mode, called several people and got things packed for the hospital. We were ready to go within an hour. Dealing with the idea of being cut open and having my organs shuffled around was weighing heavy on my mind, and the guilt of leaving my toddler overnight for the first time in his life was literally knifing me in the heart. I felt like things were out of control and quickly spiraling towards crazy-town.
I slept fitfully that night, and the next morning I woke up with what felt like a stomach ache. Perhaps I had stored all that stress inside and it was causing gastrointestinal distress, I thought. But as the morning wore on, I felt twinges and pangs of pain that were unfamiliar. During my pregnancy with my toddler, I didn't have a single Braxon-Hicks contraction, barely a twitch. When the labor started, it hit like a wall of bricks.
This pregnancy I had felt Braxton-Hicks throughout the third trimester, although I hardly noticed it at first. Now, I noticed it. Boy howdy, did I notice it. The contractions were steady, uncomfortable and predictable. I remembered what my doctor had told me the day before...if the contractions were ten minutes apart or less, call Labor and Delivery and go in.
She had tried to get my c-section planned for two days after my last appointment, but the head of the department had shut her down, saying they had a policy about c-sections being performed only at 39 weeks or over. I was just hitting 38 weeks, and although my doctor told me not to worry, the tone in her voice was not convincing.
Now I was contracting regularly...five minutes apart, to be exact. My husband called Labor and Delivery and told them the situation. My toddler was playing with his friend, who was visiting for the day. No one could watch them right away, so I drove myself to the E.R. and prayed for clear roads.
The drive to the hospital was nothing short of white-knuckled and intense. The pain of the contractions kept me alert to how easy it would be to drive into a light pole during a painful cramp. The weather had turned nasty and the wind was throwing buckets of rain onto the car, making for a very dramatic scene.
I arrived at the parking lot and wobbled the two blocks to the E.R. waiting room. Drenched and shivering from the cold, I told them I was in labor. To their credit, they didn't wait for the baby to drop on the floor and whisked me away in a wheelchair to Labor and Delivery, where I was given only a minute to grasp the situation.
The doctor checked my cervix...four centimeters. The contractions had become increasingly more and more intense as I lay on the bed. Being the wimpy gal I am, I quickly asked for pain medication.
Doctors flew in and out of the room, nurses checked the baby's pulse, and everyone asked me the same question, "Is your husband coming?"
"Yes, he is. And if he isn't here soon I will kill him." I answered with a not-so-sincere laugh.
The reason everyone kept asking if my husband was coming was because they wanted to cut me...soon. And it wasn't a matter of if he showed up or not. They were going to get the baby out within 30 minutes.
Husband showed up in the nick of time. I was rushed into the O/R and given a series of shots in my back, a spinal tap, which numbed me from the chest down. It was so odd, the sensation of no sensation. At one point, I panicked because when I tried to cough, I couldn't. The helplessness was overwhelming.
Once I was numbed up, my husband was allowed in. He held my hand, told me it was ok, and not to be scared. My fears were multiplying with the controlled chaos of the room. Technicians and doctors were all around, shoving things in my IV, my nose, my mouth. It was too much all at once, and at breakneck speed.
They finally cut, and within five minutes, baby boy was out and screaming his disapproval of the whole scene. Two weeks early and totally unexpected, at 8 lbs, 13 oz, he had arrived. Healthy, high apgar, and with a perfectly round head (thanks, c-section!)
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