As a break from tradition, I’m posting on my lovely Saturday morning, as opposed to writhing in bed waiting for contractions to start. There’s probably lots of folks anxious to know if the baby is out yet, so here’s an update. NOT. EVEN. CLOSE.
I’m down to less than 20 hours to the point that my gynae is going to have to force Kirsten out. During my visit on Thursday, things weren’t looking so good.
After doing the dreadful internal exam, he had this to say about my cervix:
Gynae: Mmm, no sign of any dilation at all.
Me: Not even like 1 cm? Is that bad? What does that mean?
Gynae: We’ll just have to wait till Sunday.
Me: So what are my chances of having a normal delivery?
Gynae: *pause* Not so good.
Right. Which is a euphemism for “I hate to break it to you lady, but there’s probably no chance in hell she’s coming out from your vagina.”
So with every passing minute of every day since Thursday, my heart beats a little faster and I start getting mild panic attacks. I just spent the better part of last night trying to manufacture contractions and panicking about the thought of another c-section. For the past year, I’ve somehow managed to block out all memories of the experience from my consciousness, but it’s all coming back to me now.
In fact, it’s flooding into my head with a vengeance. I have very vivid memories of having to scream for morphine when the epidural wore off. For a month after that, every movement I made felt like my stitches were going to split open. And then there’s the accursed, suck-like-hell catheter and enema (that I endured 3 TIMES the last round, and by the third time, I was literally terrified shitless).
And so the countdown continues. And the hyperventilating intensifies.
Come on, come on, come on, come on…