|
Weeks 37 to 41
Welcome Baby!
At 37 weeks, I was so sick of being pregnant. Fully effaced, 2 centimeters dilated, ready to roll. All done. Cooked. Finished. Henry was born at 37 weeks so to me, this was as pregnant as a person could be. I cleaned out my desk at work, thoroughly enjoyed the surprise shower my colleagues had arranged, got my final manicure, pedicure, and leg wax, and settled in at home, waiting for the baby to arrive.
By week 38, I knew that labor could begin at any moment. Each twinge was the beginning, I was sure of it. Good thing: My maternity pants were so tight I resorted to the more diaphanous, forgiving skirts. I displaced so much water in the bathtub there was barely enough left to wash myself. All of the baby’s things had been cooed over, washed, folded, nestled into drawers. The stroller beckoned in the foyer. Jack mastered the art of installing the car seat. Henry asked me to hurry up and born his baby brother; he had already pieced together a blanket out of fabric scraps, painted a "Welcome Home" sign, and learned, in school, how to give a baby a bath.
In the middle of week 39, I considered the birth to be late and felt anxious and depressed. The sonogram showed an active, head-down, healthy-looking, moderately sized baby immersed in plenty of amniotic fluid. The only person uncomfortable was the extra-large me. I have no idea what I weighed at this point; I had long since refused to get on the scale. My left hand grew so swollen that it was a struggle to move the fingers each morning. Oddly, my left calf ballooned into a sphere while my other leg looked vaguely normal. No more skirts for me—sweatpants only. My obstetrician offered me the chance to elect an induction, but suggested I decline and sit tight, in light of my preference for a drug-free labor and delivery. I agreed to wait for nature to take its course, and he agreed to give it a chance until the beginning of week 42.
“If I had to place a wager on this one, I’d bet you go into labor on your own,” he said, encouragingly.
“You’re on,” I said as I hoisted myself off the examining table and began the laborious process of putting on my socks.
As week 40 began, desperation set in. I resolved to let gravity rule and walk the baby out of my vagina. So each day I combed the streets of the city, canvassing a safe, 10-block radius from my apartment several times a day. I indulged in carb-rich lunches to fuel my quest. At home I’d do squats and lunges until I exhausted myself. At night, now a true insomniac, I refolded all of the baby clothes, rearranged the food in the pantry (twice), stocked the freezer with easy meals, complained mightily about my soreness, and made lists I knew I’d ignore, lose, or both. Once again, I got my final manicure, pedicure, and leg wax. I checked in with my OB. Still only 2 centimeters dilated, no progress. I told him he was a lousy gambler and I’d never go to Vegas with him.
As week 41 loomed, I parked myself on the couch and sobbed between deep-knee bends. My tears got caught somewhere between the folds of my many necks and caused a rash. I felt hot and cold. My head pounded into my ears. The mild congestion I had managed throughout these 10-plus months took hold of my nose and rendered me a mucus-filled, wheezing wreck.
|
|
|
|
|
“You’re huge,” Jack said, shocked as he came home from work. “You never looked huge throughout this entire pregnancy—you looked adorable, but I gotta say, you’re huge now.”
“I’m aware,” I snarled back. “I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can’t believe a person can be this pregnant. I am going to be pregnant forever.”
This was insane, of course, but it felt entirely real.
At that point, my OB had scheduled an induction for the first day of the 42nd week, in the now very likely event that I would not go into labor on my own. Having endured an induction before, without an epidural, this terrified me.
I became hysterical. It was a cold, rainy Saturday and while Jack and Henry played every board game imaginable, I sobbed for hours in the bathroom. By dinner time, I ran out of tears.
My friend, who happens to be a physician, ordered Jack to give me a glass of wine. It leapt to my head, whereupon I swallowed a tablespoon of Castor Oil, panicked that I had done a really stupid thing, then poured the rest down the drain in case I was tempted to drink more. I looked Jack in the eye with all the sweetness I could muster and said:
“You have to have sex with me.”
“Okay.”
“I need your prostaglandins.”
“How romantic.”
“I don’t care who you pretend I am or what video you watch. You have to have sex with me.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” I said, washing down the oil with the final sip of Chardonnay. “Let’s go.”
A half hour later, we were done. Before midnight, the contractions began. Slow and steady, they were manageable but real. I enjoyed every one of them and hoped they wouldn’t stop. At 8 a.m., though they were still six minutes apart, we sent Henry off to his Godparents’ house and took that infamous taxi ride to the hospital, the one where the driver knows he’s transporting a woman in labor and looks in the rearview mirror more than the road. I was 7 centimeters dilated upon arrival and the contractions felt more intense. Though my blood pressure was up, the labor progressed steadily so no medical intervention was necessary. And just before noon, after a few mighty pushes, my 7-pound, wet, pink, crying, yet-to-be-named son was finally “borned.”
Unbelievable.
* * *
Before we told anyone about the birth, we summoned Henry to meet his brother.
Oh my God.
As he climbed into the bed with us and gently kissed the baby’s face, I noticed I was weeping.
“Hi baby,” he whispered softly into the little one’s cheeks. “I’m your big brother Henry and I love you already. I’ve been waiting so long for you to come!”
Henry’s words morphed into a secret whisper, and as my boys nuzzled each other with equal disbelief, I pet their soft heads and thanked the universe at large for the gift that is my children.
|
|
|
 |
|
 |
|
|
|
ARCHIVE:
 |
|
