Writing this on a blog feels like a bit of an overshare, particularly since it contains information regarding things like cervixes, which I'm not in the habit of discussing publicly (or at all, really). But I enjoy reading others' birth stories and I wanted to record all of this and I figure if you don't want a detailed accounting of all the things that happened round and about my nether regions approximately a month ago, you can stop reading at any point. This point, right here, in fact would be as good as any, because as it turns out, I am incredibly long-winded about this particular event and am spreading the story over three posts. Ridiculous, yes. But it was a big deal, OK?
Graham was due on May 22, or May 18 depending on how you count. Based on my mom and sisters' births, I figured I'd be overdue; but in my little heart of hearts, I didn't really think I'd be that overdue. Maybe a few days, I reasoned. We were so sure of our dates. I'd been charting, you know—all that certainty. On May 21, I went to Target to buy diapers, packed our hospital bag, topped the birthing ball off with air. I was set. And, sure enough, on May 22 I started having contractions that were very distinct from Braxton Hicks. They fit the description of real, progressing labor contractions, but I stayed calm, tried not to get worked up, continued watching an excessive number of "Gilmore Girls" episodes. I figured it would take a while, being a first birth and all. My contractions got to 5 minutes apart and were getting stronger: uncomfortable, but not too intense. I planned to get a good nights' sleep and maybe have a baby the next day.
HAHAHAHAHA! said the universe.
The next day my contractions were gone. So I stayed calm, tried not to get worked up, continued watching "Gilmore Girls". Babies are born on their birthdays, not when doctors decide; I repeated this line from my Hypnobabies script to myself over and over. That night contractions started back up again. And then the next morning they were gone. And this happened again and again every day for 2 weeks.
Looking back, this seems like absolutely no big deal. It sounds kind of nice, really. Two weeks is not that long, plus I could certainly have used the time to get my act together before having a child. Also, I could have read a lot of books. Also, the average first time mom delivers at 41 weeks, 1 day. Also, the math used to calculate due dates is basically a bunch of pseudo-scientific bull. But at 40-42 weeks pregnant, I was not thinking about these things. Instead I was thinking that my baby had decided not to come, was completely uninterested in having me for a mother, was essentially staging a sit-in. It felt, absolutely felt, like we weren't even going to have a baby anymore. The time had passed. We had not been chosen.
I expressed some of this to one of my midwives, Lisa, during a visit. "Only a woman who is 10 months pregnant would think any of this," she said. I resented the crap out of that statement.
And so, anyway, feeling already like a failure as a mother, I went to the midwives' office for postdates testing a week after my due date. I had an ultrasound, in which I could see nothing resembling anything, except a giant foot, which was very cute. Another midwife, Cindy, checked to see what kind of progress I was making, cervix-wise. Answer: absolutely none at all, even though I was still contracting regularly. So, depressed as a cucumber, I left the office and I cried in the car and I went and got a personal pan pizza from the Pizza Hut in the Target across the street, which is the meal equivalent of the most depressed a person can be.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, we were trying everything we could to encourage our sweet little one to GET THE DEVIL OUT OF MY BODY. I even wrote an eviction notice, which it turns out was totally ineffective since we found out when Graham was born that he can't even read. I walked about 4 miles a day, ate a bucketload of "labor cookies" and all the other foods that people say are helpful, did jumping jacks, went on bumpy car rides, etc., etc. Nothing. I went into the city one day and trucked it all over the dang place, waddling like a swollen kangaroo from Chelsea to Soho to the Financial District in 90 degree weather and 90% humidity. Nothing happened, except I got a lot of well-wishes from homeless men, who are the official best well-wishers of pregnancy that I have encountered.
Some days, I felt patient and calm and faithful. Some days I didn't. All I can say is, I never felt the length of two weeks quite like those two weeks.
The midwives are rockstars and were willing to let me go as far overdue as I was going to go, as long as the tests continued going well. But the baby hadn't been quite as active as they liked and they weren't thrilled about me going much over 42 weeks. So, at 41 weeks 5 days, Cindy suggested I try castor oil. That Monday, I took 2 Tablespoons, which didn't do much. And then the next day, I took 3 oz., which was awful, mostly because I took Ina May's suggestion to scramble the oil into eggs. This would perhaps work with 1 tsp. of oil. It did not work with 3 oz. Those eggs very nearly turned me off eggs completely, which would have been a real disaster, seeing as how my diet has consisted, since college, largely of just eggs. I will not describe the oily disgusting-ness of these castor oil eggs so as not to cause myself to vomit from the recall. Suffice it to say, ewwwww.
I'm not convinced the oil played any part in getting things started (maybe, a tiny bit), although I didn't really regret taking it because at that point I had nothing else to do besides pack my body full of an industrial-strength laxative. That night, June 4, I had contractions, as per usual, but they seemed a little more . . . well-placed, is the only way I can think to explain the difference. We walked laps around the mall that night, ate waffles for dinner and went to bed.
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