It is the third week of May, and the weather is perfect. Cool breezes, bright blue skies, sleeping with the windows open.
I stand in my mother-in-law’s bathroom, and let the hot water beat over my swollen belly. I rub the loofah, dripping with Ivory, over too-tight skin, and I start to hyperventilate, just a bit.
Move, I think. Please, just move. I can’t handle this, please, just a little move.
You’d think I was just having a horrible flashback, but I’m not. I’m fully present, three years later almost to the day, and I’m not talking to Duncan, I’m talking to our sweet, unborn fourth child.
I’m 38w pregnant, and I was never supposed to see this day.
My MFMs in Tennessee said I’d be fortunate to make it to 30w, given my history. But 30w came, and then 34w, and I slowly crept closer to the magical 37w mark that would allow Dr. Gibbs to take this baby from in to out, and we could all breathe easier.
Last Thursday, I had an amnio. Just a precaution, said the doctors. We’re fully expecting perfect results. Be at the hospital Friday morning at 6:30 for your c-section.
I had the amnio. I dropped Seth and Erin off at my in-laws. My mom and I enjoyed a pricey Italian meal while Jim golfed. And at 9:30 pm, Dr. Gibbs cancelled my c-section due to “poor results” from the amnio.
Disappointed. Anxious. Angry. Discouraged. Miserable. All these emotions and more overwhelmed me, and any clarity that may have let me appreciate the fact that I was sparing my baby NICU time.
May 11 was supposed to be this baby’s birthday, and it wasn’t.
Tuesday, I had a routine NST, which the baby failed miserably, prompting Dr. Gibbs to order a BPP, which the baby passed beautifully. Little stinker. So, we wait.
And while we wait, I become more pregnant. More uncomfortable. More apprehensive.
The baby, while we know is small, is still, for all intents and purposes, out of room. Therefore, movement is slowing down. A lot.
And I’m terrified.
I’ve spent more time on my left side, consuming gummy bears and chocolate covered raisins and Pepsi, than I’ve spent the whole pregnancy.
Friday morning, I will have another NST, and based on today’s (lack of) movement, I’m anticipating another BPP. And since my children apparently like to mess with my head, I’m sure the baby will again cooperate, and we will wait some more.
I’m so tired. I’m so emotionally and physically drained, and I just want this to be over. Which is a sad way to end this final pregnancy of mine.
But as Duncan’s third birthday approaches, and garage sale signs begin to litter Walbridge yards, and the cottonwood drift from the trees to my sinuses, I sit. Swollen belly. Heavy heart. The kicks slow, and the flashbacks quicken, and I find myself willing away the hours til I can take an Ambien and sleep away more hours, just to wake to another day of waiting.
Been praying and wondering, wondering and praying! The first of many sacrifices of your sanity that you'll give to this precious little one. I won't presume to understand your torment entirely, but I got enough a taste to know how to pray for you. Much love from Pcola!
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