Three days pass after the original trip to the hospital. My hopes of delivering sometime this century fade with each passing hour. The contractions and other signs of labor have all but completely ceased. But for one small indicator, I have had no other signs that I might give birth any time soon. I feel like I’ll be pregnant forever.
My husband presents me with what seem like hundreds of factoids, gleaned from his internet searching of more reputable sites like WebMD and the various parenting books we’d purchased. While it’s nice to know that my situation is “normal” and it happens to many women, it’s not very reassuring in the moments when I’m feeling hopeless and overwhelmed with despair.
I still have another three days to go before they’ll use a device to induce me. The prospect of that scenario seems so absolutely uninviting, that I’d almost rather go in for a quadruple root canal. At that point, I’ll have been pregnant for what feels like a year, and if you do the math, 41 weeks from 52 gives you just 11 weeks out of the last year that I haven’t been knocked up. It’s hard to wrap my mind around those numbers.
I imagine that even after all that, I might still end up needing a c-section and all these efforts will have been for nothing, except to inflict further discomfort. In the end, my son will be worth it and I’m very excited to become a mother. It’s difficult to maintain that state of zen-like peacefulness when there’s a week-old baby kicking hard under your ribs and grinding against your diaphragm.