Posted on | February 27, 2017 | 4 Comments
I am officially more pregnant than I’ve ever been in my life.
J was born at 37 weeks and five days, and here I sit at 38 weeks… plump with little C and wondering if this is going to be my state of being until he cuts his way out at 16 and asks to borrow the car.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad he’s safe and healthy. I just wouldn’t be too terribly disappointed if he decided he’s done baking and wants to arrive before next Monday’s scheduled C-section. I know that a lot of women prefer a scheduled birth; it’s certainly easier to plan around. But I just really didn’t want to have another C-section. The first one was almost too much for me to bear and I have this archaic notion that child birth just shouldn’t be… surgical.
I spent several weeks planning out my perfect birth. I made two “Labor Playlists” on Spotify… one with nice calming music and one with rap music, The Offspring, and Linkin Park… you know, just in case. I had it all prepared. I would go into labor. I would get to the hospital. I would graciously refuse the epidural and remember later that feeling everything means I get to feel my legs sooner and also not have a catheter. I would labor and then at the end of it all, I would have a baby boy and there would be minimal recovery time. I wouldn’t have to re-learn to sit up. I wouldn’t have to struggle to walk. I wouldn’t have to worry that the combination of sliced open abdominal muscles and a herniated disk in my back would mean that I would never fully recover to the point that I could run long distances again.
And I wish I could say that I’ve fully embraced the idea of this second C-section. I wish I could tell you that I’ve nodded and readjusted and smiled my way into realizing that a “healthy baby” is all that matters. Because, yes… that is surely what matters most.
But the truth is, I’m scared.
I’m frightened by the memory of the sheet so close to my face, the antiseptic smell of the operating room, the sounds and the tug and pull of my body being unwillingly ripped open by a knife. I am scared of remembering the feeling of helplessness as the epidural seemingly missed one spot and so the answer to every “Can you feel this now” was always a quiet and shaky “yes.”
Mostly, I’m scared that I’ll once again feel that inner control freak freak the eff out, attempt to rise up off the table with a defiant “Enough of this. I am done.” and then find myself waking up hours later in another room, while a different nurse fetches the baby that everyone has seen but me.
I want to be there for this baby.
I want to hold him in my arms the minute he arrives.
I want to calmly accept the surgery that will bring him into the world.
But I’m not quite there yet.