So I just finished reading the birth story of my all time fave blogger, Girls Gone Child. I’m not usually one to much share such details on the interwebs, but in the interest of putting it out there, here goes.
You may remember that I was timing (read: pinning all hopes on) the arrival of Sproglette Mark II based on MY dates, vs the Doc’s dates. Well, that was a mistake – as my date passed, I felt nary a twinge, and six days later as the Doc’s date passed, I felt nothing still.
The waiting was extremely frustrating – at least when I was at work until 38 weeks, I was distracted all day long by work, but once I finished up my focus shifted entirely to waiting for the baby. All I can say is, I learned the meaning of the saying, “A watched pot never boils”.
Fast forward to 10 days past MY dates, and I woke up at 3am with a bit of ‘leakage’. I thought this may perhaps be my waters breaking, but wasn’t sure (Sproglette’s waters were amniohooked outta there when I was 6cm dialated) so I went to the loo. Back in bed, the same little leakage, and so I thought – “Here goes”. I pulled out my blue sheet medical record (which Must Never Leave One’s Person) and called the birth suite, thinking I’d be summonsed like an all-conquering hero. No such luck – they said (to paraphrase) bear with it, you have an appointment later today anyway so we’ll see you then. Unless you get lots of contractions, of course.
Well, the contractions didn’t start so I went back to sleep, woke up later that morning with nothing much different. My appointment was at 9.30am, so I got ready and, with mum, drove up to the hospital (20 minute drive!). Of course, as I pull into the carpark, I realise I’ve left my blue medical form – which Must Be Carried Everywhere – at home next to the toilet from the 3am phone call, so mum is promptly dispathced to do the trip back into town to retrieve.
I went up to the ward where I was booked in for a CTG – as I was into week 41, they wanted to ensure there was no foetal distress. I lay on the bed, thinking I looked rather dapper in my black dress, 3/4 leggings, my new sandals and some spangly new earrings. I settled in for the 30 minute monitoring with an old issue of The Economist – and just as I was reading about the decay of the Gaddafi regime, in walks the Doc, telling me that we may as well put a drip in and get labour started otherwise I could be walking around for days with leaking waters.
I made a cursory protest, but then admitted that I was bloody sick of waiting, so followed him up the hall to a birth suite, where before you can say Jack Robinson (or before you can phone your husband, as it turns out), the Doc had a canula in my left arm and I was being pumped with Syntocinon. He assured me that it may well be a quick labour because my first one was only around 4 hours.
As a side note, I always thought there would be a little more ceremony attached to induction – at least, I thought I would be given the opportunity to change, but as I found out later I was stuck in that damn dress – it was impossible to take off because of all the damn tubes attached to my arm!
Now, my mother didn’t appear anytime soon, and everytime a midwife walked into the room, the first thing I did was apologise for the missing Blue Sheet. I finally managed to get through to Mr Moi (who was in a meeting), but told him that it would be a while before the contractions really kicked in, and did he know where the hell my mum was (with the fricken Blue Sheet)? As it transpired, mum decided to stop at Spotlight on the way home to get materials to make the Sproglette a pink tail (pandering to her recent imagi-play game of being a cat, Meow Meow).
So in the absence of any support people present, I sat in the room and faffed around with my phone. Behold, the view:
I decided to call a few people to while away the waiting while I could still talk, so I plonked myself on the Doc’s stool and chatted away. It was while I was talking to my friend Louisa that the twinges became a little more intense than they had been, so I cut the call short and called Mr Moi, telling him to get here soon and bring strawberries, the iPod and a few other things that were totally irrational, that I never used and that I can’t even remember what they were.
To be continued…
*note I still don’t know whether to spell Harry’s name as Harrie or Harry. It’s short for Harriet… hmmm