41 weeks, 3 days: Ranting and Raving
by Sharon Tjaden-Glass
Forget anxiety and fear of the imminent pain of childbirth.
I’m so beyond being nervous or afraid of what comes next.
Now, I’m just pissed. I’m downright angry.
If I want to give birth in the birthing center that I’ve chosen, I have to give birth by 41 weeks, 6 days. That gives me until Saturday. After that, I’ll have to go to the regular maternity ward and play by their rules.
Just like last time.
Which is what I was trying to avoid.
I will literally take whatever contractions come my way if it means this is the last day that I’m pregnant.
F— this pregnancy! I’m so over it!
I will die pregnant. I know it. Labor will never start. Ever. And I’ll be that one crazy case where the pregnant woman just dies because her body splits open because the baby keeps growing.
I simply cannot believe this has not happened yet. What is wrong with me? Why? WHY?
The most frustrating thing? I’ve had four times when contractions have started and then just stopped.
And I’m not talking Braxton-Hicks contractions. I’m talking full-on, labor contractions. Sometimes 4 to 8 minutes apart for several hours. They last long enough for me to get excited, to gather my things, to think about plans for the rest of the day that include going to the hospital.
And then? Nothing.
They just stop.
And then, I get this email from Babycenter.com.
Just shoot me now.
Are you kidding me, Babycenter? I never told you my baby was born. So you just automatically send these emails? Are you trying to piss me off? And what if my baby were stillborn?
This is the worst. I despise living in this constant state of suspension. I don’t tend to be a control freak. My job as a teacher requires me to constantly practice the art of flexibility.
But this is too much.
You think it feels like a long time since Trump became president on January 20th? Tired of processing bullet after bullet that he’s shooting into American democracy?
Now, imagine adding the additional mental burden of realizing at the end of every day that you will, once again, have to find a way to sleep with an enormous pregnant belly, tossing and turning every 45 minutes until the sun rises.
And being pumped full with as much estrogen as a non-pregnant woman has in three years of her life.
February 2nd is Groundhog Day. And how perfectly appropriate. I feel like I’ve been living my own personal Groundhog Day since January 22nd.
So, I’m at the end of my rope. If the point of me waiting this long to have a baby was to teach me a lesson in patience, I’m beyond that lesson. I’m not learning anything anymore.
Now, I’m just pissed.