Here we go.
I spent several weeks during my last trimester researching
‘what labor really feels like’. For such
a common occurrence, there is very little clear info on what exactly it will
feel like to evict a human being from one’s body. I had plenty of free time in order to
research because contrary to my plans, I did not spontaneously go into labor at
37 weeks. Or at 38. Or 39.
I understand that a normal pregnancy is 40 weeks, but I also
understand that babies gain a lot of weight in those last few weeks. I figured if I could summon labor before that
last pound or two, I could make the whole experience slightly more enjoyable.
Turns out it is pretty impossible to trick your body into
labor. All the old wives tales about how
to trigger labor: spicy foods, walking, sex, squats, evening primrose oil… none
of them worked. I was still
pregnant. At 38 weeks, it made sense. At 39 weeks, I understood that babygirl just
needed those extra days to prepare for her arrival. When I hit my due date – I waited for that
magical moment when I was in labor. I went to the beach, let the surf beat me up
some – almost got stung by a Portuguese man-o-war (which, if I thought it would
get the ball rolling, I would totally have given it a shot, but there are very
few legitimate studies about the effects of marine life inflicted injuries on
triggering labor in otherwise uncomplicated pregnancies. Go figure.)
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| Me & Trusty Dog at Kailua Beach on my due date. |
My mom has this theory that the last trimester of pregnancy
is as miserable as it is, because it helps you come to terms with the fact that
labor is what it is going to take to get the baby out. The short term suffering of labor will
balance out the possible continued suffering of still being pregnant… It makes
it worth it.
Until about 38 weeks I didn’t agree with her. I was huge in a ‘pregnant whale’ kind of a
way that didn’t completely implode my self esteem if I turned my head in just
the right way, had good lighting, happened to be wearing one of two cute
maternity outfits and had make-up on.
Pregnancy wasn’t terrible!
Then I stopped sleeping.
Laying on my side in the only position approved for women in my
condition sent shooting pains down my leg.
Laying on my back for short bursts would result in me waking up unable
to breathe. Laying on my right side
(which you’re not supposed to do) would result in me waking up with a panic attack
that I was subliminally trying to kill my unborn baby. Any of these wake-ups would mean a trip to
the bathroom. A trip to the bathroom
meant maneuvering around a sleeping partner-in-crime, who would usually wake-up
as my gravid form flopped over him with all the agility and sound effects of a
walrus in heat. If he somehow managed to
sleep through my urination-motivated offensive to the edge of the bed, the rude
awakening would come when I encountered the zipper to the mosquito net. Ever since the first few encounters with
creatures of the many-legged variety, I have slept in fully enclosed,
insect-proof tent… in my own bed. (If you think I’m slightly crazy, you clearly
haven’t read the post about what happened when I encountered my first Hawaiian centipede…
or you already know that I left the “slightly” qualifier in my dust a long time
ago)
I also stopped eating.
As babygirl grew larger and larger, she seemed to disregard the
importance of my stomach for both of our well-being. She had the same attitude towards my lungs
and the lower part of my rib cage. In
fact, she began to get rather agitated by the confines of her prison and spent
day and night taking out her tiny rage on my internal organs.
So when my due date came and went, I was quite ready to be
done being pregnant. Luckily, I started
having contractions! Late in the 39th week, I woke up in the middle
of the night having contractions. Oh boy! Here we go! I painted my
toenails and shaved my legs (which could be a whole story in itself, but I
digress). I figured if she’s gonna come
out and see my bottom half first, I might as well make a good impression. Then,
I dutifully grabbed my contraction timer app and spent the next 28 hours
watching the contractions grow closer and closer together. Until they stopped. Nope, they did not stop with a baby. They just stopped. They may have fizzled slightly: 6 minutes apart,
then 10 minutes then flat-lining… Apparently I was not in labor. So I went to work
the next day – everyone was surprised to see me and offered his or her advice
about how to get baby out.
“Get a foot massage – works for all of my sisters”
“Have you tried walking around a lot?” (Don’t ask pregnant
women this… cause I assure you, they have. And do you know how annoying it is
to have someone with their normal body weight and their non-swollen ankles
suggest that maybe if you just
exercised a little more…)
My favorite one: “So my wife gave me a whole list of ways to
tell you to stimulate labor, but I think if I suggested any of them to you in
this setting it would qualify as sexual harassment, so I’ll just let you google
it yourself”
After my episode of “false labor”, which the OB reassured me
was ‘extremely common’ and ‘still productive even if it didn’t turn into actual
labor’, I anticipated that my cervix would have made some change. For those not familiar with pregnancy/
anatomy / medicine or have never seen a movie with a pregnant woman, the cervix
is a sphincter at the bottom of the uterus that holds the baby in. It is tube shaped normally but thins out and
then opens as the uterus violently slams a baby’s head into it repeatedly. In a rather terrible exercise known as a
cervical exam, a qualified medical provider (well, hopefully) jams their entire
hand up there and spreads their fingers apart to estimate dilation – how big
the hole is, and effacement – how well the tube is transitioning to its
ultimate goal of a CD shape.
Apparently my cervix is very competent. I may be only average at lots of things, but
when it comes to keeping babies inside of me, I excel. After my due date and one episode of false
labor that was followed by several days (yes, days) of regular contractions my
cervix was still a nice thick tube with an opening of only one centimeter. Who knew that I had this potential for
greatness? What a thing to learn just in time for my 10 year high school
reunion – looks like I now have some bragging material.
So we trucked along as my due date came and went and I
continued to grow more and more pregnant and passed the time googling things
like “how to break your water at home” (long story short – don’t), “how to
evict a freeloader”, and “what if I’m not really pregnant but just fat and
somehow all the ultrasounds are wrong and nothing is ever coming out” to no
avail.
At that point, you go to the doctor about once a week so
they can confirm that you are indeed still pregnant and, I’m assuming, elicit
bribes as you beg them to induce labor.
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