“You’ll be having the baby by tonight, if not tomorrow.” The midwife’s voice bounced off my exhausted brain. I was 36 weeks as tears began to stream down my face. Kitchstar just failed the diagnostic test 10 being the best, scoring an all time low 3. My birth expectations were miles away from a cesarean. It was trendy to go cesarean. I mean who wants to squeeze an elephant through a birth canal? If my mom naturally gave birth to a 12 pound baby, anyone can do it. Besides, our body was built to shift. Unless, suffering from vital complications like breach or a high risk pregnancy, cesarean was really for vanity or wuss reasons. It’s all a sham. Some women opted to bypass the pushing and tearing. A mere cop out, but that’s America we have a right to choose. In this case, I was robbed of mine.
I attended my stress test which took place twice a week. The stress test gauged the amniotic fluid and the activity of the baby. It was a normal day up to this point, they couldn’t pin point the heart rate of the baby. The machine’s data was long and windy. It’s been two hours and I’ve missed both my doctors’ appointment. They urgently sent me down for an ultrasound and said to return upon completion.
I returned from the ultrasound as the midwife called Shane and me into a room that read Delivery Room #6. By the look of the midwife and the call into the private room I sensed a prelude to seriousness. The term “exhausted” placenta followed by the underdevelopment of the baby’s lungs at 36 weeks and lack of movement hijacked with the word cesarean were all part of her explanation of why there were keeping me. If it wasn’t for my diabetes and the relation to underdeveloped lungs, an emergency cesarean would have been performed. All of this information bounced off the walls of my brain. Kitchstar was in jeopardy.
It was almost six o’clock and I have not had any food, since noon. Famished was an understatement! I kindly pleaded with the midwife if I could take a quick ride home and pick up a change of clothes and maybe get a quick bite to eat, but the wheels were set in motion. The cesarean dictated my food intake which was null to none. As I lay in bed a militia of nurses, doctors and midwives kindly introduced themselves. A split i.v. was inserted furnished with saline and oxytocin as well as continuing the stress test. Kitchstar’s heart was faint and the sheet of paper spit out mixed messages to boggle the minds of the medical world.
Meanwhile, Shane couldn’t get a hold of my sisters. My family members were missing in action. On the other hand, the Kitchens were in full blast checking in three four times an hour. You can imagine what crap I felt, because my family was down for the count in typical Cadelinia fashion. Sigh.
We procrastinated on packing the bag for the hospital. It was plopped on the floor in front of the desk. Ironically, we were in the process of putting the bag together the night before, but we thought we had a few more weeks ahead of us. Jinx.
Jill, sister in law and savior, stopped by the house to gather the essentials. To add more intensity to the situation, our new housekeeper may have placed the bag somewhere other than originally thought. We set Jill on a hunt for the bag, we mastered the art of clueless. Insignificantly, Shane instructed Jill on his hospital attire, “grab the pair of buffalo jeans or should I wear sweats, the blue sweats with the yellow stripe running down.” He turned to me, “Should she pick up jeans or sweats? What do you think?” With eyes of piercing fire I responded, “I could give two flying donkey fucks about what you are wearing Shane, I’m sure the baby could give two shits as well. Just have her pack the god damn bag Shane!” Shane quickly got back on his cell, “Jill, just pack the sweats and get over here.” I couldn’t believe the audacity of my husband! As I laid there in my finest backless hospital couture, he was more concerned about his fashion sense than the situation at hand. I could kill him right now! The whole day was shattered into pieces.
Kitchstar needed to prove to the doctor that it could jam three movements in ten minutes during a contraction. The nurses were bedazzled by my lack of emotion during the contractions, “do you feel that?” You’re having a major contraction right now. Unfortunately, I couldn’t feel myself blink. I never suffered a menstrual cramp, since my bleeding existence. I’m sure I wasn’t missing anything as I remember my girlfriends cursing the heavens of what hell they suffer. I couldn’t feel anything. They started the drip from 3 units and it was up to 27 units and I couldn’t feel jack. Shane sat on my bed comforting me in his arms and stroking my head, “Everything’s going to be fine honey, you’ll see, don’t worry.” He exerted my worries with his magical smile. I must say that the St. Luke’s Labor and Delivery unit rocked impressively. They were on me like ham on rye. I couldn’t believe it. I wasn’t worried. I was more perturbed that I couldn’t get a hold of both my sisters.
There was an explosion of excitement wanting to finally come face to face with this moment. “Always expect the unexpected.” One of the nurses reminded us. She was right. I didn’t expect this and we were thrown off course. Shane, on the other hand, was completely jazzed. He placed calls to Minniti and Kurt conveying that the baby was arriving tonight or tomorrow. I was enlightened to see that my husband was ecstatic. Simultaneously, if I wasn’t strapped to the i.v and the stress machine, I could’ve bitch slapped him for not being more sensitive to my condition. Shane one of his good sides was that he always looked on the bright side of things. Erck.
It was almost eleven o’clock as Doctor Norrell performed a third ultrasound. She confirmed that Kitchstar would be fine. The baby was moving again. Kitchstar was fine. The excitement came to a screeching halt. The circus act had come to it's finale. Her advice was to take it easy and no work from hereon in. To bed rest. All this hoopla, I felt let down as I had prepared myself to meet Kitchstar by tomorrow morning. Perhaps, the scare was a sign to get our shit together. I was busy trying to stay fit and heed this diabetes when in fact I should be nesting.
Phew! Prankster I mean Kitchstar placed a big scare on us. After being told that the arrival of the baby was at hand and for it to shift, I was a smidge sullen. This incident had made things so clear. It shifted different priorities into action like establishing our birth plan and having a plan a, b, and c when it comes to contacting family members. The next time we’ll be slightly prepared, until than Kitchstar is resting well in my belly. Countdown four more weeks.
Lesson: A wise grasshopper must master the way of folding the origami to achieve the ways of adaptation.
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