Ok. So on Wednesday, I was just about 37 weeks pregnant and feeling…well, pretty good about things. A teensy bit nervous about going into labour at Shoppers Drug Mart or something, but otherwise pretty good. The chance to have a home birth was in sight, and I started to get all excited about relaxing in my bed post-birth with my new Little Lady lying on top of me, all wee and awesome. Warm fuzzy feelings were all around.
On Thursday, I went in for a precautionary ultrasound. I had been measuring small for a few weeks, you see, and while this is normal for someone with a bicornuate uterus, I still wanted to be sure she was growing properly, had enough fluid etc. So I asked for this one. Why, why do I do these things? Anyway, so it turns out that Little Lady is breech. Head thrust into my rib-cage, bum jammed in my pelvis, legs crossed like a little yogi breech.
This news was delivered to me in a sort of off-hand way by the ultrasound technician. She figured I knew. I didn’t. I left the clinic with my little picture feeling completely at a loss. The home birth option was gone. Indeed, the natural birth option seemed gone too. The term ‘C-SECTION’ started flashing across my brain and I began to feel ill.
You see, one of the big bonuses of having a second kid, I thought, was having a slightly better idea of what to expect. Yes, natural, drug-free labour terrifies me, but at least I know what it is. More to the point, I know I can do it. Because I friggin’ did it. I don’t know anything about c-sections or breech vaginal births. I don’t know how I feel about them, what they feel like, any of it. Do I want to shoot for a vaginal delivery, knowing that an emergency c-section could be just around the corner? Or do I want to schedule a c-section, knowing that there is always the (however small) possibility she could turn and come out just fine with much less pain and hassle? Major abdominal surgery does not appeal, but somehow I can’t get my mind around the pain that giving birth to a baby ass first is likely to be. GAH!
So now I’m back at square one. The small ounce of comfort I was getting out of having personal experience is gone and I can’t get it back.
To add insult to psychological injury, I’ve had a wretched cold for the last week, one which for the last couple of nights has kept me up all night hacking and vomiting. This has resulted in two problems. First, I am now being asked to make a decision regarding my new “birth plan” and I can’t think clearly enough to make a piece of toast, let alone decide the method of transportation my baby should take out of my body. And second, I’m an emotional over-tired basket case, who sobs over an accidental over-squeeze of toothpaste on her toothbrush.
In short, I don’t know what I want to do. I’m scared half to death of what lies ahead in the next couple of weeks because I don’t know what lies ahead in the next couple of weeks. And I am acutely aware of my inability to handle medical stress when it comes to my own person. Gods help me when I get old and have a real problem. Yeesh.
Of course, this will all be fine and funny in a couple of months, I can feel it. And I’m stupid excited to meet Little Lady. I just have to find a way to get through the next couple of weeks without falling off the edge, mentally speaking.
The yoga mat calls, I think.