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Labour Part II

March 12, 2012

Part I

Now the rest of this story is probably going to get very fuzzy.  The truth is, I don’t really remember much of what happened once my contractions started.  I have a vague recollection of the sequence of events and a lot of this has been pieced together from what Milk has told me, and from my contraction timer on my iPod.

We started timing contractions.  There’s an app for that!  They were about five or six minutes apart, very intense, but once they faded, the back pain remained.  Yup, even though the Littlest Hobo was positioned well, I was in back labour.


Here is a piece of advice.  If you are about to go into labour, avoid eating one of your favourite meals, if you would like it to remain one of your favourite meals.  I started throwing up.  A lot.  I will never be able to look at fried onions again.  If I pass them on the street, I will fidget with my cellphone, and avoid eye contact.  If they call out to me, I will pretend I didn’t hear them.  Fried Onions will probably be confused, but if I keep up the silent treatment, eventually they will get the hint.  They, along with fish eyeballs and Aero Mint (in what shall be forever known as The Maggot Incident – ’nuff said) are now on the list of foods I will probably never eat again if I can help it.

By 1:45, they were mostly three and a half minutes apart, lasting about a minute each.  Occasionally they would slip back to six minutes, but on the whole, I couldn’t tell the difference between a contraction and my backache.  The only difference in the level of pain was where it was located (everywhere) and what my brain was doing (nothing) and how many words I could get out (none).

Time started to do weird things.  Milk asked when he should call the midwife again.  I remember looking at the clock and saying “Twenty minutes?” (more numbers out my ass) He replied with “Okay, I’m calling the midwife now.”  Just as I was about to yell at him –  I freaking said twenty minutes, dammit! – I glanced at the clock and realised twenty minutes had actually passed.

We called the midwife just before 3am.  She asked a few questions, but there was a “geez, first time parents” kinda edge to her voice.  Finally, she decided she would pop over to our place and check on me.  She was at our house by 3:20am, and watched me for a bit.  She checked my cervix and said I was at 3cms.  She gave me the option to either stay at home a bit longer, or go to the hospital.

This labour proudly sponsored by Salvador Dali and a lolcat.

The original birth plan I had in my head kinda went like this:  Stay at home for as long as possible, go to hospital and do whatever is necessary to have a healthy baby.  I probably could have hung out at our house for a while, but there were two reasons I decided to go to the hospital asap. Due to all the discomfort I had experienced during the last few weeks of my pregnancy, I hadn’t really done much around the house (okay, I hadn’t done much around the house the entire pregnancy, the slatternly housewife that I am) and I really didn’t want the midwife stepping in dust bunnies the size of a brown bear.  That was the first reason.

The second reason was one of the comfort measures Milk and I had discussed: the whirlpool tub in the labour ward of the hospital.  Wait, no, that should be ☆The Whirlpool Tub☆.  In my mind, during the first few hours of back labour, I built ☆The Whirlpool Tub☆ into a magical, mystical, ‘mazing piece of awesomesauce that would take away all the aches and pains and would transport me to Cuba* where I would drink a Tom Collins, while lying in the sands, soaking up the sun.

After throwing on some clothes, I started the long walk to the car.  Our garage isn’t connected to our house.  It’s around the back of the building, maybe a 30 second walk when you’re not having your spine replaced with molten mercury. When you are, it’s a slow, agonizing shuffle that lasts infinity times a billion.

Driving to the hospital wasn’t fun either.  The hospital is literally a five minute drive from our house.  I briefly considered walking there as part of my birth plan, but Milk pointed out that it would be the middle of January, and where would the hospital bag go?  Lucky I married the man before some other flake snagged him.

While he swears that he did 10km/h under the speed limit, to me, sitting on a towel in the backseat, it felt like I was on a roller-coaster built by someone who has had too many Monster Energy Drinks.  Again, time warped like taffy in a taffy pulling machine and I swear I was in that car long enough to claim my pension.  I was going to turn up at the hospital and give birth to a middle-aged matron.


*I’m Canadian.  Cuba is our Hawaii or our Spain, but with rum.

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