Labor

That Sunday in April dawned sunny and warm and earlier than usual for me, a woman who prefers sleeping late to rising with the chickens. I lay in bed alone, since I had forced my poor husband to the guest bedroom weeks before to make more room for all the pillows I needed to support my voluminous shape, feeling the cramp-like pains in my abdomen. Small at first, there was no denying what was happening. I was in labor.

After tip-toeing to where my husband slept - who I was trying not to wake I'll never know - I slipped into the warm bed with him and whispered, "It's happening". There we lay in the growing light, he with his arm around me as we spooned, and we giggled like children on the first day of school. So much anticipation and uncertainty. We were a bit giddy with it all until the first waves of real pain hit me. Maybe he was still giddy, thinking back on it I'm sure he was. I, however, was decidedly not.

Phone calls were made: Doctor, parents, sister. Showers were taken, his quicker than mine since the warm water was helping with the pain of my contractions. And the weight of what was about to happen was settling on me. Showers always help when I'm pondering weighty issues.

The dogs were packed up and driven to the kennel where I was working at the time. My boss decided he wanted to chit chat while I sat there in the front seat, gripping the door handle with every contraction. The contractions were coming faster and faster so idle chatter, never my forte even with those I know, wasn't happening on my side. By the time we convinced him small talk was a bad idea the contractions were only 3 or 4 minutes apart. It was definitely time to go.

How different from just the other night, I thought as we drove away. After a dinner of takeout pizza I had started to feel a few contractions. I was pretty sure I was in labor then, but no matter how many people assure you "you'll know when it's happening" when it's your first baby you'll always second guess the experts. This could be it, right?

Turns out it wasn't.

That Sunday, that was the real thing. I felt every bump and turn on the short drive to the hospital. Every shake of the elevator as it stopped at different floors. We sat in front of the reception desk as the nurse behind it eyed my small-ish belly.

"You're full term?" she asked.

"And then some," we answered, smiling. A difficult pregnancy had left me smaller than normal but it was no big surprise that a daughter of mine would take her sweet time entering the world. No matter she had little room in that womb of her own.

We made our way down to delivery. By this time, the contractions were coming fast and hard. The pain! Why didn't anyone tell me about the pain? No matter that they probably did. Can anyone really prepare you for that feeling? Would I have wanted someone to?

Settled into bed in a delivery room, we answered all the appropriate questions and filled out all the appropriate forms. I was hooked up to machinery that bipped and beeped when finally they asked, Would you like the epidural?

Would I?

Yes please. Can I have two?

We sat and waited for the Anesthesiologist. And waited. And waited. It's a busy day here, we were told. He's swamped unfortunately. Not exactly what you want to hear when you're ready to bite off your own tongue.

That's when he walked in.

To be continued...