the Wait and the Hunger
The hooked-upness that is my body to machines quickly goes from amusing to irritating as the gallons of saline flowing into me begin to cause bloating and my thirst is insatiable. I cannot get up from the bed to urinate which I realize is irrelevant as I am literally paralyzed from the waist down and cannot feel any urge to do so but logic would dictate that my bladder must be full; the reality of this is also frightening, unnatural, it is necessary for Brian or another helper to shift me from time to time as I cannot move my own legs.
The hypothesis quickly becomes theory (which, for the record, is not always ambiguous: the scientific definition of theory usually equals proof -- not something I want to argue but my pants are smarty, you dig?) as an internal exam proves me dilated 5cm in only two hours and effaced nearly 90%. I am optimistic and exhausted, too exhausted to be excited, but also incredibly hungry and unable to consume any real food, another requirement on my list of broken birth dreams...apparently, though, complaining a whole lot to a bunch of folks who've grown to like you or who have to by virtue of their genetic proximity to your fetus will get you a cup of broth, which will cause vomiting if consumed too eagerly. Just ask me.
No matter; I've got my ice chips and my Tom Waits and the smell of a submarine sandwich from my doula at the foot of my bed to keep me company. The sun begins to set, the midwife arrives for an internal exam and pronounces dilation at 10cm and effacement at "99 with a lip," which signals go -- to another room.
Suddenly, the bed rails are clanked into their upright position and the buzzing becomes hopeful, anticipatory, the foot of the bed piled high with magazines and our boom box and our overnight bags, a troop of hospital monkeys surround me, manning my IV poles and wheel me down the hall to a "birthing room," which seems superfluous but whatever, it's a change of scenery. The room is considerably larger than our first one, with reclining chairs and television and table lamps instead of overhead flourescent, the high-frequency emissions of which make me mental and will, in the future, prove to do the same for the fetus.
Once we settle in, I am told that my epidural anaesthesia will be turned down, gradually, and the prophylactic IV outlet installed in the back of my hand will be used to administer a slow drip of Pitocin, the drug usually given to women for induction of labor and delivery; the point of this is to eliminate the "lip", which is a small hard spot on the edge of my cervix that won't, for whatever reason, align itself completely with the other 99% of the effacement. My body is a frustrating vehicle.
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