39 Weeks

39 Weeks

Time has rushed by and I am now over 39 weeks pregnant with no sign of this baby making an appearance, despite having convinced myself she would be super early.

There’s only 6 days left until my due date and I am remembering the excruciating wait from my last pregnancy, where Violet came 5 days late.

For someone with extreme lack of patience, I am finding it increasingly frustrating. We tried the old fresh pineapple, spicy curry and long dog walks amongst other things (you know what I’m talking ’bout) but to no avail. To add to the issue, The Chef is, obviously, a chef and if you know anything about hospitality you’ll know all about The Month of Satan (not Santa), as we like to call it. December is relentless and inescapable, so the later she comes, the more pressure it puts on him and, crucially, the less time he is going to be around with us.

All this seems trivial, however, when I start to remember just how much of an absolute fanny I was during my last labour and realise just how terrified I am of doing this again.

My pregnancy with Rose came with lots of complications – she was breech, on the small side and hadn’t enough liquor surrounding her to turn – and so I didn’t even get the chance to go into labour before I was booked in for a planned c-section, a week a half early. Though it was utterly terrifying at the time, I was a naive 18 year old with no clue what to expect, and as such was offered a lot of support and guidance. I had an absolutely amazing consultant who was a perfect balance of patient, respectful and kind. Best of all, he was never patronising. As such, that birth seemed like a breeze in comparison to what came next.

When it came to Violet, I was adamant that I wanted a VBAC. Looking back, I marvel once again at my naivety. I’ve always been a massive wuss when it comes to pain and I wonder how I thought that labour would be any easier than the limited selection of pain types I had experienced throughout my life. I can’t even do a hangover without spending all day wallowing in my bed.

I started having contractions on the Wednesday evening and went into hospital about 3 times before they would admit me. Despite there being a perfectly adequate hospital at the end of our road, I was so anxious about the birth I insisted that I wanted to be in same hospital as I’d had Rose which was about 15 miles away. The adrenaline of each hurried trip to the hospital meant that my contractions slowed each time I got there and in the end they only admitted on the Thursday because I refused to go home again. My labour was slow, so after having a spectacular dose of pethidine they left me to it in a private room, only to return hours later to find that I was really rather dilated and needed to go to the labour ward immediately. Less than three hours later, there she was, born in the wee hours of the Friday morning. She had got a little bit stuck on the way because her head was facing sideways (apparently that’s a thing) so my moans of “I can’t push anymore, I caaaaaan’t do it” had some justification to them.

Knowing what I know now, I don’t have blissful ignorance on my side and so all I can do is put thoughts of labour into the ‘to do’ pile in my brain. This method – which is usually so effective with other important matters – has small benefit, so I would welcome any tips or advice you have with managing both impatience and pure terror.

I’d also love to hear your birth stories. I don’t often talk about mine here on the blog, but always love to discuss and compare experiences. You can leave a comment below or contact me directly at indigowilderness@gmail.com if you don’t want to comment.

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