F is for ...

• Friday
• Fetus
• Flip
• Frustration
• Failure

Yeah, it's been an interesting week.

Got through Monday and Tuesday, even with Michael in class.
Pasta and chicken for dinner Monday. Tuna Melts/Grilled Cheese (for Bruise) on Valentine's Day.
(Because NOTHING says "love" like breath reminiscent of cat food, no?)

Michael brought me roses. We watched "The Business of Being Born" while I sat on my Yoga Ball, trying to turn this dang baby vertex. She moves ALL THE TIME.

Wendesday, Mom had a hair appointment at a local salon (Her hair is adorable. Brandi does good work), so I went to my appointment by myself. ... Where, even though I'm healthy and all ... we found out that Miss BabyGirl flipped to breech again.
Which explained the heartburn returning. Ugh.

So, Michael and I had a day to decide what to do about this.
Our options:

• Wait (for labor) and See (where the head is)
  - Vertex = have this baby
  - Breech = try an external version (HOPE IT WORKS) and have this baby -OR- (if it doesn't work) have a C-section.
• Come in for an induction
  - If she's vertex, go for it ... Before she moves again.
  - If she's not, do an external version ... then go for it.

So, after thinking and praying, I start calling the clinic at 8 AM, when it opens.
My doctor, I'm told, won't be in until 9 ... so I wait until then. And I leave a message. Almost every hour. Since, before I make a final decision, I REALLY have a couple questions.
I end up on hold, at one point, for ten minutes. Then I hang up, call back ... and am on hold again for ANOTHER TEN MINUTES.
So frustrated that I'm nearly sobbing and ready to throw the damn phone across the room.
So I call back, AGAIN, and get through the back office ... and that gets some results.
I'm told that I should get a call in a certain time frame (and I do). Which is a HUGE improvement.

My possible yeast infection (yes! Another one! Joy! /sarcasm) is not an issue.
The version then induction has a slightly higher percentage for success than just waiting and seeing ... So, since I'm really trying to avoid having to be sliced open (Seriously, I had to avert my eyes when seeing a c-section on film ... and I have children who don't always remember to be careful and not to HURTLE HEAD-FIRST into people's abdomens ... Yes, this is self-preservation happening here), we set up an appointment for inducing.

Michael and I would go to the hospital at 8:30 in the morning ... and, I should have a baby ... even if it took over 24 hours of labor (since you never know now long it'd take the Pitocin to kick in. ... I have a friend who had to be induced, what, THREE times for one of her kiddos. When I was having Bruise and Bucket, the Pitocin didn't take until the second try ... so I knew what I was getting in for) ... and, well, then I could stop worrying about which position this BabyGirl was in. I could get on with my life. I could know that I wouldn't be in the hospital after a certain date. I could make plans to ATTEND things (like one of my absolute bestie's baby shower) ... I could get rid of the swelling in my feet and ankles (that's moving up my calves. *sigh* ... At least my blood pressure's still doing well. So, no preeclampsia. Let's do dodge that bullet. PLEASE. I hate that MagSulfate drip. Ugh.)

SO, Friday morning, I'm getting out of the shower (Michael took the day off work. Mom was staying up. Michael let me shower first), aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand there's a phone call.
My appointment to come in is, effectively, cancelled. There aren't enough rooms. (Turns out there were two unplanned C-sections that occurred.)
I was SO UPSET.
So I cried. Good thing I hadn't put on make-up yet.

Got the kids off to school, Mom left for home, Michael paid off the van and did a few errands. Picked the kids up from school ... and got a phone call that, HEY, there SHOULD be room for you this late afternoon.
So, we finished errands and got ready for the hospital. And went.

We got there, got settled in, I got my IV prep and everything ... and then we checked where BabyGirl's head was.
Under my rib.
OF FREAKING COURSE.

So, we did a version.
Imagine me (not a small girl) on my back on a hospital bed. My doctor and a midwife ALSO on the bed, pushing and shoving at my uterus. My nurse is holding my hand. Another is observing. (Yup, add YET ANOTHER person to the list of "people who've seen my ladybits. ... I used to be modest. I used to have some modicum of pride. ... That's obviously all over.)
My doctor has to take breaks to grab the ultrasound transductor (or whatever the thing is) to see where this child's head is ... And FINALLY they get her moved to vertex.
And she has her HANDS in front of her head ... so we have to wait for her to move them before starting an induction ... since if the hands are in the way, that'd be an automatic C-section. Which we're trying to avoid.

By the by, as the version is happening, I'm doing some yoga-ish breaths. Every so often, they ask me how I'm doing. "Oh ... *breath* I'm not comfortable, per se ... but it's not as bad as a kidney stone. I know that much." "If it's available, I'll take some Fentanyl now." (They laughed at that one. I wasn't completely joking. Just for the record.)
But my nurse assured me, after it was over, that I was very brave and took it really well. Sometimes the medicine (didn't catch the name. Something that starts with a B) to relax the uterus can make patients REALLY anxious, since it can accelerate the heart rate. But, hey, I was doing my YOGA-BREATHS. Even though I wasn't WEARING them, I had my (proverbial) big girl panties.

And, WOW. I can tell you that an external version?
It's not comfortable.
I was told by a hospital worker that afterwards I shouldn't be sore.
THAT WAS A LIE. I am a little sore.
... Which should tell you EXACTLY how stubborn this freaking child is.
(She gets it naturally, though. Both Michael and I can be EXTREMELY stubborn. Good thing we agree on 98% of things. Or that'd be a BAD DAY).

So, we wait the two hours to see if BabyGirl will stay vertex and move her damn hands ... so that I can HAVE this baby and deal with real life as a previously-pregnant land whale.
I get to watch Jeopardy!, which is a plus.

And then, when my doctor came back ... BabyGirl was back to breech.
(Explaining the heartburn. AGAIN.)

SO. FRAKKING. FRUSTRATING.
So, they sent us home ... obviously, we're just doing the "wait and see" ... since we've tried all other options that aren't a C-section.

Another funny thing, though, as a distraction:
This was the first time I got to meet this midwife.
And after the version, as we chatted just a little, she asks me, "Do you have a sister? You look REALLY familiar."
"No. I'm an only child."
"Huh. How strange. Because you look really familiar."
"... Do you know [Bri]?"
"YES!! She's one of my patients! That's it! You two look SO SIMILAR! And you have a lot of the same expressions!"

Yup, there's a reason why Bri and I say that we're "sisters from another mister."
Regardless of our biological orgins, this is NOT the first time that people have asked us if we are sisters.
(In fact, when informed that we aren't, one man REFUSED to believe us. Rather funny.)

But, yeah ... so I cried. A lot.
We got Subway for dinner, since I hadn't eaten since around noon.
We went home and watched a movie.

What would YOU do if your kids were spending the night at Grandma's? And you and your husband have a little extra freedom?
No, we didn't do that.
Because I was mostly crying myself to sleep.
I still look kind of like hell from crying. Since I keep welling up and having to nab Kleenexes. Ugh.
And I woke up with a headache from crying. Stupid.

I hate not being in some control of my situations. We're supposed to be proactive, right?
But, with this? Short of cutting this child out of me, there's no real control that I have.
I don't know when I'm going into labor. I don't know if my water's going to break. Or where.
I don't even know, most of the time, where this fetus's head is.

And, hey, I'm ALMOST borderline for having TOO MUCH amniotic fluid in there. (The threshold for too much is 24 ... units ... I don't know what the units are. cc, maybe? I'm here at 23.7 ... Yup. Obviously, my uterus is all "Go big or ... well, no other option there. Ha!" ... Stupid uterus.)

But, yeah ... so it's time to go grocery shopping and pick up the kids ... and still waddle around with my gross, puffy feet. Grabbing for tissues, like someone who can't control her emotions at all.
Because I'm stupid with hormones and very, very disappointed.

It'd be SO much easier if we could just turn this stupid, crazy, stubborn child and then siphon off some amniotic fluid, so she CAN'T turn any more ... then get her OUT.
But ... they're not really able to do that. It sounds like a simple, almost an elegant, solution, though.
But, what do I know? I didn't go to med school. (And I wouldn't. Too long, too expensive, and I don't like the smell of cadavers. Ugh. ... So, yeah, I wouldn't make a good forensic scientist, either. Oh well.)

I don't know if I'm fit for public. ... Since it's a little tempting to just go lie in bed or sit in the shower and sob.

Ugh. And my uterus hurts. Especially when BabyGirl decides to try to push that STUPID CRANIUM of hers NOT where it should be.
It does NOT belong in my damn what-USED-to-be-my-belly-button-but-is-now-just-weird-looking. Or around one of my hip bones.
But get it DOWN into my pelvis.
And freaking KEEP IT THERE.

Or I WILL take one for the team and have major surgery.
(But only if I have to.)
Regardless, this girl is going to be COMPELTELY AWARE of how troublesome she was in-utero.
This had BETTER be her getting the rebellious stage out of the way.

And, dang it, for putting up with all this crap, she'd better be ADORABLE and have hair with a reddish tint to it.
OR ELSE.

(I don't know what "else" is right now ... but ... well, I'll figure out something. And it'll be ... something. Yeah.)

But, hey, as Michael's pointed out ... at this point, I've met a good majority of the nurses.
And, well, it IS flattering when nurses inform you that they hope that you come back and deliver when they're on shift. So ... even though it's kinda sucky, being in and out of the hospital, I must be doing something right.

(Besides, my momma didn't raise no dumb children. I KNOW that you are NICE to your nurses. They are the ones that bring you drugs. And I have a severe aversion to pain. I avoid it whenever I can.)