Everything that I have read about the 9th month journey of pregnancy suggests that, towards the end, both mother and father to be reach a point where they “just want it out.” I must admit I didn’t think I would ever reach that particular milestone – for me the more time before the bundle of responsibility arrives, the better. But indeed we both agreed the other night that we have reached that point. Not because Kim is massively uncomfortable as the growing mass of muscles compresses her organs. Not because said growth saps Kim of her energy causing frequent napping. Not because I can’t wait for the tax break children provide. Frankly, it’s the worrying that has finally gotten to us.
Let me paint a scenario for you. Imagine that, despite the exorbitant cost and almost assured hurricane, you fly off to some Carribean island for some well deserved rest and relaxation. After a few days lounging around the pool, you head down to the local piazza and discover the BEST TOMATO SAUCE you’ve ever had. You buy a few bottles to take back to the States and head back to the resort to try and figure out how you ended up in Sicily. You carefully wrap your bounty inside a few paper bags, tuck that into a sock and then try to insulate it well inside your suitcase. And then you head to the airport, and watch as they toss your checked bag onto the conveyer belt like it was filled with packing peanuts and not little glass bottles of tasty but maximum stain formula tomato sauce. And then you have to sit on a plane for hours, in constant worrying that those bottles exploded in your bag.
In many ways, that is what pregnancy is like. Constantly worrying about something you can’t see and/or control. It eats at you, especially late in the pregnancy. Little things become tiny icebergs of worry - a small, potentially irrelevant symptom that hides hours of needless fretting under the surface. If the baby doesn’t move as much as yesterday, is there an issue? The baby has hiccups all the time, but not today – is something wrong? I just sneezed twice and then had a twinge in her knee – is the fetus in distress and manifesting it’s symptoms telekinetically through me? These are the kinds of thoughts that begin to infest your waking (and in some case nonwaking) hours.
It was within this framework that we headed in for a checkup. Our doctor’s visits have become so numerous lately that I haven’t bothered blogging about them individually. We had switched previously from monthly visits to bi-weekly visits, and now we have to stop by once a week so that they can measure how everything is progressing. They are mundane affairs – urine samples, blood pressure cuffs, Doppler readings (listening to the baby’s heart), and of course breathalyzer tests (I always pass – I never drink booze until lunch). The doctor also whips out an old school tape measure and measures the size of Kim’s belly, saying things like “oooh you are getting big,” and “looks like there’s a fundus among us!” This was ritual for us for quite some time – visit after visit.
That is until a few weeks ago, when the last test (the tape measure) came up a little short. The doctor wasn’t overly concerned, but told us she wanted an ultrasound just to make sure that everything was ok. We were pretty sure everything was, but we welcomed the thought of another ultrasound to get one last look at ChiBaba in the hopes we’d get some better, more human looking pictures. Thankfully they were able to get us in that day with the sonographer we had previously with the whole “quart low” situation. While we both liked the technician, neither of us had fond memories of the last round of ultrasounds, and so I think we both went into it was a bit of trepidation.
Kim and I reconvened for the ultrasound that afternoon, and we were quickly ushered into the sonography theater. The woman quickly went to her task, taking all the measurements necessary to confirm that the baby was within tolerable limits. While a little on the small side, the wriggling thing was definitely within acceptable constraints. We breathed a sigh of relief – everything was fine…except that our stubborn little offspring was laying in the breech position.
For those unfamiliar, the breech position basically means that, rather than hanging upside down in the womb like a normal child (which I thought was odd – who’d want to be upside for months?), our bundle of joy had wedged itself with his/her head jammed just below Kim’s ribcage, with it’s butt down by her pelvis. This is a less than ideal situation apparently, because it turns out that babies don’t come out butt first particularly well. Imagine trying to pull an opened umbrella out of a ten centimeter round hole in the wall and you can see where that would be difficult for all involved.
A breached baby is not usually dangerous for the fetus – it just means that if, when all is said and done, the thing doesn’t turn into the right position, a pretty unescapable conclusion rears its head: the c-section. Which, in our situation, is a worst case scenario. Kim wants to be drug free, and a c-section is about as opposite of that as can be. In some states, they actually administer crack-cocaine to the laboring woman to make the surgery as pain free as possible. So this looming possibility is an unnerving one for us.
The sonographer of course told us she would relay this information to our doctor, and that we could discuss with her our options. Kim prodded her a bit about what we could do to help Chi-Baba figure out the right path. She paused, and then told us to hang out for a sec. She returned a few minutes later and – I’ll never forget this – handed us some literature. “I looked up ‘tranverse breech’ on the Internet and found some pages on ways to turn the baby.” I was dumbfounded. While I like our technician, she just Googled answers off of the Internet for us.
How much do I pay for this expertise?
In any case, we left the sonographer’s with mixed feelings – the size issue was, in fact, a non-issue. But now we had this breach thing to contend with. There was plenty of time for the baby to turn, but would it? Would this whole issue cloud the big baby shower in just a few days? Will I be able to sleep at night?
Sigh. Damn tomato sauce.
