The last three months of pregnancy passed in a bit of a labetalol and self-imposed modified bed rest haze. My blood pressure and my weight both started skyrocketing - more or less simultaneously - and so I was put on medical leave from work around the time that I found myself in so much back pain that I couldn't walk three blocks to the drugstore. It was a rough winter anyway, with frequent snowstorms and freezing puddles on every corner, so I built myself a nest on the couch with Netflix and my home blood pressure monitor and waited for April 7th.
Sprout must have gotten tired of watching the same twenty or so episodes of Parks and Recreation over and over, though - by Saint Patrick's Day, my blood pressure monitor was giving me the blinking heart icon. Translation: call your doctor, mama. After two consecutive high readings, the on call doctor told me to head into Labor & Delivery for a little bit of monitoring. Throughout the pregnancy, I'd joked that I wanted a "high intervention" birth experience. In my first pregnancy, those long weeks between the first hint of doom at the 7 week ultrasound and the final confirmation at 11 weeks were sheer torture - I couldn't imagine any c-section recovery could be worse than that. I would happily trade my hopes for a vaginal birth, my curiosity about what labor feels like, the exciting "honey, it's time" moment and even the "I am woman, hear me roar" natural birth merit badge for the absence of that terrible anxiety.
Lucky me, that high intervention birth is exactly what I got. At L&D triage, they connected me to the fetal monitor and the blood pressure cuff and took some blood for lab work. After an hour or two, a nurse popped by to let me know they would be releasing me soon - my b.p. was elevated but not terribly so, and as soon as they got the lab work back, they'd be sending me home to rest and hydrate and monitor it on my own. Thank God! I was starving. I wondered whether or not I could get away with grabbing dinner at McDonalds on my way back to the subway. I was sure the sodium wouldn't be in my best interest, but I was fantasizing about getting two double quarter pounders and combining them into something that I would simply call "The Pounder." I was so deep into this fantasy that I could almost taste the tangy dill pickles when the nurse came back and told me that they'd decided to admit me for the night. You know, just for observation. I texted my husband and asked him to bring my hospital bag, but no rush! (And maybe smuggle in a burger or two, if he wouldn't mind. Extra pickles.)
A second nurse came by to escort me to my room - a spacious delivery suite with a pretty view of the hospital courtyard. "Here's a hospital gown and socks," she said, "and you might want to take a shower before you put them on. Once we get the induction started, you won't be able to shower again. Have you eaten yet? If not, I'll try to find you something because you'll be on clear liquids only once we insert the Cervadil"
"Oh, no," I laughed. "You must have picked up the wrong patient from triage! I'm just here for observation."
She confirmed my name. "No mistake," she said. "The doctor decided you're getting induced tonight. Settle in and I'll get you some dinner."
I texted my husband: On second thought, YES RUSH!
I took my shower, pulled on the cozy anti-skid hospital socks and climbed into bed to watch a few inspirational episodes of Keeping Up With the Kardashians. My husband and my tray of cafeteria food arrived simultaneously, and after a hearty last dinner of oily baked chicken and grayish green beans, it was time to get the party started. Someone came in and inserted the cervical ripener at 6 pm. (I think it was a doctor, but there were so many people in and out of the room at that point, it may have been the anesthesiologist, a random med student or possibly even the orderly who came in to pick up the dinner tray. Over the next 48 hours, the list of people on earth who had seen my vagina more or less quadrupled; apparently there's no room for modesty in a teaching hospital.)
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