I saw the baby doctor today. I intend to see the baby doctor two more times. The third time I see her, I will also see my daughter.
“If you don’t go into labor first,” the doctor said.
I made a fake scared face.
“You know,” she laughed, “about once a year, I have a patient with a history of c-sections go into labor and end up with a fast vaginal delivery.”
And then I made a real scared face. I’m about as ready for a vaginal delivery as I was for a c-section my first go round, which means NOT AT ALL. I’m okay with the c-section, now. After a respectable depression from failing at natural child birth with Julia and a blissful c-section delivery with Lucy, I came to terms with my surgical destiny and it’s a place I don’t mind living. This is why I’m fully convinced I’ll go into labor and give birth to Phoebe in the car on the side of the road next to a cow field in Amish Country.
This is me with three weeks to go.
She’s coming early, I just know it. She’s got nowhere else to go. I don’t think I can get any bigger.
I was shocked to discover I’d gained next to no weight since my last visit. The belly tape measure said I’d grown inches, though.
“It’s all that amniotic fluid,” the doctor growled when we couldn’t get Phoebe’s heartbeat on the monitor. We could see her kicking and rolling around under my skin, but even when we finally heard her heartbeat, it was so faint and muffled – going at a perfect rate, but far, far away, buried beneath amniotic fluid that I feel might burst out of my belly button at any moment.
I’m like the not-Veruca Salt girl in Willy Wonka. You know, the blueberry girl that they had to roll down to the juicing room. I don’t want to be juiced, though. I’d prefer a surgical procedure.