This is becoming the theme of this pregnancy, of this Christmas season, of my life.
This afternoon I had my pre-surgery testing appointment at the hospital. The nurse asked how I was feeling and I gave her an honest answer. No polite small talk here. I felt wretched and let her know. She led me to the little room where they take your blood and make you answer a bunch of questions and whatnot. And then partway into her roster of questions, she took another look at me: “Are you sure you want to have surgery tomorrow?”
“No.” I hesitated. I hate changes of plans. I abhor last minute changes of plans. But having a baby tomorrow was not sounding like a good idea.
So she picked up the phone and talked to the doctor on call, who agreed that they could reschedule my surgery. And then she left the room for a minute and came back with a new plan: Thursday at 2pm.
I am not happy with this plan. But I am not feeling good enough to protest. The nurse abandons her pre-surgery routine and instead shows me to triage where they do a non-stress test that shows Lucia is doing just fine and when that is over a doctor releases me to come back Thursday.
Shucks. I was really looking forward to having a New Year’s Eve baby. It took a long time for that date to sound right; but over the course of a month it really grew on me. But it was not to be. I should have learned this one with Anthony, babies come when they come, even c-section babies.
So now I have a few more days to rest and recuperate, to maybe set things in order, to fret and to fuss and to grow nervous. A few more days I didn’t want but I guess I need.
Unless, of course, labor starts on its own. The waiting game.