It's 2:00 AM by the time we get to labor and delivery, and we are admitted by the world's bored-est nurse. Should this be taking 20 minutes? I compliment her nails and she comes ALIVE (this cracks me up). We follow her to the room in which I will spend the next 36 hours without a baby. Just...let that sink in for a moment.
I undress; I robe up. The nurse hooks up monitors to my belly. She checks my cervix. Nothing has changed since we were with Randall earlier, so I am still at a dilation of 1 cm (biiiiiiig whoop). We start the first round of Cytotec to soften things up down there. And then: we wait.
I shiver because it's freezing in this hospital room (again, why are they all so cold??), and the nurse offers me a warmed blanket. Joseph and I are both exhausted, so we go to sleep as quickly as we can. I set an alarm so that I can wake up in a few hours to grade those tests.
After a few hours of sleep, I wake up and start grading like a madwoman. Joseph wakes up with me, bless his heart. While I create grades on paper, he enters grades online. Once I've finished B1's tests, my dad picks them up and takes them to my school. This is not the first time I've felt overwhelming gratitude for my support system, and it won't be the last.
Over the next 24 hours, my body obstinately refuses to kick into birthing mode. Apparently it knows 37 weeks is a little early (no $#!t, Sherlock). We're not allowed to start Pitocin until I dilate to at least 2 cm, so we continue round after round of Cytotec; it's just not doing anything productive. I have very regular and very mild contractions all day long, and I grade papers right over the top of them (literally since this hospital bed table hits my belly at a weird level). Baby's heartbeat is the soundtrack to my day, and now I'm so accustomed to it that I can't picture having not heard it this entire pregnancy. Around 11:00 AM, I send the next urgent stack of tests to the school with Joseph and I learn that I have dilated to 1.5 cm.
Now that my students' tests have been delivered, I can nap a bit and yoga-ball a bit and eat a bit and read a bit. I don't know why Randall said so urgently to "eat a good meal" and "take a hot shower" last night because it seems I'll get plenty of chances at those before this baby arrives. My blood pressure is mostly normal all day: annoying, since that's why we're here. Things get boring enough that I go back to grading more papers (something I said I'd never do), and I wonder absently whether I might be allowed to go to my baby shower after school ends (answer: no).
As we near the 18-hour mark in L&D, I find myself feeling pretty frustrated. As far as I am able to understand, induction has thus far failed. I'm worried about it continuing to fail and resulting in a C-section delivery (my worst-case scenario, although I recognize it's a privileged point of view to have). I'm annoyed that I wasn't at work today. I'm confused at why this was soooooooo urgent? Because it feels like more waiting than birthing.
My family comes to visit, and I cry a bit to them. I feel bad for my birth story having taken up Jenna's entire birthday, and I feel sad about not gifting her a baby at the end of it. My mom (who is a nurse) agrees that my day has been a little confusing. At least Bri brought me my favorite salad! But no dressing because until this baby is born, I'm still lactose intolerant. Womp womp, this day probably cannot get worse.
When the nurse comes to start yet another round of Cytotec (now apparently with my parents and two siblings along to watch), she takes one look at my face and asks if I have questions for her. I explain my confusion and ask if we can get a doctor update. Mostly I want to know if he's heard that saying about doing the same thing and expecting different results and how that's called "insanity"?? Randall is busy with another patient at the end of his long day, but she says she'll just wait until he's available. She is in my corner and I love her for it.
Randall says he'll call me when he's free so that we can get back on the same page. I wait and wait for the call, and just when my family is about to leave (despite wanting an update pretty badly), he suddenly comes into my room! I cry a bit more, so he explains that although it's been slow going it's not bad going. We're not headed toward a C-section, not even close, not yet, not at all. Because we can afford to take it slowly, we will. And baby is doing well, and I am doing well. This is just an early induction for a body that has never practiced the skill of birthing. Yes, I need to stay in the hospital, even if it seems like nothing is happening. He's guessing things will pick up overnight, and if they don't, we'll adjust plans in the morning. I'm still annoyed, but I'm also comforted.
Randall leaves. My family leaves. I feel a little snotty and make some (mild) demands: I must take a shower. I need some snacks. If we're starting Pitocin at any point in the night, I want a meal first. And am I allowed to leave this room? My nurse is in my corner (again and still), and she helps me with every request. The other nurses on the floor are surprised when they hear the shower water; apparently people don't usually stay in L&D long enough to need a shower!
When I'm finally clean and fed, Joseph and I hunker down for another restless night in the hospital. The waiting seems to stretch infinitely in both directions: we've waited forever, and we will continue to wait forever. Right? (This is foreshadowing.)
(To read chapter four, click here.)
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