Not Tonight, Sweetheart

Today I went back in for my weekly checkup. As anticipated, Lisa -- the PAC who's done all my checkups for the past month or so -- waited until the end of my visit to drop the bomb: "You know," she said gently, "we'd really like her to come out today."

She must have heard how the conversation went with my favorite nurse, because she didn't look altogether surprised when I smiled and replied, "I'm sure."

The unmistakable this-might-prove-more-difficult-than-I-thought look came across her face. She made only one brief attempt to work the medical angle, noting, "Your sonogram showed that you have polyhydramnios--"

"-- which can simply mean I have higher levels of amniotic fluid," I interjected. "That isn't news to me. Dr. D had his nurse tell me that I had 'plenty' of fluid but that the levels weren't anything to worry about. Is that not the case?"

("Polyhydramnios." In that instant I was reminded of how halitosis was actually a medical-sounding word invented by the advertising department of the makers of Listerine so that people would think of bad breath not as an embarrassing hygiene issue but an actual disease that required medical treatment... namely, theirs. Hmm.)

She admitted she hadn't personally seen the numbers from the sonogram in question, and didn't press the issue any further. We talked a bit longer -- a very pleasant exchange, if not one that brought the results she'd been hoping for. I told her what I'd learned from the studies I mentioned in the last entry, assured her that I was keeping a keen eye on all my readings, and that I'd call them on my way to the hospital the moment any of those started looking unfavorable. She relented.

We stopped into the lab on the way out for one more blood pressure reading, and from around the corner I heard her sigh deeply before saying, "I couldn't talk her into it."

Dr. D looked around the corner to see me grinning at him. "So," I asked him point-blank, "I'm negative for preeclampsia, the baby's readings are still fine, my blood pressures and blood sugars are still okay, my fluid levels aren't dangerous... and the only reason you want to induce is because you think she's big?" He too got a turn to stare blankly at me as I quoted the medical studies from his own colleagues that supported my position. "Listen," I went on with a smile, "if I make it to Week Forty-One and I'm not showing any more signs of progress, we'll probably talk about scheduling a cesarean."

"We don't have to do that," he was quick to offer. "We can try induction..."

...but as the words left his lips, I was instantly back in the delivery room three years ago where, after fourteen painful hours of chemically-driven labor, we discovered I hadn't made any progress and was going to require a cesarean. In all that time I didn't cry out once from pain, but I will never forget the sound that I made -- the low wail that emerged from somewhere deep inside my aching body and crestfallen spirit --  when I learned that I'd chosen one difficult thing in hopes of avoiding the other, and instead I was going to get both...

Fighting back tears, I raised my hand and took a moment to regain my composure before I replied, "I honestly don't think I could handle another induction attempt. If it comes down to it, I really think I'd rather just skip to the surgery."  Dr. D, who knew about my last birth experience, read my expression and nodded understandingly. Then he said the most beautiful, unexpected words I'll probably ever hear from an obstetrician: "I'll do whatever you want."

"Cool," I told him with a grateful smile. "See you Monday."