an anniversary week

A year ago today I was miserable. I sat in the doctors office, refusing to cry in front of him as he ordered a stress test. As soon as I was alone in the room, strapped to a monitor, monitoring all the contractions I wasn't having, I let it go. I sobbed. I was over 41 weeks pregnant, and for the third week in a row the doctor kindly shook his head and told me my body wasn't progressing. No effacement, no dilation. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. I was frustrated and tired and anxious and as I waited for Scott to arrive I couldn't even attempt to keep the tears from rolling down my face. I was officially over being pregnant, I wanted my baby to come. That afternoon, seeing my tear streaked face and my exhaustion, and seeing nothing on the stress test to indicate any issues, the doctor took compassion on me and scheduled me to be induced that Sunday night, 16th. I didn't want to be induced, but I didn't want to be pregnant forever. And I was at the stage that only those truly over-due pregnant woman get, where they start believing they'll be pregnant forever.

I went home devastated. I didn't want to be induced. I wanted to wake up in the middle of the night with contractions, or with my water breaking. I wanted to labor at home as long as possible and then make phone calls to "rally the troops" for the big hospital announcement. But it wasn't going to happen for me. And I went to bed that night exhausted, emotional, but relived that there was light at the end of the tunnel. That regardless of how and when, my baby was coming.