5 Oct

It’s October. My baby will be one later this month. Happier times of her birthday will happen once I processed everything after the blessed event.

I find myself wondering what I would have told myself this time last year.

“The baby kicking you shouldn’t hurt you like that. Like it matters, there’s no way to prevent what’s coming. Brace yourself and don’t let your last meal be Teddy Grahams and milk, because telling that to a dozen sets of scrubs is embarassing.” “And clean your house”

About this time last year, I was on house arrest. Not quite bedrest, but activity restricted and out-in-public restricted after the mystery fever that hospitalized me for a night. Of course I was nesting like a mad woman, just because of exercise restrictions, I’m sure.

I was getting weekly biophysical profiles, passing with flying colors every time. I was getting cocky. I thought I was going to make it without any kind of complications, that all of the precautions would have been completely paranoid. The big gala was coming up and we were all operating under the assumption I would be there, I even bought a dress. An induction date was set.

Best laid plans of mice and whatever. Hubris. I had it. I even had grand plans of not doing the epidural at all! HA!

I had less than 24 hours of pitocin after the birth/surgery and I was hooked up to a morphine pump and couldn’t deal with it. God bless the childbirth martyrs that go up on that cross.

I’m trying to process all of this still. That’ll involve getting the whole sordid thing out. Later.


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