I did not read What to Expect When You’re Expecting. I was purposely keeping myself uninformed and hence – I would be thoroughly surprised by absolutely everything that was happening to me. The exhaustingly well informed might refer to this as ignorance, but I ask you – did they share my bliss? I think not. And thus, you can now fully appreciate the sheer magnitude of empty headedness that accompanied me for the duration of my pregnancy.
My first ultrasound visit was a complete disaster. Imagine if you will – this special moment in a woman’s life where she has absolutely NO control over her bladder, and then a demand is made that this woman drink what equates to about 4 litres of water. This woman is then informed that she CAN’T use the washroom (perhaps ever again). Wretched evil ultrasound technicians then PUSH on your lower abdomen with their magic wand, paying particular and vigorous attention to the area DIRECTLY over your fully loaded and pulsating bladder. You lay there squirming and grunting over the sheer agony of it all and then, with tears and snot streaming down your face – they expect you to get fucking excited about what they’re showing you on the screen? I have noted the tremendous advances in technology that have occurred in the last 32 years since I was pregnant. You can even see your child sucking their thumb – mine looked similar to the grainy TV footage of the first landing on the moon. What I saw looked nothing like a child – but rather a small freaky alien.
My next misstep saw me entering into the realm of Lamaze classes. I had a moral dilemma on my hands, as this went against my “know nothing” philosophy and threatened to sully my “bliss”. Unfortunately my GP insisted that I attend the classes. I entered the Lamaze class with a high degree of skepticism as well as dread. While I was in fact 19 years old, unfortunately I presented as a rather well nourished 12 year old. There were approximately 10 adult couples in the class – and me. The Instructor, in an effort to create a safe and happy atmosphere for this inaugural class thought it wise to show us a video depicting an easy birth and then what she referred to as a “challenging” birth. I have never fared well with scary movies. I remember as a child being unable to take a bath for weeks after seeing the TRAILERS on TV for the movie Jaws. She also should have taken into account that there was a child in the room – ME. I’m not entirely sure what sort of sadist this woman was but god help me, I didn’t even make it through the easy birth. It was all just so AWFUL. I could feel my head starting to spin and quite suddenly, without any warning, I threw up all over myself. I later mentally checked Lamaze class off my list.
During my second trimester, my GP started becoming alarmed about the amount of weight I was gaining. In six months, I had packed on approximately 70 pounds. He seemed incapable of viewing matters from my perspective, a 63 pound baby meant I had actually only gained 7 pounds – he failed to find this amusing. I simply could not stop eating – and the small freaky alien growing inside me was hoarding all the food. I was told I had to curb my eating habits – words that cut to my very core. Food was the one thing I had been ALLOWED to do and now this too was being taken away? Pregnancy indeed sucks…
My parents were finally on speaking terms with me again, but it was a really strange relationship we were having. They acted the same towards me, however; they refused to verbally acknowledge that I was pregnant. I would waddle into their house (all 70 extra pounds of me) and my mom would talk to me about the usual stuff – who had died that week or if the plum tree was producing well that season. I understood that having been adopted – maybe this was uncharted territory for her and so, I just accepted the situation and tried not to feel hurt.
Matters progressed into the third trimester in a similarly uneventful manner. My feet were so swollen, I was blowing out a pair of jelly shoes a week – sometimes twice weekly (not that I could see my feet). My MC Hammer pants were now capris as the larger my stomach got, the shorter my pants became. My due date was July 21st, and I was utterly convinced I was having a girl. In fact, I was so certain, I hadn’t really even considered boy’s names. I had been reading The Talisman – a book written by Stephen King and Peter Straub. This book was more fantasy than horror and in it was a character named Captain Farren. I absolutely loved the name (without the captain) and knew that this is what I would call my little guest.
At roughly 12:30 am, on July 22nd, I began to go into labor. I did all the things I thought I should – walked, cleaned, ate chili and still my mucus plug hadn’t fallen out, nor did my water break. Finally, once my contractions were about 5 minutes apart – I thought I should probably go to the hospital. Once at the hospital, I really struggled with whether or not to call my parents and let them know what was happening. I finally placed the call to them and the conversation went something like this:
Me: “Hi there – I’m at the hospital and I’m probably in labor”
Mom: “Oh, ok – well, let us know what happens”
Me: “?????????????????????????????”
Two nurses came in to see me and they were both exceptionally skilled in dealing with pregnant children. I explained that I really wasn’t sure what was happening, that I was having contractions but I suspected they must be Braxton Hicks – which my GP had warned me about. I also mentioned that I had not lost my mucus plug, (something I appeared to be obsessed with as I viewed this plug as a CORK of sorts – keeping that baby in there) when after examination I was informed that the mucus plug was long gone. Oh why must things not go as planned? I was also advised that my water would need to be broken as this still hadn’t occurred. Once this messy job was completed, and just to strip away any remaining dignity I had left, I was informed that I had to have an enema. The nurse suggested that after my enema (which they wanted me to hold in as long as possible – I lasted about 3 minutes) that I should have a shower. After all this – I was dressed in a clean hospital gown when all of a sudden, a powerful contraction inexplicitly propelled me onto all fours on the washroom/shower room floor. So there I was, with my bare (but squeaky clean) ass hanging out, looking perhaps as though I was searching around the floor for a lost item (my misplaced DIGNITY comes to mind) when suddenly, I glanced over my shoulder and saw a man with a look of sheer horror on his face starring at me. He had been searching for his wife (who was having a cigarette in the smoking lounge) when he made the ill fated decision to check this room, since the door was always left open so that the nurses could keep an eye on things. I often wonder if this poor man still feels as traumatized about this as I do?
It was around this time that I decided that I was just NOT going to give birth to this baby. It could just stay where it was…
The Accidental Parent 