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So, I sit here in bed, with tears streaming down my face and feeling super suck ass.  Yesterday, I had my second attempt at a version to move the kid to a head down position. He has been breech for about a month.  He was totally fine before but I went in for a midwife appointment and there his little head was, wedged up by my right ribs and making it nearly impossible to tie my shoes of put pantyhose on. Even underpants are hard to do, but luckily mine are all black, cotton thongs and I can just hold them out in one hand and whip ’em around one foot and then kinda jiggle myself into them. I’m sure it looks pretty sexy.

My first version attempt was Saturday.  It was at 10 am and I was told to not eat after 2 or 3 am. I woke up starving, but that’s okay too. It was for a good cause. I later learned it was pure torture for absolutely nothing.  They did manage to turn my little man, after 5 excruciating attempts, from breech to transverse but several hours of strong contractions later had him right back to butt-side down. I know many people have seen video of an external versions before. If you haven’t, you should look it up, it actually looks pretty easy and painless.  The girls who are having it done may grimace for a second or two but overall, they are fine.  Please, if you are wanting to have this done, understand those chicks, the ones who do not look like they are in agony, have been given pain meds and or an epidural.  I wasn’t offered either at my first version.

To get through it, I imagined I was being tortured in a dungeon. No, that doesn’t really get me off or anything, but it did kinda take my mind off of it a little.  I’ve watched “The Tudors” a lot over the past few months so I have a very vivid picture in my head of what the interrogation room looks like, so I just went there in my head and pretended I was a proud criminal and wouldn’t let my torturers know they were hurting me. Silly, but effective. I left very bruised and a little disappointed because my stinking kid didn’t do much but at least I didn’t divulge any secrets during my torture session.

After that awesome torture session, I decided I needed to hire a doula. The nurse assigned to me was really, really great but had she not been, I would have been up shit creek. My partner was supporting me but what I really needed was my mom or a mom or someone who had female organs at least supporting me. My partner, as pregnant as he is becoming (seriously, he has cravings, he is tired all the time and he is newly gassy too) he just can’t understand the types of pain and discomfort lady parts can cause. He tries to understand. I’ll give him credit for that, he deserves it. Luckily, I found a volunteer doula service in my area that had doualas who wanted to do it, but not enough mothers who needed them.  I was pretty stoked when I stumbled upon that and sent an e-mail introducing myself and telling my story and sending them over to my blog so they could kinda see what they would be dealing with. After one day, I got a response! She’s new to the area and still working on certification, but she wants to be my doula! Awesome.

That was Tuesday, so we set up to meet on Thursday and yesterday I went in to another hospital to start my screening process for a vaginal breech delivery. Sounds gross. Well, while I’m there, I’m told I will need an MRI to see if my pelvis is big enough (fine) and an Ultra Ultrasound (fine) and an interview with one of the department heads (fine.) The hospital didn’t have the stats on how many of these vaginal breech attempts are successful but considering they are the only hospital in the Pacific Northwest who will do it and I don’t have a homebirth midwife who will do it and I’m not sure I want to do breech at home unassisted, actually, I’m sure I don’t want to do it, it is my only option unless I want to have a c-section.

I know that c-sections are routine now. I know they are done every day and they are quick and relatively safe. I also know that I don’t get a prize for a vaginal delivery (I was told that yesterday by an OB/GYN) but I also know that it is Major Abdominal Surgery. It is a surgery where multiple layers of muscle are cut into and then an organ is cut into and something is removed. That is major. It takes weeks to recover from it and it also can poison my milk supply and compromise mother/infant bonding. I look at a Caesarean Section as a brilliant tool to save lives in an emergency. But, I will only allow one in an absolute emergency. Like I have told all the OB/GYNs that I have had to deal with: “If I have a section, it will be a crash section and you will get to save a life or two, for real, this time.”

After I finish up with the initial appointment, I wander up to labor and delivery for my second version.  I’m told this time, it won’t be just the external, because if that didn’t work after five tries that it’s not going to work with him being a few days bigger  so they are going to have to do internal as well. Upon hearing this, I imagine a gloved hand, covered in lube, shoved into my who-who pushing up on my bowl-of-oatmeal like cervix to push the little mutant up and out of my pelvis while someone else tries to spin the kid from the outside.   Horrified, I ask the Lady Dr what she means by internal and she quickly describes to me just what I had been imagining plus adding that the other person will also be doing the ultrasound to check position and heartbeat. Super. She also suggests I get an epidural because it hurts.

This is a totally unknown fact about me for most people. I love pain pills and pain meds in general (okay everyone knows that if they know me) but I don’t take them very often and I usually only take them when I can be asleep for a long time because sometimes they make me itchy and sometimes they make me crazy. Like totally, bat-shit crazy. Screaming one minute, crying the next and for sure telling people they just don’t understand me. It’s like I become a 14 year old and it’s not pleasant for anyone. So, yeah, if I take pain pills for fun, I take them alone and watch “Sponge Bob Square Pants” and think about how the pizza I just ate is going to be in my colon for a week because I’ll be constipated for days after taking the pills.  It really is a lot more fun than it sounds like. Really. However, I don’t take pills if I have to be awake or make decisions or have to deal with people. So, no pain meds for me. I did agree to some Ativan though. Unfortunately, it didn’t do much but make me sleepy.

While all of this is going on, my partner is texting with the doula who had contacted me. She had never been to a version and even though we had not met in person I thought she might like to join the party. She didn’t. No reason given at the time so we just went through it ourselves, just like last time.  We did fine.

In retrospect, I see that they may have gotten the kid to turn if I had taken the epidural. They would not have been fighting against my steel-like abdominal muscles to turn him.  I tried as hard as I could to keep my abs loose but it just wasn’t possible for me. I still had a little bruising on my tummy from the time before and as soon as they began, I was in agony. Again. Add to that a hand up my girl and it was easily one of the most painful experiences of my life. Well, physical pain.

I had wanted to do a little work on my hands and knees before we started, just to get the kid moving but my parter vetoed that for some reason.  I say some reason, because I really don’t know why he would have a problem with it. He got flustered when I asked him why he thought I shouldn’t and mumbled something about me being impatient and annoying the kid. I really didn’t understand what that had to do with it but I was tired and hungry and didn’t feel like fighting so I gave in. Clearly, a doula would have helped here. I don’t see how I’m going to birth the way I want to without someone validating my ideas.

I know how crazy this sounds. I have been making my own decisions for such a long time and now, when I’m not just making decisions for myself but for my kid, I’m questioning myself. I’m full of doubt. Part of it is that my body is failing right now. I feel like I’ve done something wrong because I’m breech. I feel like my body doesn’t work right. I feel like there is something wrong with my kid or he is stupid or something. Doesn’t he know he is suppose to be head down? It’s the only fucking thing he is suppose to do and he can’t do it. But then again, maybe it’s me. Maybe there is something physically wrong with me that is preventing him from doing what he is trying to do. Maybe I’ve been laying down too much or maybe I’ve been laying on the wrong side or not walking enough or maybe my uterus is fucked up. Maybe it’s my diet. Maybe I’m not drinking enough water. That is what goes through my head. That is why I feel like throwing in the towel and  having a baby with a perfectly shaped head and just having him removed from me. Because I’m a reject. I don’t work right. I can’t do this.

Oh, I digress.  So we leave the hospital. My partner is bugging me to call the doula. I don’t want to. I don’t feel like having another person I need to “keep in the loop.” She didn’t want to be there or couldn’t be there or whatever and that’s fine. I knew I was going to see her the very next day anyways so I could tell her what had happened. No big deal. He keeps at it though and then texts her or calls her himself all the while getting annoyed with me because I don’t feel like dealing with anyone. I don’t want to talk, I don’t want to explain, I don’t want to rehash. I just want to eat again (they did let me order off the room service menu and then let me eat it an hour after the glove came out of my girl) and go to sleep. I’m told when we get home that I missed a call from her so he dials the number and puts the phone in my hand. It rings and rings and rings. I hang up. He gets on me for not leaving a message. We go to the market and get food because our fridge was empty and still he’s on my ass about needing to talk to her. I tell him I still have to e-mail her our address for the meeting and I’ll tell her what is going on then. He’s not satisfied with that, but I’m focused on making our dinner and going to bed so I just ignore him.

I awake this morning to find my e-mail returned. The doula will not be able to come over after all. She thought about it and because she isn’t certified yet, she doesn’t want to waste her time working with me because an unassisted birth, if I am lucky to have a body that works right by the time the kid comes and am able to do that, won’t count for her certification. She had told me before that that wouldn’t be a problem. She told me that she was interested and would love to help me do this. She may have been interested and may have believed she wanted to do that at the time.  I’m trying not to to be a baby about this. I understand. But I still can’t help feeling like a reject. Even a professional support person doesn’t want to support me. How fucked up am I?



A couple days ago, while I was out driving around my new town, trying to figure out where things are and find cheap casserole dishes and maybe a cast iron pan that had been cast-off, I was struck by sudden hunger.  This has become normal.  I often find myself suddenly struck by things.  The need to pee is common as is the urge to drink water and food so it wasn’t terribly shocking. But, the strength with which the urge came upon me was a little amazing.  The dear-father-of-little-creep was with me.  Because we had been living 1000 miles away from each other, he had only heard second hand accounts of this phenomenon. I’m pretty sure he didn’t fully appreciate how insane these needs really are.  He’s been pretty sympathetic with the constant bathroom trips and that when I need to go, I need to go.  Not in five minutes, not in ten, but now.  When I realize I have to pee, we’ve got about 2 minutes to get me to the nearest restroom or wooded area so I can go.  If not, I will suddenly need to sneeze and out it will come and then I still have to pee, but now I’m also sitting in my own quickly cooling urine and that is no fun for anyone. I had not realized the bladder was connected to the nasal cavities, but the proof is in the pudding or the puddle, so to speak if you want to be gross. I do. I want to be gross. I figure, these are the only months in my life when I can be totally disgusting and it’s okay.  It’s not my fault after all.  I am on auto-pilot here. My auto pilot just so happens to be set for course for gross.

Being on pregnancy related auto-pilot isn’t so bad when you are at home, in bed as I was for several months.  I wasn’t prescribed bed rest or anything like that. I’m incredibly healthy and the pregnancy is moving along very smoothly. I just didn’t want to really get up to do anything.  I would only put clothes and make up on because being in pajamas all day made me feel trailer trash and dumpy.  It’s is hard enough looking like humpty dumpty naturally, without exacerbating it with dirty, stretched out pajamas or other such lounge wear.  Also, if I’m wearing pajamas, I’m not wearing a bra and my tits are huge and heavy.  Because gravity doesn’t get weaker during pregnancy I have to keep the girls hoisted up.  It’s not so much an issue with them looking bad now.  They look fine.  I just don’t want them to get used to the stretch and then even when they are not so full of tissue to hang down to my belly  button or have to be lifted to fasten a belt.  Is that petty? Probably, but I’m pretty sure I don’t care.  So, daily, I get up, I brush my teeth, wash my face, do something with my hair and put actual clothing on.

Because I no longer live in a house with two smelly dogs and one cute, little, perfect dog I find my clothing doesn’t get quite so dirty so I can just keep recycling them.  Well, until I splatter bacon grease on them or finally decide the knees have stretched out too much and not look like they belong on elephants and not me. I’m still doing leggings most of the time.  I did wear leggings most of the time before I was pregnant and I see no reason to change that now.  I just wear bigger size leggings.  I would really love some leather leggings but I’m pretty sure $1000 for legging I will wear for just a few more months is maybe a little silly.  They would look hot though. Well, as hot as one can look 6 months preggers or more. Which, pregnancy fetishists aside, isn’t that hot.

When I’m at home, no matter how I’m dressed, I can really push the envelope when it comes to going to the bathroom or eating something because if I went to far, relief is only a second away.  I’ve been known to grab a slice of bread while waiting for my egg and toast to cook or sprint to the bathroom and fling myself on the toilet when I’ve waited a bit too long to relieve myself.  Inevitably, I sneeze halfway there and then I have to sprint while trying to hold my legs apart so I don’t get pee running down my legs. Yeah, that was really gross. Sorry.  But, while out, I don’t have those options.  In order to get some food, I can either go through a drive thu, which I avoid because I really don’t want my infant son to have tits from the phyo-estrogens in the soy products that act as fillers in almost all fast food items or to have digestive problems and behavioral problems from the corn syrup that is in all those items as well.  Best not to start that while I’m still pregnant.  I know I won’t be able to control what he eats his whole life, but while I’m all knocked up and keeping him safe in my belly, I can. Even going to a restaurant takes too much time to get the food on the table.  Hell, finding a parking spot takes too much time. Usually, I carry some sort of starchy something with me all the time.  This, more than anything, makes me feel like I’ve become a mom.  I used to always have a flask with me.  Now I always have a banana or maybe a pack of crackers.  The other day, knowing that I was going to be out all day, I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,  an apple, a banana and a few slices of cheese.

I never used to worry about food.  I was always a non-issue in my life. I ate when I was hungry and more often than not, if I was eating outside the house it was with friends and it was more like picking at the food and gulping down drinks.  I guess those are the changes everyone talks about.  The little creep totally forced me into it.  He’s in  control. He’s the pilot of this ship. I’m just the passenger. No, wait, I’m just the ship.

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