T-17 days. Fuckety fuckety fuck.

24 Mar

So, I’m booked in for an elective caesarian. The term “elective” is used for any c-section where the surgeon isn’t opening you up in a full-on hurry in the corridor, as far as I can tell.

I can’t say I truly elected to have major abdominal surgery, but considering the alternatives it seems the most sensible course of action.

As I may’ve mentioned in passing in my last blog, this pregnancy hasn’t been the best 250-odd days of my life. I just want it to be over. Now. I hate it. I feel sick, tired, hurty, fat and slow. Like an asthmatic, obese, mentally deficient tortoise.

And this baby is huge. “Fucking massive” I believe the technical term may be, according to tape measure, ultrasound and palpation. He is also transverse (sideways) and has been for at least 8 weeks. This all makes for a difficult natural labour (to put it mildly).

The risks include damage to the umbilical cord or placenta or the baby getting stuck on the way out. Hardly ideal. I calculated that there’s a reasonably high likelihood of having to go go through the stress and increased risk of an emergency section so I may as well book in for an elective. So that’s what I did.

But now I’m fucking terrified. Not of the surgery itself, but of the loss of control of the whole birth process and, even more so, the recovery process. I’m shit at sitting around doing nothing, I have a Duracell powered 2 year old and I won’t be able to drive. It’s going to be difficult. Also my husband is squeamish, hates the mere thought of the surgery and goes a whiter shade of pale at the mention of a Caesarian. Helpful. (Personally I love all that and would happily watch the surgery if I could. I’ve been told sometimes you can see the reflection in the stainless steel lights).

It’s a big and serious op, but it’s done every day and it’ll be over soon enough; and I’ll have the added bonus of no longer being pregnant. Yay. Pregnancy and I are finished. It’s over. I mean it. I know loads of women say it, but there is no way on this green earth I’m doing this again. Bye.

So, if in a moment of genuine insanity, drunken stupidity or emotional longing I ever even vaguely insinuate that I want another baby, please punch me as hard as you can. In the face. I’d hate that.



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