Last time I saw my doctor I fibbed a little. Just a little white lie. Nothing that would hurt anyone. I convinced her that the last time we discussed it she’d said that I could have my c-section August 6 instead of August 1. She balked a little and I convinced her that it would be fine; she’d do the section and her colleague would discharge me four days later as she was off to Texas to take her child to college. It was all good.
I was thrilled. August 6 would have taken me to 39 weeks 3 days, as close to term as she would possibly allow me to go. August 6 would have given M a full four weeks of physical therapy before having to be Mr. Single Dad for 4 days. August 6 would have given us another 4 weeks to find a name for this kiddo. And August 6 would have given me an entire week off. An entire week all to myself, where my only responsibility would have been to sit on my patootie and rest. (I mean seriously, when was the last time you had an entire week to yourself? No kids? No work? My point exactly.)
Did you notice the past tense in the last paragraph? That’s right. August 6 would have been perfect. But it wasn’t meant to be.
This afternoon I went in for my 35 week check-up only to be greeted by the chipper nurse who excitedly told me that she’d scheduled! my! c-section! On July 31st.
“That’s wrong. It’s August 6th.” I responded completely deadpan.
But it wasn’t wrong and I spent the next 20 minutes fighting tears. (Stupid ass pregnancy hormones.) The hospital ORs were fully booked. Every day between July 31 and August 7. Or, you know, reserved for those lovely people who get to just go into labor whenever they feel like it. (Not that I’m bitter about the lack of VBAC options at my hospital. Who me?)
My baby will be born on July 31st. In three weeks. At 38 weeks gestation. At the beginning of my week off. Clearly I still haven’t come to grips with the change.