I had my 41-week appointment on Tuesday. I’m still pregnant. I’m 2.5 centimeters dilated. Nothing much else has changed. My doctor went ahead and stripped the membrane again. I requested it, even though I am sick with a terrible cold. And while the idea of going into labor and having to push with snot flying out of my face makes me kinda wanna die, I am ready to be done with this.
My brother and I went out for lunch directly following the appointment and I had some pretty intense contractions. But once we started walking back to the subway, they stopped entirely.
Speaking of the subway and other public places, I keep finding myself having the same conversation with strangers.
“When are you due?”
“Last week.”
At that point they usually let out the type of laugh accompanied by a gentle punch to the shoulder. You know, an, “Aww shucks! I bet!” type of laugh.
It’s like when you ask your boss when they need the project and they say, “Yesterday!” and you laugh because you totally get it. It’s of the utmost urgency! They need that project done, like, YESTERDAY.
Like that.
And then the stranger says something like, “Oh, yeah. It gets really hard at the end. You just want it to be over already. Soon. Soon!”
No, really. LAST WEEK. I think to myself. But I’m too tired to explain that this project was actually due last week and this kid ain’t paying a lick of attention to his boss.
CUJO: YOU’RE FIRED.
Yesterday, the conversation changed a bit. Em and I were at the indoor playroom and the woman behind the counter asked me when I was due.
“Last week.” I said.
She actually gasped as did young man sitting beside her.
“You are joking!” She yelled this. “But… but you look so happy! Why do you look so happy?”
“Because I’m drunk.”
Dead silence.
I had a non-stress test on Monday morning. The baby is totally fine, as is my blood pressure. The right amount of amnionic fluid surrounds him. All is well within the womb. That’s probably why he’s in no hurry. I have another non-stress test tomorrow morning. Here is a picture I took while hooked up to the monitors.
I swear I’m not voguing. My left hand just didn’t know where to go. I’ve been suffering from that a lot lately—what does one do with their extremities?
“Yeah, but you gotta put the other arm somewhere. You can either lay on it or shove it between your bodies. The only other option is to stretch it above your head. But sometimes my arm pops out of socket when I’m sleeping like that. So I was constantly searching for someplace to keep my arm…” –Brody
The annoying part about the non-stress test is the nurse kept coming in and pointing out all the useless contractions I was having. She was excited. I was not. I’ve been having useless contractions for weeks and weeks. Practice contractions! Dress rehearsal! I know one name this kid won’t be given: Braxton. Braxton = non-commital pussy—a useless piece of shit.
(Y’all do know I’m joking, right? I am not really THAT angry. And to anyone named Braxton: I am kidding. You are not a useless piece of shit but you might be a non-commital pussy.)
I don’t know what to say. I’m in holding pattern, purgatory. I’m a host. I don’t even feel like I really exist right now. I’m just waiting. I can’t do much. I can’t go far from home. I’m a zombie. But I do have a cool cat.
This is how I spend most of my days and nights.
I have a creature taking comfort on the inside; I have a creature taking comfort on the outside. I’m a host, a giant, fat zombie host.
Mornings are most difficult because they punctuate a most restless sleep. Everything seems pointless come morning, which is strange for me because I have always been a morning person. I love morning. Not right now.
At this point, induction is looking more and more appealing to me. I’m exhausted. And my exhaustion leads to tears and tears lead to more mucous and snot and congestion and I’m sick of all this snot.
Something has got to give, like, yesterday.
Mihow 
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