...how just when you think you couldn't be more indecisive about something, life throws you a curve ball that makes things crystal clear.
Today was one of those days that will go down in history as one of the most annoying of all time. My doctor's appointment was at 2pm, and for the bazillionth time this pregnancy, I had an NST scheduled. Tom met me at the office to look after Sam, despite the fact that he has an action item that must be closed tomorrow, a major design review next week, and a holiday on Monday that means the office will be closed all weekend. So it was the worst possible time imaginable for John to have a completely non-reactive 20 minute episode. Nevermind that the last 40 minutes of the test was textbook perfect and wonderful. The doctor sent me to L&D anyway for a CST.
He also mentioned my c-section on the 3rd and didn't really discuss with me whether I still wanted it or not. Actually, I was starting to lean toward trial of labor, just so I could say I'd done my due dilligence, and wanted to ask him which scenario benefited me most medically, but I find it impossible to carry on intelligent conversation while a doctor manipulates my cervix, so I didn't get a chance to bring it up.
All the better, because a couple of hours later, I was hooked up to a bag of pitocin and wishing for death. When I was induced with Sam, I was on pitocin for hours before I felt so much as a twinge with him. I didn't feel a single labor pain until my doctor broke my water. The contractions were palpable but even they just felt kind of funny.
This time, it took about 20 minutes, and I felt like someone was stabbing me simultaneously in the pubic and tailbone with an ice pick. AND THERE WAS NOWHERE TO GO FOR RELIEF. I sat there in my narrow hospital bed, my right arm restrained by an IV, a contraction-monitoring belt around my waist, and a blood pressure cuff on my left arm, needing to get up and pee, or shift position, or something, and not being able to move. Who needs waterboarding when there's induction of labor? The whole time I was sitting there, I had this primal desire to scream, a soul-expanding, gut curdling scream of rage and hurt and wrongness. I totally understand why trapped animals gnaw their limbs off in order to free themselves from certain death. I would rather have major abdominal surgery and the subsequent recovery any day than spend another day strapped to a bed, filling up with pain, with no relief in sight.
I wondered if I was imagining my pelvic pain and worried about something that mattered very little in the grand scheme of things, but now I know my gut instincts were correct. Contractions don't feel "right" and my pelvis is not going to tolerate labor without a whimper. It took no time at all before I was in agony. My gut says c-section, so I'm going with my gut.