Maggie Moo's Big Debut: Part Two

October 21, 2009

Gosh that title has a nice ring to it.

Anyway...where was I? Oh yes, dinner.

Dinner was excellent, the contractions stayed light but regular, and the conversation? Well it was out of this world. If I remember correctly, I had some kind of bleu cheese and walnut salad, and capped it off with a big, fat slice of lemon cake--soaked in heavy cream.

Hey now, cut me a break. I was like, "If these contractions mean anything at all then the diet starts tomorrow. So bring me the cake and try not to give me any shiz when I make a big production out of licking the plate."

After dinner we drove the 70 miles back home without so much as a drop of drama. I didn't pee in my pants, my water didn't break, the highway patrol didn't catch my baby--it was totally and completely uneventful, just as I knew it would be. But, based on my suspicion that the real dramatics would ensue momentarily, we opted to leave James over his Grammie and Grampy's house for the night. The last thing I wanted was a 45-pound, self-proclaimed superhero swooping in during my time of need (wearing nothing but his homemade cape and a sopping wet pull-up).

We got back to our house, and I swear on all things beautiful, that the moment I stepped through the door, the contractions picked up. They were coming about every seven or eight minutes, and although they were still weak enough to let me bitch at Jared right through the peak, they were getting stronger.

In between the contractions Jared and I would shoot the shiz about nothing much. I'd be like, "Why did Grey's Anatomy have to turn so stupid?" or "You should always get your hair cut by gay men--it turns out so much better." or "No, seriously Jared, I want to be the fresh, new face of acupuncture. I want to be the poster child."

And then during the contractions I'd be all, "Why don't you ever sweep?" and "Is it really so hard to close a cabinet door?!" and "I wonder how much money my ex-boyfriend makes as a corporate attorney in LA...." Jared was having a really great time.

Somehow, maybe around midnight? I managed to sleep for an hour or so--time started to blur, so I really can't remember. And then, sometime in the middle of the night, one-ish? Two-ish? The contractions were strong enough to wake me up.

Jared started tracking them on contractionmaster.com--which, I will freely admit, seems like an incredibly lame idea, unless you're in the throws of labor--and sure enough, they were five minutes apart and getting stronger every go 'round.

WARNING: And here's where the story gets a little bit heavy (and graphic) for a couple of paragraphs, but bear with me, we all know it has a super happy ending...

Somewhere in the middle of the very hazy time-space continuum, I had a really strange contraction. Strange in that it lasted for four-and-a-half minutes straight without letting up. As soon as it was over, I got out of bed and said, "J, I have to use the bathroom." And I walked down the hall while Jared stayed in bed.

To be quite honest, I didn't know if I needed to pee or needed to poop, I just knew I needed to do something--and unfortunately, it turned out to be neither. I sat down on the toilet, and had the strong sensation that everything in my abdomen was dropping, or falling right out. The feeling is really hard to describe, but I can tell you that the only other time I've experienced it is when I unexpectedly miscarried a baby at 18-weeks. Not good.

I looked down, and sure enough I was bleeding everywhere. All over the place.

**And cue the uncontrollable screaming**

Since I lost the baby last fall, I've heard every sad, heartbreaking, horrible pregnancy loss story that there is to hear--and honestly, with every fiber of my being, I was terrified that my baby had died. If nothing else, I've learned that anything can happen to anyone--I am no exception.

**And cue the loud, dramatic pleading with God**

Jared shushed me--it's the only thing he could manage to do--and called the hospital directly. My doctor called us back about four second later, and told us to come in immediately. There was no need to call an ambulance, but make no mistake about it, we weren't to let that speedometer drop one iota below ninety miles-per-hour.

And we didn't. In fact, we made the thirty mile trip in approximately twenty-two minutes--definitely a new personal record. But still, the longest twenty-two minutes of my whole, entire life.

As we were driving, the contractions continued to gain momentum, to the point that I could no longer talk through them. So, I did what any scared-out-of-her-skull, in-labor woman would do.

I took to humming.

At the beginning I was humming anything that moved me--tunes that I composed myself, and sue me for showing off here, but they were really pretty good. Then, within in five-or-so minutes, my ditties had clearly morphed into Yellow Submarine by The Beatles--not the chorus, just the verses.

I hummed and hummed and hummed some more, and then, in between contractions, Jared finally had the nerve to pipe up and ask, "Are you humming Yellow Submarine?"

And I was like, "YES!!!"

And Jared was all, "How come?"

And I was like, "Because... I FEEL LIKE IT!!!"

"Well then you should keep on humming," he replied.

"No," I spit. "You should hum FOR MEEEEEE!!!!"

He laughed.

And I was like, "HUM, DAMN IT!"

And he did.

But it wasn't good enough. He kept screwing up and humming the chorus.

Ugh. Men. Can't live with 'em, can't get your ass to the hospital without 'em.

To be continued...