The only way out is through

Early this morning, around 4am, I woke up in bed and had to use the bathroom. And I thought, "No, I remember what happened LAST time I was 36.6 weeks pregnant and got up in the night to pee! My water broke!"

And since I am not ready to have this baby, I stayed in bed. Such is the irrationality of 4am. And pregnancy.

(Literally: this is the day I was in labour with The Boy, this far along in my pregnancy exactly.)

The doula suggested to me some weeks back that I spend some time visualizing the birth of this baby. With great positive results, as in, no interventions, just a nice peaceful birth. I'm into this. I think positive visualization is a great thing -- for me, it involves thinking positively for once, when I'm usually consumed with negative thoughts. Which regardless of the outcome and / or effect of positive thinking, is a good thing.

And while I was able to do this a few weeks or even months back, I can't do it now. I have spent some time over the past week trying to do this, because, hey, let's face it: birth is something that will likely happen in the next month. Even in the next few days. And each time I try, my mind skitters off in another direction. Onto something usually completely unrelated. And it's been frustrating.

And then I realized what the problem was.

I'm scared.

Scratch that. I'm f*cking terrified. See, the last time I went into labour, things went swimmingly. My water broke, and I went through early labour with nary a pang -- or at least, nothing more painful than a cramp here and there. And then when things got serious, it only lasted just under three hours. I went from probably 3cm dilated to 10cm and ready to go in under three hours. It was an intense three hours, to be sure, but hey -- three hours! No problem!

And then everything stopped. And it stopped going well. And there was no pushing, and the contractions went from intense sensations to OMG I'M GOING TO DIE painful, with no progress on the baby, and it took eight hours ... EIGHT HOURS ... of interventions, drugs, pushing attempts, and God knows what else (my memory is hazy!) to get the baby out.

What's worse, no one else seemed to be able to figure out the problem either. Not the nurse, not the midwife, not the obstetrician on call who eventually was called upon to deliver the child.

I distinctly remember only two things from those eight hours: 1. The panic of feeling like something was going wrong, but I had no idea what, and no idea how to fix it and 2. my first words when the baby was placed on me. Not: hello! not: wow, my baby! No. My first words were "it's over!" and I bawled like a baby.

A few weeks ago, if someone had asked, I would have shrugged and said -- well, come on, it's unlikely to happen again, and if it does 1. I can have a c-section and 2. well, I made it through last time, I can do it again.

But now all I can see is the terrifying side of it. The emergency c-section (because it would be), the epidural (which freaks me out when not in screaming pain from labour. I mean -- hello! Injecting something into your SPINE? Seriously??!), the complications, and the recovery -- oh, GOD, the recovery when I was unable to cope without morphine from all the bruising / trauma for three days and the four days after that when I didn't get out of bed and ... well, the lots of other less pleasant aspects of having a baby. And this time? THIS TIME I get the knowledge that my four year old will be freaked out by the loss of mommy and while I'm trying to get the strength to sit up he'll be desperately clingy and whiney and difficulty because his little world has just turned upside-down and he's scared as hell because mommy isn't getting out of bed and playing with him like normal.

And then -- ha ha! -- there'll be that small person to deal with too.

And so it's no wonder I don't want to think about it. I'm in denial that I'm going to have to do this at all. Don't babies just stay where they are? I can't just be pregnant for the next, oh, fifty years?

Although that's not much of an option either. Considering that putting on socks has become a major feat of gymnastic skill.

So I'm 37 weeks tomorrow, officially, and at that point we're good to go. Baby can arrive at any time. Baby likely will arrive reasonably soon (if by "reasonably soon" you mean "a few weeks" since let's face it, I'll be induced in early May if nothing happens by then. And that's only a few weeks away.) And I'm not quite sure what to do about this fear.

Logically speaking -- which is a rarity for me, heh -- logically speaking, there's very little I can't do for 24 hours. Which is about the longest I'd be allowed to go on trying to give birth without major interventions. And however scared I am of major interventions, at least the baby would be out and it would be over. Which was a major relief last time.

Logically speaking it's likely to be easier to get a baby out the second time given that one came out the first time in that manner which typically makes the second easier.

Logically speaking there's no reason why my body can't do this, even if it didn't the first time. If I try to relax and let my body do what it needs to do, it will likely just do it. I do have faith in the ability of any woman's body to give birth naturally, even my own, even if it doesn't always work out that way. Which it didn't. And often doesn't for some reason or another.

Logically speaking with a midwife and a doula and some experience and a good hospital, there's no reason to expect a negative outcome of harm to me or the child.

Logically speaking my four year old will get over his clinginess soon enough and won't be overly traumatized by it.

Many many years ago, I was taken hiking in the Lake District in England by a kind relation. We were on what was actually quite a difficult trail over a peak, and I was neither equipped nor in shape enough to really do it well. It was a wet and foggy day, and when we got to the rocky trail to the peak, we couldn't see where we were going, and there were sharp drop offs from a slippery wet trail to either side. I was terrified. My legs shook with every step, and I desperately wanted to turn around and go back, but we couldn't: the way back was every bit as treacherous. And I remember at one point thinking to myself, "The only way out is through" -- as in, the best way to get out of this situation is to plough through it. And I found some renewed strength, hiked the top of the peak and down the other side. And felt amazingly accomplished because of it.

And I think that perhaps that's the only way I'm going to make it through this birth. There's no going back on having the baby come out now. One way or another, before a month is out, this baby will no longer be in me, and it's got to come out some way or another. And I think perhaps I should just take my son's window crayons and scrawl on every window and mirror on the house, "The only way out is through." One way or another, I'll make it through this birth. Or rather: just one way. The only way out is through.