I had done everything. I had hung upside down off my couch. I had gone swimming. I had played music, shone lights, talked convincingly in my best soon-to-be-your-mama voice. I had even smoked my toe (which is not what it sounds like) and gone for acupuncture (I HATE needles). EVERYTHING. Except scrub the kitchen floor on my knees, because who wants to do that 9 months pregnant?
He was still breech.
Last stop: OB’s office. I had waffled, but only a little bit. I had heard how much it hurt, but I didn’t care. I was willing to try it to get this babe turned around so I could attempt a natural birth.
“External cephalic version” is just a fancy way of describing the process where a doctor, under fairly specific circumstances, grabs baby’s head and bum from the outside and tries to force him to flip around. I figured it sounded like a lovely way to spend a Thursday afternoon, so after getting the scoop from him on how it worked, how long it might take (not very) and how good my chances of success were (not very) we decided to go for it.
My husband and I gamely trotted out to the hospital and I had the mandatory pre-version ultrasound. I think it was my 6th. Yep – there was the little bugger, still not head down.
The tech did a bunch of wiggling and pushing and prodding with the ultrasound wand and then started making noises about fluid levels.
“There’s one big pocket over here,” she said, which apparently counted for however much it is when it’s not enough at that stage of pregnancy.
She prodded some more but ultimately decided to get the OB to take a peek.
More prodding, more squinting at the black and white monitor.
Ultimately, the word came down.
“You don’t have enough fluid to attempt a version,” the OB told me. “In fact, he probably needs to come out. If he weren’t breech we’d probably induce you, but you’ll have to have a c-section. Would you like to do that today or tomorrow?”
Gulp.
We picked “tomorrow” primarily because it was past 3 p.m. and I hadn’t eaten since midnight the day before and I was capital-S starving. Plus, you know, I wasn’t really ready to have my abdomen sliced open right then and there.
This day, this event, this conversation has stuck with me. What if I had gone home, chugged a whole bunch of water and checked again? Would that have made a difference? What if I had just said no?
The stories about being educated and having a say in your birth experience leave me both feeling empowered and haunted. There was a lot I didn’t know at that time. I, like so many women, skipped the c-section parts of my pregnancy books. I didn’t know anything about fluid levels, I just trusted my midwife and the OB.
I will always wonder.
Maybe drinking water would have made a difference. Maybe it wouldn’t have. Maybe this is just the way it was meant to be.
In any case, I didn’t go home and drink water. I had one last lunch/dinner with my husband and my mom and went home to ponder what was coming next.
I should have just scrubbed the damn floor.
This post is in response to a prompt from The Red Dress Club:
“Water gives life. Water takes it away.”
