(Obligatory because I need to record it for my own memory's sake; not necessarily because anyone else is in need of it!)
Feel free to stop reading now if you don't particularly care for birth stories.
That's my disclaimer!
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For those of you who were following the pregnancy, you already know that my due date was December 3rd. I had told my midwife that I always go beyond the due date, so neither of us was surprised to see one another at my 40-week appointment. Whether or not we would see each other the following week was less certain; Gabriel, Jackson, and Elliot were all born at 40 weeks, 3 days while Bronwyn and Claire were born 17 and 14 days late respectively.
/Insert rant/ I hate that we call anything before 42 weeks "late," since it was well-known and understood for centuries that an estimated due date was simply that: an estimate! It pretty much infuriates me that we're all okay with babies coming at 37, 38, or 39 weeks, but heaven forbid we give them any latitude on the other side! /End rant/
Sure enough, I saw her on December 10th. She said my numbers all looked good and sent me home without even asking me to go in for a non-stress test, but she did set up an induction for the following week, handing me the order with the words, "I'm sure we won't need it."
I was sure, too. I've never needed to be induced before, although I'd cut it awfully close. I figured we might cut it close yet again, but surely this baby would come.
Day after day passed that week and I kept praying that the baby would come, and I felt naively certain he/she would.
Sunday night as I laid in bed, with the knowledge that I was on the schedule at the hospital for the next morning-- assuming their beds didn't all fill with other women-- I prayed, "Lord, please let labor start naturally."
The next morning I woke, very much pregnant. I had a bad headache from a restless night. I called the hospital a little after 7am to see what time they wanted me. The nurse manager was busy with a report, so I was told I'd get a call back. I was still holding hope in the back of my mind that they wouldn't have room and we would have more time.
I got in the shower, just in case I needed to be ready. Daniel knocked on the door minutes later and called in, "Whenever you're ready, they want us to head down."
My stomach kind of lurched.
I stood in the shower and I cried. Real tears.
This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. I'm a firm believer in natural birth. I don't get anxious when babies are "late," and I don't mind letting things run their course. I feared that an induction would send me down a path toward the repeat c-section that I so much wanted to avoid. Even the bad headache I was dealing with seemed to indicate doom.
I knew I could refuse to come.
I knew that would burn my bridge with a medical practice that had been very good to me.
I also knew that I was probably a ripe candidate for induction, being 42 weeks pregnant and all.
And I knew just from our conversation earlier that morning that Daniel felt a peace about the plan and he felt uncomfortable about waiting too much longer with the increasing risks of low amniotic fluid (something I tend to deal with anyway) and an aging placenta, and I knew that following his leadership in the past has always resulted in the protection, prosperity, and blessing I've needed.
I remember praying for grace and strength, two things I knew I needed and I knew I just didn't have. It probably seems presumptuous to even make the comparison, but I remember thinking about Mary. Young, first-time-mom, Mary. For the first time, I think I felt a little of what her heart may have felt as they were told there was no room in any inn for them.
This isn't the way it's supposed to be.
But God had a plan. And I felt myself strengthened in the knowledge that His plans for me are good.
I finished my shower, I sent a text to friends and sisters to let them know what was happening and to ask them to pray, and I finished packing my bags.
We left Madrid at around 9:00am.
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