I went to the doctor today, hoping to be greeted in the exam room with a bottle of champagne, a box of See's candy, and a bouquet of gerber daisies from my nurse practioner as she exclaimed "SUPRISE! We're going to induce you today!"
And then I woke up.
In reality, the visit started off business-as-usual. I was strapped up to the monitor by two thick velcro bands that wrapped around my belly, each with a different sensor being pressed against my skin. For forty five minutes, I laid in various positions on the scratchy white paper that covered the examining table, with the whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of Reagan's heartbeat nearly lulling me off to sleep. A strip of pink paper was feeding out of a printer showing the steady rise and fall of Reagan's heartbeats in perfectly even waves. There was a line on the other side of the paper with jagged peaks spaced between straight lines, like a seismograph, that was tracking contractions. Between the two was a solid line, straight with a few very small bumps.
It was the middle line that concerned the nurse. She had me roll over to my side, and then the other side, and even gave me some Hershey's Kisses to eat. The center line, the line that is supposed to track fetal movement, stayed placid. It was very uncharacteristic of Reagan, who usually acts like she's already going to be one of those chronic pencil-tappers or foot-bouncers, the people who annoyed you in class because they just can't effing sit still for thirty seconds. Every time the doctor pushes on my belly, Reagan usually pushes back. If they've got the Adult Contemporary station turned down in the examining room, you can barely make out Reagan taunting "Wanna wrassle?" into the Doppler monitor. A mellow Reagan is just not a Reagan.
Because of that, I've got to go back to the doc tomorrow for what's called a
Non-Stress Test, which is basically where they monitor the baby to see her heartbeat responds to stimuli. The name comes from the fact that it's a non-invasive procedure which doesn't stress the fetus.
Oh yeah, non-stress! No stress at all! My baby's not moving, no big deal. THAT'S ABSOLUTELY NOT STRESSFUL AT ALL FOR ME. Of course I'm concerned about the baby's well being, but what the hell kind of stress could Reagan be under? Maybe she's getting a little worked up over the fact that a bunch of strangers are going to see her bare bum when she's born, or she's really sweating the decision of which parent to puke on first? (For the record, I nominate Dad.)
Maybe that last part was a bit too cavalier. I'm extremely aware of all the things that could go wrong at this point, all the ways that a fetus actually
can be under stress. I've worried about all the what-if-she's-being-strangled-by-her-umbilical-cord and what-if-they-need-to-do-an-emergency-c-section, but the doc assured me that her heartbeat is strong so she's ok, she was probably just sleeping, but they don't want me going through the weekend without a double-check.
I still walked out of the doctor's office and cried to Chris on the phone, scared and stressed and exhausted and grumpy all overflowing from my tear ducts and reducing me to a sniffly whiner. I hung up the phone and was in the process of wiping the wet mess off my face when, like a little whisper of reassurance, I felt a flutter in my stomach. There she was, just a little kick, a little "Hey Mom, don't worry!" I smiled and teared up again, calmed. Then she proceeded to do an entire breakdance routine, causing extreme discomfort and being more than a little show-offy. I called Chris back, to tell him that not only was his daughter fine, but also a bit of a punkass.
At first, I thought that strange quality in his voice was relief, and then my Wifey Radar was able to hone a more accurate description: it was pride.
"Oh good, I'm glad she's moving now. You had me so worried!
(Pause.)
Yup. She's
definitely a Cantwell."
