The Birth of the Mini, Part One: The Problem of the 7's

I've taken entirely too long to write this blog. I have a good excuse, though-- the mini-human that was in my uterus is now on  the outside. And I have, for a few weeks, had numb and tingly fingers (thank you, post-natal carpal tunnel) which makes typing not so fun. But back to the story!  This is how Mini made her grande-- yes, I used an "e" at the end of that word on purpose-- entrance into this world.
Leading up to the 14th of September my Braxton Hicks contractions had been a constant "friend," getting chummier and chummier with me, as if I'd had a DTR with them and told them I wanted our relationship to go to the next level. People kept telling me, "That's good, that means your body is getting ready!" I had been having them since about week 25, so I was feeling pretty ready to have them stop if you know what I mean.
Saturday, September 13th was no exception. Woke up huge and crampy. Rolled out of bed. I had a feeling maybe Casey and I didn't have much more time totally alone. I informed him that we were going to have a coffee date later amidst all the baby preparation in the nursery. He readily agreed. So it was set!
Off we went, late afternoon to Starbucks. We sat outside and shared a Pumpkin Spice frappuccino and pumpkin cream cheese muffin, where I told him that I was nervous about labor. I told him that I felt like I was waiting for the worst experience of my life. Casey is amazing, in case you didn't know, and an equally good listener as well as encourager. We left Starbucks later with me feeling a bit better. Not much, but a bit.
As we pulled up to the house, suddenly all the muscles in/surrounding my uterus pulled together so violently that I doubled over in the passenger seat. This was a Braxton Hicks like no other. I wasn't worried, however. I just figured that was going to be the new normal. Awesome. I let it pass and went inside.
About 6:30 pm, we were both in the nursery organizing and cleaning ("nesting" as some people like to call it-- I just call it being prepared). I got another one of those doozy Braxton Hicks contractions. Then, fifteen minutes later, another.
Then, ten minutes later... Another.
My stomach dropped and I kind of knew right then something different was up. But I'd heard stories over and over about how women go to labor and delivery hoping it was their time, and get sent home because they weren't dilated/ready enough to be admitted for real. I figured that would be me. Yep. Probably about seven times. So I simply pulled out my phone and started timing the contractions.
By 7:30 they were about 6-7 minutes apart and getting more intense. I was on the floor of my bedroom, putting the final touches on my hospital bag (yes, that included a sparkly headband I wanted to wear during labor-- don't judge). When they started getting to be 5 minutes apart I thought it would be a good idea to call the doctor, because I wasn't about to go to the hospital unless he said it was likely I'd be admitted. Being sent home in this kind of pain felt like a fate worse than death.
"On a scale of one to ten, how painful are the contractions?" he asked.
"Uhhhh... Maybe 4 to 5?" I replied.
"Ok. Well we don't want you to go to the hospital just to be sent home, I have a patient who was having pretty good contractions, went to the hospital, then they just stopped while she was there. That was last week. She's still pregnant. Let's wait till your pain level is consistently a 7. Then call the service and they'll let me know you are on your way."
Now, I love my doctor. He is amazing. But at that moment I wanted to punch him. LET ME GO TO THE HOSPITAL!
Instead I attempted to eat a little dinner then sat on the bed timing my contractions and recording the times and pain levels on my phone (I still have that note saved), breathing through them. It was getting more and more painful. Casey went into "super nesting mode" as he called it, on the nursery (the drawers were sticking on the dresser and that wasn't ok) and checked on me every ten minutes or so.
Eventually I got to 7's. Constant pain in the uteral (yes I just made up that word) area.
About 10:45 pm, I walked into the bedroom where Casey was sitting and (yes) doing our taxes. "I think maybe..." I attempted to say, as my uterus gave a huge "HELLO", almost a 9 level, and I doubled over, bracing myself on the bed.
"Yeah... I think it's time to go," Casey said. We gathered our stuff, tucked the birds in (who knew if we'd be back that night) and got into the car.
Getting to the main entrance in record time, we found a parking spot. We had to walk across the lot to get to the (dark) entrance doors. We arrived, then both stopped in our tracks. Why were all the lights off?!? Yeah... Turns out you have to go to EMERGENCY when you are having a baby that late. I had never been to emergency, so we had to search for that entrance which took about five more minutes. Which is kind of funny now. Not so much at the moment as you can imagine (picture me getting super testy and yelling as we drove in circles, "WHERE IS EMERGENCY? SERIOUSLY???").
We finally found it luckily. Casey dropped me off at the entrance and went to park the car, which was somehow not what I'd imagined. I went in and they asked how they could help me. "I think I'm in labor," I said.
"You THINK you're in labor?" he asked.
"Yeah. I'm PRETTY SURE I'm in labor," I said, getting a bit testier. Seriously? Just get me a wheelchair!
It's true they make you fill out a form before you are admitted. But it was short. And they got me to labor and delivery in record time. With every bump in the wheelchair causing my uterus to scream a little louder.
Stay tuned for Part 2 of the birth story, called, "The Birth of the Mini: I Love Modern Medicine."