Last evening while I was driving to our midwife's house for my prenatal, my cell phone rang. Mark, in the passenger seat, dug it out of my purse and answered; it was J., the midwife, calling from a birth. No, we hadn't gotten her message — no, of course it was fine, we'd reschedule the appointment. Babies take precedence.
"Ask her if I should just meet with V. [the other midwife] this week, what with the snow and stuff," I interrupted Mark, as I checked blind spots and changed lanes to try to get off at the next exit.
"How about we just meet with V.? She's a lot closer," Mark said into the phone. Then: "Oh — oh, dear — okay, well, give us a call when you're home and rested, and we'll schedule. Okay. Bye. Good luck." He set my phone down on the console.
"What's wrong with V.?" We have hired two midwives this time, for peace of mind, as the first one lives some distance away and Minnesota Januaries are unpredictable and I really don't wish to have an unintentionally unassisted birth.
"Some kind of infection that's not responding well to antibiotics."
"Oh — yuck. I hope she's doing better soon. I guess I really don't want to be anywhere near that…"
So we turned around, and went out for pizza with the family instead, and headed back to Mark's office to pick up his car. Mark took Oscar home to get ready for the next morning's outing to the ski slope, and MJ went with them; I took Milo to the grocery store to pick up a few things to tide us through the coming snowstorm, fruit and lettuce and cereal and cheese. When I got home I checked the weather online: it looks like there's potential to be a big one, maybe 20 inches that will start falling this afternoon and continue off and on through Christmas and into the next day.
The pre-empted appointment with J. — V. sick and unable to fill in — the threatened Christmas blizzard — all of that reminded me last night that the unexpected can crop up and change your plans. I was uneasy the rest of the evening, thinking about my late-January due date. A snowstorm could come in late January too. Even though we hired two midwives, they theoretically could both get sick, couldn't they? And my friends might not be able to come over either? I fretted aloud to Mark.
(Truth is, anytime my plans get changed for me I fret about SOMETHING. Oh sweet rigidity, never depart from me.)
"I'm worried. I hate waiting for labor. Oh, it'll be better when I get closer," I added, "because by then I'll really WANT to go into labor, I'll be so tired of pregnancy. But right now when it isn't quite intolerable yet, it just scares me."
I added to Mark, "Sorry to keep going on about this — it's not like you can do anything about it. Except maybe remind me of more rational modes of thinking."
"Like this:" said Mark, "'Just keep on distracting yourself and put it out of your mind.'"
"Don't you think I should try to work through my fears? You know, so I can make that jump when it's time?"
He laughed at me. "You don't have to jump," he said, "you're going to be dropped. This thing is going to happen whether you're ready or not. It's one thing to view yourself as the paratrooper. It's quite another to be the bomb." He chuckled again. "You da bomb, honey," he said. Clearly amused.
Yippee-yi-yay.
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