As the nurse proceeded to collect my medical history, I began to experience feelings of regret. Should have reconsidered this version? Could a C-Section be that bad? Or could a version be that bad?
Before I had a chance to reconsider, or escape, the nurse scanned my belly. Little one was still transverse. With that, and my husbands arrival, the version was a go.
Within a few minutes, the room filled with observers: two doctors, a resident, three medical students, a nurse and two nursing students. The resident lowered the bed, so I was now lying flat. The nurse directs me to hold her hand, and directs my husband to hold my other. She whispers, "OK, look at the ceiling. Pick a dot. Stare at that dot and don't move." Meanwhile, the doctors and residents circle my belly. The resident flips up my hospital gown, exposing my nether regions to the peanut gallery at the foot of my bed. "Did I shave?" fleetingly pops in my head.
One doctor scans my belly again. Taking the wand, he pushes and squeezes around my belly like he was kneading dough. "Not a great start, I think to myself." Little one has moved...180 degrees...since the last scan minutes earlier. He determines the location of the head and rear. He grabs hold of the head and the other doctor grabs hold of the rear. With a quick count, they push. Skin rubbing on skin, stretching further than intended. White hot burns searing into my memory. Without conscious thought, eyes water and shed rivers of tears. The dot overhead blurs behind my tears. Whispers from the nurse and my husband encourage rythmic breathing and focus. I can feel baby turning and moving inside me. Suddenly, they stop. He is in position. And with a sigh of relief, they leg go of him via my belly skin.
I am left lying, panting and crying on the bed. The pain is unreal, but it was fast. I did it. I gave us the chance for a natural birth. It was worth it. And then, the doctor says: "He moved."
"That JERK!" I instantly yell. Within an instant, baby moved from the forced head-down, back to transverse. The doctors tell me, they have to do it again.
No.
No.
No.
Any ounce of courage I had at the start has withered away. The prepare me for one more round. But unlike last time, I know what is coming. The pain is coated with the fear and anxiety of anticipation. I know before they even start: no way this is worth it. The version is repeated. When the doctors let go, my stubborn child immediately returns to his transverse nook. I am pretty sure out of pity, the doctors stop. They leave me to rest. My belly is hot, like a sunburn. Baby is mad and moving. I am drained...before Al Rooker delivers the national weather, I am passed out.
When I awaken, I learn I will be released. I have been scheduled for an induction and version in a little over a week (February 11). This time, they will first give me an epidural, then a version, then break my water preventing baby from rolling out of position.
I waddled out of the hospital later that morning, feeling like I had been hit by a truck. But I learned a few things:
1. My baby has a mind of his own and might just be as stubborn as his sister
2. A version is undoubtedly medieval torture
3. A version is not worth
4. February 11 is my new favorite day
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