January 15th, 2004 | Published in Uncategorized
Another week, another midwife visit.
The thing I learned at the one we went to yesterday was that any desire I might have to be different from everybody else is pretty much out the window where our little amnionaut is concerned. I sit in my chair in the corner watching Al get poked, prodded, and pushed by the midwife. I listen attentively as Al runs down her list of things that were odd and/or disturbing this week in case she misses one I’ll need to supply, and I’m tense until the midwife says “Well, that’s normal.” At that point, I realize I’m not listening for anything but that.
On a less general note, for those keeping score at home: We’re two days away from the later of the two due dates we’ve been given by warring factions of health care professionals.
I have dreams that the baby has already arrived and that I missed the birth. Al is incapable of shouting after stubbing her toe without me thinking it’s time to go grab the hospital bag and pack her in the car. I don’t think Al can get any more uncomfortable (and the midwife says she can give us up to two weeks to learn otherwise before induction is much of an option), and both of us pretty much feel like we’re in the midst of something very much like limbo.
There aren’t a lot of things I can liken the experience to at this point, except one thing:
I remember the way I felt on my first jump at airborne school. Two straight weeks of running everywhere and going through the motions of a jump over and over and over again, combined with a steady barrage of “if you aren’t airborne, you’re nothing” jabbering from the black-hats made it a pretty easy proposition to get in a chute and get on the plane. After we’d arrived over the dropzone and we’d already hooked our static lines to the anchor cable, and even after the green light was lit and I saw people in my stick moving for the door, I was still pretty much buzzed and amped up. It wasn’t until the last three or four paces, when the guy in front of me was already out the door, that I felt what I’d call the wall, a moment of psychic resistance that slowed everything down and made every footstep heavy, like walking into a stiff wind with leaden boots. But that resistance ended with just a pivot and a step to go, and I was headed out the door. And then it sucked again. But for a step-and-a-half, I knew I wanted to walk out into that sky.
This time feels like the breath before that resistance finally gave way, stretched over days.