So Ellie (the fetus previously known as the Second Coming) sits breech in the belly of my girlfriend, and has for quite some time now. Acupuncture has been tried and hasn’t succeeded, the Webster Method discussed and rejected. Suffering has come to my girlfriend in this stage of her pregnancy, in the guise of arthritic hands, a struggle to breathe, aching pain in her back, and general pissed-offedness, a fair amount directed at the swell fellow who got her in this trouble in the first place.
Which I think it’s fair to assume is me.
Tomorrow we’re going to schedule a C-section, which she’ll have unless the baby turns again, which could happen, but we’re not counting on it.
Of course I knew that the experience of having a second child would differ greatly from the first: different kid, different woman providing said offspring, different hospital, different doctor.
I just didn’t expect it to be this different. JP came when he came, took his time, and arrived on his own schedule and quite without the use of a knife. The prospect of a C-section unnerves me, for no particular reason I can put my finger on. There’s this sense of having the security of experience taken away from me. I’m no expert on birth, but I’d seen it happen once, and had some inkling of what to expect. Now I don’t.
That, I suppose, is good and bad.