My final scrap book

The bell has just rung for my final lap. Part of me is excited—I’m finally going to my long-awaited bosom buddy. Part of me has been experiencing massive anxiety. At this juncture, I vaguely remember the former sporty me back in high school.

Even though I was quite agile then, the 400-meter race was my worst. By the time I was doing my last 200 meters, my chest would be on fire, but my desire to get to the finishing line was unrelenting.
My desire to win was compromised by a body that threatened to fall apart, but there was no quitting.

That was then, but now as we speak, I feel so worn out that all I want is to have my baby. The little ceremonies I had planned for D-day, like being the prettiest mom, loading the camera, writing the poem I’d recite when I first touch him—they have long sailed out of the window. The little energy I am left with is only for waking up the next day. I am convinced that maternity leave should start at the last gestation month, making it four months—exclusive of annual leave.

The positive side of it is that I’m finding it interesting walking slowly. Somehow I seem to be enjoying it. I don’t remember finding so much peace in walking; it’s like the whole world understands.

Preparations
‘Have you packed your hospital bag?’ This has become a common greeting. Well, that has surely helped. For a long time, I wasn’t sure what exactly should be in the bag. A friend enlightened me that it’s just the clothes the baby will be wearing when leaving the hospital, my clothes when leaving, slippers, and of course toiletries. Therefore, what I had made for a hospital stay is nullified because I’d be in hospital uniform.

At least there is a tick on my hospital reservations procedures. So I expect an express passage to the labor bed, come the pangs. There’s another tick on the shopping part because I’ve just realized I can’t get done with it. Everything is so very important.

Clinics
From once a month, my clinic visits have increased to fortnightly. What a way of saying, ‘It’s about time! It’s about time!’

Once the doctor told me, ‘We will discuss about labor in your next visit. You can ask me anything. Even about the myths, you may have heard.’ A more direct way of saying, ‘It’s about time!’

Ambush
Now, being a size five, it never crossed my mind, that shoes, including sandals, could become a very scarce commodity. That has happened because my feet have swollen out of proportion. And the issue is not the length but the height. The only friendly footwear I have is bathroom slippers. Thank God they can be found in colors that look quite formal. My feet make room for worry but my doctor nullifies all that by doing test after test and it turns out that all I have is edema.

So three weeks before my EDD, I go through the usual clinic tests including blood pressure. One look at the results, the doctor tells me to go home—to get my bags so that we can meet in the hospital in the next hour for induction because the pressure is soaring high. Jay, my hubby, is as flustered as I am. But being the cool calm and collected gentleman—characterized by the way he keeps running a finger on his head, I want both of us to be as relaxed as we can. So as we make our way to the hospital, I call my siblings and gaily tell them to come and check on the latest kid in town the next day. Of course, I get more astonishment—after they hear the circumstances that are taking me to hospital. I know better. So I reciprocate with even bigger laughter.

We go through the usual checking-in exercise. The nurses help me strip and don the not-so-good-looking green hospital gown. Before I start feeling down about that, I again remember why and I actually like it.
The induction tablets are administered to me. For a moment, I miss the warmth of my home. However, I quickly shove that aside remembering that I am here for a cause- a beautiful one.

So I lie there waiting with Jay seated on the visitor’s chair trying to look as easy as he can. At exactly 2 am, the first mild pang strikes. Lovely, I think knowing there is no turning back; and that I have finished writing the last paragraph of my Scrapbook series. I will certainly miss it.

END: PG32/10-11