I am 2 weeks away from my scheduled c-section and 4 away from my technical due date, and I can’t even see myself remaining pregnant through tomorrow, let alone half a month. I’m so uncomfortable and in pain and over this pregnancy that I’m about to reach up in there and pull out my own mucous plug, I shit you not. And it doesn’t help that I’m incapable of performing these normally very simple but impossible to do in late pregnancy tasks, either:
Put on socks and shoes. I’ve tried sitting on the bed. I’ve tried lying on the floor. I’ve tried propping myself up against a wall and bending my legs to the side. Nothing works except having my husband put them on for me like I’m a 2 year old. A FUCKING 2 YEAR OLD.
Shave my legs and hoo ha. I’ve managed to shave from about mid calf down and around the past couple times, but I don’t foresee this sort of success in my next attempt. And forget about my fertility flower. At this point I figure the c-section is bound to be such a bloodbath that my Sasquatch legs and unkempt lady garden will be a total non-issue for the medical team unfortunate enough to perform in that little nightmare.
Get through a conversation without having a contraction. Braxton Hicks my ass. These are the real deal; they just happen to be irregular, which means as I’m not technically term yet, I’m shit out of luck. It’s happening so frequently now, I’m sure nobody’s even shocked to hear me interrupt pleasantries by doubling over and muttering “Shit. Shit, here it comes. Oh, no, fuck, fuck, FUCK THIS HURTS, GODDAMNIT!” anymore.
Roll over in bed. This is such a problem that I need either a forklift or tenure in Cirque du Soleil just to switch from my left to right sides.
Get undressed. The other day I was certain I set the Guinness World Record for slowest undresser on the planet. I swear to God it was time to get up and dressed for work again before I was able to even get in my jammies from the night before.
Walk through the grocery store or retail outlet without somebody saying, “Any day now, huh?” Actually, no, not any day now, unfortunately, but I will pay you to go out and find me some Pitocin with which I might spike my own sparkling water to get this thing moving along here. I WILL PAY YOU HANDSOMELY.
Get in and out of the bath tub. It’s like somebody asked Shamu to move herself from one pool to another without assistance, only she has the good fortune of being able to jump out of water to an impressive height. I can barely lift a leg to walk without tripping. If anybody finds me having cracked my head open on the porcelain and half floating, half clutching the loofahs in a feeble attempt to save myself, my husband is not a suspect. REPEAT: My husband did not murder me. (You’re welcome, honey.)
Get out of a chair. Every time somebody (let’s be honest and say multiple somebodies) tries to help me up, I hear in my head the beeping noise a garbage or dump truck makes when it slides into reverse. ALERT: WIDE LOAD COMING THROUGH, PEOPLE.
Follow the clean catch instructions for leaving a urine sample. You want me to do what with those wipes and then position myself how in order to provide you with some pee in a cup? Let’s just skip that part and assume the worst. Will that get this baby out of me any faster?
Exist. I don’t think it’s humanly possible to endure another second of excruciating joint pain or one more stab to my cervix from little Freddy Krueger in there without perishing on the spot. Seriously. I’m fucking dying over here.