I don’t remember what time we got up on day 2. Maybe early, maybe late. By then it’s a blur of foul mood, exhaustion and pain. The contractions were strong enough that I stopped walking and talking through them, but not that they required special positions or anything.
A convinced me to walk down the street to the neighborhood deli for lunch. I had no appetite at all for probably the first time in the whole pregnancy. I assumed she meant to pick it up, but she wanted to eat there. I got a cup of soup and half a sandwich and ate about half of each before declaring that I had no interest in continuing to labor publicly and demanded we walk home.
As we neared evening, aka the closing of the midwifery office and the approach of the 36 hour mark, A again insisted we call the midwives. I remember being too pissed at the world to make this call, and suggesting she do it herself. Obv the midwife wanted to talk to me, tho, and she basically gave us the same line: rest up, save energy, etc. She said if we were feeling really desperate that we could come in and get checked. I told her we were on our way.
Of course, the day before Thanksgiving traffic in Chicago made it take about an hour to actually get there. En route, A decided it was time to call my parents and tell them to come. They had apparently taken the day off anyway, and were just waiting for the call. They were on the road in less than 15 minutes, no shit. I disapproved of this decision, reasoning that things weren’t progressing quickly and they would make just two more people to watch me have contractions.
Also en route to the midwives I declared that if I’d only progressed 1cm I would kill somebody.
At the office they hooked me up to the fetal monitor, determined that the baby was straight chillin’, and did a cervical check. The sweet midwife was so encouraging: “You’ve done a lot of work in the effacement department! You’re 100% effaced!” But lo and behold, after 38 or so hours of contracting, I’d only dilated an additional cm, putting me at a total of 3. Ugh.
She told me that just because I was having “dysfunctional early labor” didn’t mean I would necessarily have a “dysfunctional” active labor. I remember being really irritated about the continued use of “dysfunctional.” She said basically the same thing: I needed to rest, that the more fatigued my body became the less efficient and effective my contractions would be. She said we had three options. We could go home, repeat the night before with wine, a bath, and bed (I was not keen, having not gotten very good rest night 1). We could go to the hospital and check in and get some morphine and sleep there (!! seemed extreme). Or she could prescribe me ambien and see if I could get to sleep that way (yes please!). She said the hope was that if I could get a good night’s sleep, that my labor would ideally go one way or the other, either chill out so I could do regular people things or kick over into active labor and eject an infant from my loins (my terminology, not hers).
So we scooped up the pills, and headed home. My parents actually beat us there, despite having to cross state lines, and my mom had already whipped up dinner (wtf how are my parents so fast and good at all things domestic??). I ate some soup, got annoyed if anyone spoke during a contraction, and slammed a tiny glass of red wine with an ambien for dessert.
I got into bed at maybe 8pm? I was asleep within seconds. A joined me about 30-40 minutes later. Her coming to bed roused me enough to get up to pee, and when I did my water broke.
I was so out of it that I didn’t do anything pertaining to this new development; I didn’t change my maxi pad or anything. I got back in bed and said, “I think my water broke.” A said, “you think?” and I said, “I’m pretty sure.” She then says that I said, “I’m not sure I can go back to sleep.”
Which I couldn’t, because that’s when shit got real.