I was given a "safe date". The date in which I could stay in my town and deliver my baby in my local hospital and probably have a positive outcome. For me this magic date was 36 weeks, 3 days. It was a Monday. I set my sights on that day and did nothing but focus on it.
The Friday before I started having crazy contractions, but I'd been down this road before and decided to continue working through them, only planning to leave if they got to the point where I had to stop and breathe through them.
They stopped on their own after about 4 hours. I didn't go in.
I refocused and kept thinking "Monday, just make it to Monday!". The last thing I wanted was another ambulance ride while having contractions, even if they weren't "bad" yet.
Sunday night came and I prepared to go to bed, happy knowing I'd reached my goal and that anything could happen and I'd be able to deliver where I wanted. The baby would still be pre-term, but far enough along that she would likely be perfectly healthy. Goal reached! I decided that night to set my new goal for March. I was only a week away, I could make it!
But maybe I set that goal just a little too soon, because around 10 PM the contractions started again, and they weren't good.
They didn't hurt at first, but my husband pointed out that he knew they were worse than they'd been the past few days because I became really snippy with him. I decided to call my parents and have them come up, just in case.
By the time they were halfway here, just half an hour into their trip, I knew calling them was the right thing. I was having to stop to breathe through the contractions again and the baby had dropped really low! They arrived at midnight and rather than having them come in to chat I was ready to go and hopped into the car and just told them to drive to the hospital. My husband stayed home with the baby, sleeping, just in case this wasn't really it and he needed to go to work in the morning.
We arrived at the hospital right after midnight on my "safe date". I was hooked up to all of the monitors and, sure enough, contractions were 5 minute apart and pretty intense. I got hooked up to an IV to get my GBS+ antibiotics and my doctor was called.
We joked that the baby just knew this was the day she could come and I'd be OK with it. So she didn't waste a second to get going!
Throughout the night contractions grew closer together and I dilated to 4.5 cm and was almost fully effaced. Progress was being made, although slowly. Around 2 AM I decided to see if it were possible to get some sleep. I did, a little bit, in between contractions.
And that's when it started. Or, rather, when it stopped. Well, slowed down.
The contractions went from 3 minutes back to 5. Then from 5 minutes to 7. Suddenly it was 9 AM and they were back to being 10 minutes apart and mild enough the I barely noticed them.
I was checked for dilation and was closer to 5 cm, but since I'd dilated only .5 cm at most over the night we decided that this was not, in fact, the day. I was released.
Yes, I was frustrated, but also happy. If she wasn't ready, she wasn't ready. Sure she once again spent the night messing with my head and screwed up plans for my family members, but she was going to get a little more time to cook.
The joke at the clinic after that became that I was going to have to be induced at 41 weeks. This little girl was going to just keep on holding on and just mess with all of us every couple of weeks.
But the good news is that the next time I went into labor it was for real. No more false alarms. So stay tuned because the next post is Calla's birth story. Her crazy, mess with my mind, ridiculous birth story. Because, really... what else would you expect from my daughter?