Roll up, roll up, ladies and gentlemen! If you are prone to vomiting at the thought of vaginas, (what comes out of them, etc.) I suggest you probably skip to the next post instead, as I’m in too much pain to censor my writing today.
“Guys, I need to sit down.”
“Stop being lazy and keep walking. We’re almost there, look!”
At first it was kind of like peeing my pants. Not that I’d know what that would feel like… but it was definitely an unpleasant gush down below. Did my vagina just sneeze? Oh, shit.
Circus act #1. The contractions were intense. Like all of a sudden my entire tummy went swollen and tight and dragged itself downward, urging me to push. I wanted nothing more in those painful moments than to squat like an animal and howl at the universe for creating the bastard who did this to me.
A few excruciating tummy- tightenings later and I was talking to the ringleader of the ambulance service, who was coaching me over the phone on trying to breathe and not kill anybody while her team were on their way.
I was in my friend’s room, lying on my side and squeezing the hell out of my toy fox. My heavy breathing accompanied by intense grunts and moans probably sounded like a wild boar being tickle- tortured, but I couldn’t care less about what I looked, sounded or smelt like at that point. (I was wearing a crop top and sweatpants and smelt like stale fish n chips.)
The thing with my friend’s room is that there is no doorway between the lounge and bedroom. So in place of where a door would have been in the lounge, she had creatively taken the back board out of her wardrobe and placed it in front. So to enter the room you had to duck and step into a tiny wardrobe as if you were venturing into Narnia. This caused great inconvenience for the poor ambo driver who had, shall we say, a rather large bone structure. After making the long trip through the bush in the dark, over a bridge and up a hill on foot, he then had to squeeze through the tiny entrance way before collapsing before me, all pink in the face and out of breath. Ta-da! We somehow managed to cram five of us into the tiny space. Ever seen the circus trick with all the clowns piling out of a small car? Yeah, you can imagine.
I was taken somewhere by ambulance. It was hard to tell where I was exactly because it was dark and I was lying on a stretcher, focusing on what my lady- bits were up to. It seemed like some kind of sports field. That’s when I realized that this island had no hospital and is entirely surrounded by water. I heard blades slicing air. The sound seemed to be drawing closer til it hovered above me and before I knew it my stretcher was lifted and transported into the source of all the commotion.
My first helicopter ride wasn’t quite the romantic cruise over ocean and islands I’d hoped it would be, but it was memorable nonetheless. I was strapped down, lying on my side facing the paramedic who was sitting with his crotch positioned inches from my face. He was wearing Paco Rabanne 1 Million, which happens to be my favorite male fragrance. This sexual scent wafted over me occasionally in between contractions every time he bent to check my pulse. Holy guacamole. Sir, I know you can’t move from your seat in this tiny aircraft, but please try not to bend any further, as your penis is almost in my mouth. Cheers.
Once we landed at the hospital I was sent straight away to the preterm labor unit, which in itself was a little terrifying. I was surrounded with strange medical instruments and incubators and lights and had four people staring up my hoo-ha at the same time, like there really was a bloody circus going on up there. Privacy was no longer a right I was entitled to; I was totally exposed as they poked and proded.
Again with the goop on my tummy. I heard the tiny “whoop whoop whoop” of a muffled heartbeat and breathed a sigh of relief. I lay watching baby parade about on screen again, active as usual. Everything normal in that department. But oh golly, here comes another contraction…
“Breathe! Don’t push! Relax!” Oh my.
Is it pathetic that one of my concerns at the time was that I felt I was not prepared for labor because my nails weren’t done? I mean, I was actually worried about meeting my son or daughter for the first time and having them judge their mother like, “Ew, her mani’s chipped.” Funny what your mind jumps to in adrenaline- pumped times of extreme panic.
I swallowed what felt like a thousand magical little orange and brown pills. They helped to slow the contractions right down so by 1:00am I was no longer experiencing them every five minutes, but every half an hour, so I could at least have a nap when I was moved into the female assessment unit after doctors confirmed it’s not looking like labor right this second. (Thank God!)
I’ve had so many questions to answer about whether or not I have been taking drugs, hearing voices, being threatened or physically abused. Standard procedure, I guess. I have also been given the talk about what will happen if baby does decide to pop out now, as I am only 23 weeks and 3 days pregnant, which is on a bit of a borderline when it comes to preterm labor, really. Apparently if I had been 24 weeks and baby decided it was time, he/she would be viable as a baby who could survive outside of the womb with the help of steroids, etc. So if my little houdini is still attempting the great escape in a week’s time the doctors will reassess the situation. At this point they can kind of just keep me here for observation like a monkey in a cage and see what happens.
And so, boys and girls, the waiting game begins.