One year ago today, I was nearing the end of a 10-week ordeal that began with a 6 day hospital stay and far more medical land pharmaceutical supplies than I’ve seen outside of a Walgreens. The next day I would walk into that same hospital and tell the clerks that I was there to have a baby (as if that wouldn’t be obvious, as I was the size of a land barge). But that evening, we sent Sammy off for a sleepover with his grandparents (who would get little sleep anticipating the next day’s events, but Sammy would sleep like a log, blissfully unaware), and we went out for a last supper of sorts, at least the last highly caloric, cheese-filled, giant portioned supper I would allow myself before the Great Shrinkening would commence. Those were some good calories.
Emotions tended toward the typical mix of excitement and worry, with a little added concern as to the baby’s and my health after all the medical intervention. I didn’t know at the time that she would be healthy enough to skip her first planned pediatrician’s appointment and that I would hit a tiny speed bump of unanaesthetized surgery before getting the all-clear. I tried to think about little things like how good that first hit of epidural drugging would feel and what I would order for my first post-baby meal (I had an intimate knowledge of the hospital menu at that point) to keep my mind from going to the grim side of the tracks. I fervently wished for the option to take a couple Excedrin PMs and conk out until I had to throw my hulking form into the car the next morning, but managed to fall asleep anyway (probably thanks to all those carbs earlier in the evening). And then it was Friday. D-Day. Baby Day.
I don’t want to go through all that again, but I’m so glad I made it through.