Yesterday I had an antenatal doctors appointment, which was probably a good thing. I’d had bloody show the night before and early that morning, coupled with standard prelabour crampiness. Not really a huge surprise to me, given how large the baby had measured on ultrasound, regardless of dates.
It was, however, worrying to the doctor and after a quick ultrasound and head measurement (still measuring around 37 weeks), I was whisked off to the Pregnancy Assessment Centre to see if I was in labour.
I was not in labour. I knew I wasn’t in labour.
I told this to anyone who would listen to me, but apparently pregnant women might miss the fact that they’re in labour and require a machine to tell them instead. Go figure.
It wasn’t terrible, the beds in PAC are new, I had a book to read and they fed me lunch. The downside was of course that the medical staff needed to get up close and personal with my cervix, which was pronounced slightly dilated and “labour-y looking”. Those are the technical terms I’m led to believe.
More than 24 hours later, the bloody show has eased, making way for the slow loss of my mucus plug and the increasing intensity of my braxton hicks contractions.
The doctors won’t adjust my due date, despite my certainty that my dating scan was botched in the first place. Despite my retroverted uterus (which studies have shown can cause incorrect dates in ultrasounds in the first trimester). Despite the fact that there is no good reason for my baby to be measuring 37 weeks, except for the probable chance that she is actually more cooked than they want to believe.
This seems silly to me, as they panic and treat me like a preterm labour risk, when I’m pretty sure this is just regular prelabour and that I’ll birth a perfectly healthy term baby.
And yes, I know that ultrasounds can be incorrect. I know that they are often wrong and no, I’m not panicking about the fact that she is “big for dates”. You don’t need to reassure me of these things. I trust my body to birth this baby when we are both ready, regardless of size.
I’m just frustrated at the doctors inability to listen to what I am saying. Funnily enough, I am the one who inhabits my body and I am in the unique position of being the only one who knows exactly what my body is saying.
Strange how that works, isn’t it?
Either way, despite ultrasounds and dates, this baby will be here when she is ready, and we are now after a little bit of panicking, ready for her arrival.
Which is nice, really.
