So that was Mr Cool. Mr K, on the other hand (AKA Mr easy on the eye / Dr Fit, yep, I’m with you there ladies…) had me believe belly slice delivery imminent, and that I was reckless for not allowing him to dose me a big fat wallop of steroids there and then, the minute he found my blood pressure up a mere smidge (white coat syndrome, I’m convinced of it). The steroids are to mature the babies’ lungs; a practice my health authority insists on for 4 additional gestational weeks after the rest of the country considers it unnecessary.
So the diagnosis is this – I am pre-eclamptic, but it’s being controlled, fretting not required, and a normal vaginal delivery can be expected in anything from a week’s time. This is all good, or at least as close as I can reasonably expect to get to the natural, non-invasive drug free birth that a hippy like me would like. Induction, probably, but just don’t slice me up! Thanks.
So I when I said rather arrogantly, or optimistically depending on how you look at it, that I was going for 40 weeks, I didn’t have fat legs then. Sorry, I thought I could manage. Then it all started. Now I see…