As a midwife, working on delivery suite, this feels like a story I see everyday. It’s articulated so honestly and so brutally; I feel like I’ll take this story with me into the operating theatre next time I fail to help my woman get the birth she wants.
I’m reblogging because it a story that deserves to be shared but also so that I can easily come back to it and remind myself how day to day this is for me and how life altering it is for the women I care for.
It was Monday, June 2nd, and I was wide awake at 6 a.m. Maybe to some of you this hour doesn’t sound remarkable, but for me it was. It was the first day in a lifetime of six in the mornings, and I made the three-hour leap all in one go.
By this point, it was 10 days past my due date, and I had a very specific and recurring fantasy of being moved around town in a hammock flown by a helicopter. I wanted to be airlifted between boroughs.
When I told my fiancé, Dustin, this wish, he was quiet for a second. He had learned to reply to me with caution, but I imagine in this case he just couldn’t help himself.
“Like a whale?” he asked.
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