Pregnancy Diaries: The Final Stretch

The Third Trimester: Ballooning Uncertainty

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You start to look like a pop culture cartoon of a pregnant woman. You ballon. Every time you think your stomach can’t possibly grow any larger, you surprise yourself. People open doors for you, run to get you pillows to support your back and treat you like you’re special. You waddle. You help yourself to tubs of ice cream, because that’s what they seem to do in the movies.

But that’s on the surface. No one can prepare you for the battle within.

Your uterus has stretched to humongous proportions and is now compressing your other organs. You have severe acidity. You can’t eat after sunset. Your baby seems to have decided it enjoys kicking your ribs. It hurts you to walk for more than ten minutes, even though you’re constantly advised to keep moving. You can’t sleep on your back, stomach or your sides- you’re just sitting up most nights. There’s a fight for space in your own body, and of course, the baby wins

More than the physical discomfort, you notice yourself getting increasingly negative and helpless because you’re so physically constrained. You resent your husband’s freedom from the ever increasing weight on your spine, the constant aches and pains, the sleepless nights. You distract yourself with baby showers and registries- the things you can control and execute- but you’re not ready.

You’ve wanted this, planned for this, known it’s coming: but you’re not looking forward to the mind-numbing repetitiveness of childcare, while your partner goes back to work. As it starts to get more real, you experience a real sense of loss for your former self. You wonder if you will be a ‘good’ mom. You’ve found prepping for the baby exhausting so far: how will you handle the real thing?

You know you’re not allowed to say or think this: you’re meant to be absolutely thrilled about becoming a new mother: but you are questioning how much of your identity, independence, body and time you need to sacrifice. Does maternal instinct really exist?

You can’t afford to get too deep into your own head though: you’re increasingly worried about the baby. In the final stretch, you’d expected the uncertainty around your baby’s health to drop, but it magnifies. You’re monitored more than ever: you’re constantly going for scans, counting kicks, running from the sonographer’s office to the OB-GYN’s. Is the baby’s weight and size on track? Is it in the right position? Is there a cord around its neck? Is your placenta calcified? Do you have enough amniotic fluid? And the kicker is: there’s nothing you can really do about it. You’re told the only answer is to focus on protein. You follow such a regimented and scheduled diet that you’d put body builders to shame: but it doesn’t seem to make any real difference, except to make you feel more trapped.

The main black box, though of course, the elephant in the room you can’t ignore any longer, is the birth itself. You’ve been avoiding thinking about labor, given all the horrific stories you’ve heard, but you finally allow yourself to embrace the fact that it will be barbaric. You will be ripped open. This is not a reversible decision. The only way out- quite literally- is by pushing through. You accept your fate. You do the birth classes, you start to practice breathing, you look into getting a doula. People casually ask when you’re about to ‘pop’, and you can’t wrap your head around how it’s okay to be asked about getting ready to experience the worst pain of your life in such a happy way.

You’re not just anxious about labor, you’re finding it hard to look forward to what’s next. Mothers keep telling you the hardest part comes after birth. Postpartum sounds horrific: the pain, the leaking, the bleeding, the hair loss, the sleepless nights. How can you take care of a helpless living being if you’re falling apart? You can’t even begin to wrap your head around the uncertainties of milk supply: that’s for another day.

And then you’re told you might have to do a C-section. You’ve done all your research on episiotomies and inductions, and as horrifying as a vaginal birth sounds, you really don’t want to open yourself up to a major surgery with the risk of infection, the blood loss, having seven layers of your body cut through- or having your organs shifted. Now you’ve really lost control: of your body, size, organs, the baby’s health and your birth plan. You can do all the prenatal yoga and breathing and affirmations you want, but you’re not in control of how and when you give birth.

This time, you’re resigned. You can’t fight anymore. You’re officially overwhelmed. You withdraw. You can’t engage. Forget work- books, music, food don’t excite you anymore. You’re not allowed to exercise. You just want to be left alone. You find yourself needing your partner more than you ever have, but people keep telling him to double down at work: he’s constantly told he has no real role to play while you struggle through the final few weeks.

When your physical condition worsens, and you’re asked to do regular Doppler scans, take steroids and drips, you give in. You finally ask for help. You’re not good at being vulnerable, but you can’t keep pretending you’re alright. For the first time in fifteen years, you move into your parent’s house. Your partner moves with you. You have to admire his stolidness, his patience, his never-ending presence. You find yourself leaning on your parents more than you have in a long, long time. They’re so entirely there for you, you’re reminded what unconditional love is. You’re officially becoming a baby, just before having one yourself.

In the end, there’s no magic bullet. You have to rely on yourself, for your baby’s sake. As D-day draws closer, you pick yourself up again. You’re so relieved at having pulled through. You count your blessings that you have managed to have a healthy pregnancy so far, despite all the false starts and scares. You focus on the little things you can take charge of- you put the finishing touches on the nursery, get your baby’s coming home outfit, pack your hospital bag. You can’t help but laugh at the number of resources online and the detail on packing your hospital bag for delivery.

Given there’s so little you can do to prepare to be cut open, you suppose it’s comforting to think of what socks you’d want in the hospital.

And that is the secret: this is not a journey you can control. Maybe we keep too quiet, we complain too little. We hide behind smiles and silences. We chalk it upto hormones. But we are creating a new life: there will be lots more uncertainty and sleepless nights to come. You can’t fight it. What needs to happens will happen, and you just need to be ready to meet it. You will do whatever it takes to keep your child safe and happy. And that’s when you know you’re ready.