The NeverEnding Story, Part III

My husband had been sent home by Bambi (if you know her), who knew I was in for the long haul and knew at least one half of our family should be getting some rest. I, on the other hand, hadn't slept properly in weeks because lying down made me feel like a flipped-over turtle when I was that pregnant. 9 lb 6 oz baby and all.

The next morning, day 2 of week 43, I called Bambi from the high-risk ward because I didn't feel the baby moving. She asked me what the monitor said. I said, no one has come so far to monitor me. She said 'Go to the desk and tell them to monitor you! That's why you're in the hospital!'

 I must explain- American hospitals wait on you hand-and-foot. In Israel, you're expected to hobble up to them and say 'change my IV- it's empty' and other such pleasantries. They won't magically intuit your needs, or check on you regularly enough to fulfill them. 

At 8 am, in the middle of the monitoring (the baby was fine), a hospital official came by, barked 'Go down to the Delivery Room!', and disappeared. So, after actually sputtering 'but, but, but...' to no one but myself, I gathered my belongings and walked to the elevators. 

I remember being suddenly overwhelmed with fear. Even though I had waited so long, I had this feeling of wanting to somehow turn back, of wanting to be a child and to hide in my grandmother's dress. This was it.

(this is a hospital room, but not mine. you get the idea.)