Well. I was hoping it wouldn't come to this, but here we are. You've got until the day after tomorrow to get out of my body, or face forceful removal.
I'm tired and I'm ready to be on the other side of this. You, on the other hand, seem pretty content where you are. In fact, today on the sonogram, as you tugged on your feet, you actually paused for a moment and waved. You. Waved at us. The sonogram tech ("Dracula") said, "He ees sayink, 'Hi, Grandma!'" At which point, my mom, your grandmother, burst into tears. So, you know, good job with that, bro.
Despite the medical team's insistence that you are not safe in there, it seems like you and my body have different ideas about that.
After a membrane sweep this past Monday - which I won't go into detail to explain, go Google it, or mind-sync, or whatever crazy high-tech method of research you have available in the future - and an abnormally high blood pressure reading, it was determined that Tuesday I would most likely be induced because of a concern over signs of preeclampsia. I guess that was a notion you were not interested in entertaining, because yesterday, after packing for the hospital, ready to be admitted, another exam showed that my blood pressure had dropped by 30 points back into a very safe zone. So, it was another - more intense - round of membrane sweeping and a suggestion to go home and wait until tomorrow.
Which is now today. And, buddy, you are not budging.
Back at the clinic today, there's no evidence that you've progressed at all. Just a glib wave to us on a sonogram screen. And one more really painful membrane sweep.
Now, I'm home. I've just taken castor oil milkshake, which tasted like a melted vanilla candle, and I'm just waiting. Apparently, in a few hours I should start to have violent cramps. That will hopefully turn into labor (which is weird to think about, let alone HOPE for), but honestly, at this point, I'm skeptical that your coming out of there by way of anything less than two burly bouncers escorting you.
In short, time is running out. The lights are coming up in the bar. You don't have to go home (yes, you do), but you can't stay here (in my uterus).
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