So, friends, the (mostly) official announcement: BabyH is due to join the Hoffmanderson household on Friday, July 22nd.
For those of you keeping score at home, that is three weeks earlier than my original August 12 due date. And no, I haven't contacted a psychic or had any crazy premonitions about delivering the baby girl. Sadly (but not too sadly), we've got a c-section scheduled for the day. My freakin' placenta previa has not budged one iota.
So why sadly but not too sadly? Sadly because clearly I got into this whole thing with my brain stuck on my diabetes. Since day one, it's been going on the pump, logging food and insulin, doing everything I could to prepare my body for a healthy pregnancy. It was always about the D. And then I get the bad luck of some random crappy placental placement - which has nothing to do with anything in my life, other than reassuring me I'm smart for avoiding gambling as a hobby. I'm bummed that there's a monkey wrench despite all of my hard work and planning.
But I'm not too bummed. How could I be? I am grateful I live where and when I do - and that I have access to the medical care I've received - so that they caught the complication before it became a threat to anyone's life. Women and babies still die during childbirth. I'm lucky that I know about my condition so my doctors can do everything in their power to avoid that threat.
The other not-so-cheerful thing to hear at that appointment was the reason she's giving us until the 22nd, which is the later 37-week c-section option. Apparently, normals with complete placenta previa are usually delivered at 36 weeks to avoid the possibility of premature labor and delivery, which could have some pretty dramatic consequences. (See paragraph directly above.) But because I'm diabetic, she wants to extend it - babies of diabetic moms have lungs that develop more slowly, and she wants to allow for that extra week of development if possible.
I did not handle the appointment too well. We left the office for the train, and I burst into tears on the street. Logically, I know we didn't get any bad news and weren't told anything we didn't already know. But hearing it all out loud at once was terribly overwhelming so...instant sobbing pity-party on 168th Street. Which continued to the A train. And persisted throughout the "Michael Blackson" dance routine on the train, complete with boombox and moonwalking.
(Side note: NYC is such a strange place. Can you imagine being on the A train, going about your business, while some giantly pregnant woman sobs across the aisle from you while some dude in a costume dances around to Michael Jackson songs and collects tips?!)
I'm more settled about the news now, of course. I know a healthy and safe delivery is worth any amount of monkey wrenches or guilt about a disease you can't help having. And I just keep thinking about how excited we both our to meet this little kicky baby. Eyes on the prize, kids, eyes on the prize.