I think I've developped a slight case of emotional whiplash these last few months, but the overall verdict right now is very positive.
I have choices again. The world's greatest OB, who singlehandedly almost renewed my faith in the medical profession, announced today that my blood pressure is only getting better and that whatever was causing the hypertension before doesn't seem to be an issue at all now, and I can safely go back into midwifery care.
Which is great, and what I wanted all along, and the midwife's office was thrilled to hear from me when I called today (there's been a lot of excited discussion about us, apparently) and I'm back where I started three months ago.
But I'd finally gotten used to the idea of a mandatory hospital birth, of an OB, of a potential necessity for an epidural, of putting up with agressive nurses, etc etc. I finally found a way to feel safe amidst modern medical technology (being a technology advocate and all) and spent the last month already planning the hospital bag, and visualizing the labour experience.
Now I'm back at square one. I have to start calling around for inflatable birthing tubs again. I have to re-get used to the idea of being naked in my living room and forewarning the neighbours that they might be exposed to umpteen hours of blood-curdling screaming sometime in the coldest part of winter. I have to learn to trust a new group of people again (the two midwives and their backup midwives) intimately enough to visualized being naked and utterly vulnerable around them.
But again, I have the assurance that I'm safe. I'm low risk. I have two attendants plus a student with enough time to accompany me ALL through labour, and not just leaving me and Dave to deal with both my pain as well as my insane mother, and show up to catch the baby.
Oh, oh -- I do *want* a home birth in the same way that I *want* to use the best environmental diaper solution, in the same way that I don't want to need an epidural, and in the same way that I don't *want* to want to know the sex of the baby.
But I'm scared again. Not too scared, not debilitatingly scared, just a little scared from the sudden total re-evaluation of events and the changes I need to adjust to in my head before I can find that safe and happy place again.
Knowing my M.O, by the time I've finished typing this, I'll be well on my way to adjustment -- I just needed to get it out.
It's good news in all, glorious news even. The trials and tribulations of my heart troubles are miraculously ended, I have the incredible fortune of being offered countless choices, and even the possibility to entertain that most wholesome of images to myself -- an upright, squatting, sweating, comfortable, home birth. It still may not happen, I know well enough that there is zero guarantee whatsoever that a birth will go remotely like expected, but I do know this: I don't need a caesarian like I'd feared I might, I might just be the first woman in my family to carry to term, I may get away without drugging my infant in the first moments of life, and I may even get away with soaking naked in a tub, surrounded by hallmarks of safety and aid, and with *several* people to run interference with my mom.
Oh, and did I mention that my primary midwife is a massage therapist?
OH yeah, baby. I think I'm readjusting to this idea just fine. :)