Pregnancy and Dramatic Irony

Today, I am 41 weeks pregnant. A person has been growing inside me for 287 days. The tension has peaked. The drama of pregnancy has escalated. I am, as they say, ready to pop.

At this point, my son feels like a knotty hunk of wood knocking around in his small pond of amniotic fluid. He kicks my ribs, punches my hipbones, shoulder-checks my vertebrae. His movements can actually propel my body across a room. Sometimes, I’m convinced he’s going to punch through my belly button, climb out, and immediately start sassing me in the style of Stewie from Family Guy.

Anxious to meet my little muscle man and be done with pregnancy, I have been looking forward to a trip to the hospital for weeks. My bags have been packed, checked, and packed again and again. My most comfortable slip-on shoes have been ready at the door.   

My wish finally came true today. I made it to the hospital. But it wasn’t to have a baby. It was to take my husband, who injured his back playing with our 21-month-old son, to the emergency room.

Ah, irony, drama’s greatest delight.

The day started off on a perfect note. My husband took the day off to give me a break from picking up, running after, and otherwise stressing over our son. We all woke up happy, rested and ready to spend a relaxing day together.

We obliged when our son requested a trip to the “climbing place,” more commonly known as Castaway Café, in Howell. Although I’m too pregnant to do much, I went along and quickly settled into a comfy chair and some semi-quiet writing time while my husband and son got their play on. 

A half hour after we arrived, my husband hobbled over. He’d taken a bad bounce in one of the inflated play structures and had to get home to rest. As I carried our bags, both of our sons, and a quarter or so of my husband’s weight to the car, I could only laugh.

The theatrics continued after we got home. First, my husband’s back seized up completely. Unable to walk, stand or sit up straight, he ended up facedown and moaning on our livingroom floor. Then, I started to worry that I’d go into labor, drive myself to the hospital and deliver our son without my husband. To make matters worse, our son took rare form and refused to take a nap.

The day doesn’t end there. We soon realized that my husband needed to have a professional assess his condition. While I prepared for a trip to the emergency room with a immobile husband and cranky toddler, my husband tried — for 30 minutes — to get up off the floor. No go.

For the first time in my life, I called 9-1-1. When two burly paramedics arrived in an ambulance a few minutes later, my husband turned red in the face and my son squealed with delight. After yanking my husband off the floor, shoving him into a chair, and checking his vital signs, they recommended that I drive my husband to the emergency room to avoid a $1,000 ambulance ride.

Still unable to stand or walk, my husband submitted to the arms of the smaller paramedic, who scooped him into his arms and carried him like a bride out of our house and to our car in front of a whole neighborhood of gawking neighbors as my son clapped delightedly.

A few hours and shots in the buttocks later, we learned that my husband will likely be laid up on the couch for a few days to a few weeks.  

When we got home, I stuffed my hospital bags and comfy shoes in the back of the closet before doing anything else.  Then, I sat down and, like a lunatic, started to hope my son will be at least two weeks overdue.