Not a birth story

I know I said no more "waiting" posts. But then I hadn't planned for this.

It is 4am. I am in hospital. I am still pregnant.

I am bleeding. Not much, and not from, I am told, anywhere worrying ("oh, right, but then where is it coming from?") It started at 3 am on Sunday morning with a big clot (sorry if you're sensitive) and a dash in here. Eight hours and lots of monitoring later we were home, having abandoned the girls with, successively, a neighbour, my brother-in-law and B, once it became obvious that whatever was happening I wasn't having a baby.

Then the same on Monday night. 3 am. Blood. Ring. Dash. This time my mum was there, having left my dad with ten minutes warning and enough pills and ready meals for four days.

And, oh, the welcome pain! Contractions, real contractions, at last, after days of threatening and wondering. I am 4cm dilated. "Your baby will be here by 11.30" says the midwife as she puts in the cannula I need just in case (previous c-s again) and gives me the gas and air.

I will be examined again at 9 and if appropriate my waters will be broken.

It is 10 am. Time has a looser meaning in the NHS. My contractions have stopped. A new midwife will not break my waters because she thinks (the first disagrees) I am not ready. Nor will she give me gel, or a drip, or even another sweep.

I am moved off the labour ward to await a scan to see what is causing the bleeding.

And oh! More pain! I say nothing, willing it to stay, to worsen, to progress. I can't hide my silences every three minutes from B. We say nothing, hope nothing, pretend it's not happening.

Three hours later we are right. It is not happening. I cry. Huge heaving sobs of self-pity and disappointment. B reminds me that all this means is "not today" but I am lost in the irrationality of dashed hope.

I am scanned. All is fine. I am admitted for overnight observation. Others come and go. Off to labour ward and the arrival of their babies. B leaves to relieve my mum.

I wait. I will the pain to return. I sleep. I wake at three again. Sleep is elusive, contractions intermittent and merely uncomfortable.

I will be going home in the morning. I will have my baby, but I will still not have met him. I am, even while knowing how lucky I am, how I will, whatever happens, meet him in the next eight days, how this is merely a delay and a disappointment, fed up.