Logs:Waiting
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| RL Date: 11 July, 2010 |
| Who: Madilla |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Vignette |
| What: The last few weeks of pregnancy. |
| Where: High Reaches Weyr |
| When: End of Month Two - Early Month Three, Turn 23 |
| Mentions: Delifa/Mentions |
| Supposedly, Madilla was on maternity leave, now: the whole idea was that she'd take it easy for a couple of sevendays before giving birth, to get herself ready. But the idleness drove her mad. She hated sitting around in her room all day, hated floating around the caverns trying to keep herself occupied. The nurseries were no good: she was just too tired, too easy, to keep up with any of them. She ended up back in the infirmary, begging to be allowed to sit at the intake desk and do paperwork, triage, whatever. She didn't need to actually deal with patients! Delifa agreed, eventually, out of sympathy and an eagerness to keep Madilla from stressing herself out too much. But it wasn't all that much more interesting, in the end, as the days turned into weeks, one after another, full if discomfort and anticipation. The trouble with planned babies is that you do pretty much know exactly when they were conceived, exactly how far along you are. Madilla had hoped for delivery at thirty-eight weeks: all indications were that the baby was a good size, after all, and she was tired and it just would have been nice to get it done. But thirty-eight weeks passed, and so did thirty-nine, and never for a moment did Madilla find herself believing that it was time. She was all ready to go, but the baby? Seemed perfectly comfortable, snug and safe inside her. "Any time now," she whispered to her belly, when she was alone and uncomfortable, trying to settle in to sleep, or sit in a chair. "I'm ready for you." She hit forty weeks early in month three, and still, no change. Delifa threatened to banish her from the infirmary again, insisting that she had to take some time. But Madilla begged: she had nothing to do, nothing to occupy herself with. Delifa relented. She drank a lot of tea. It was tea she'd made herself, a tea made of a combination of ingredients that she knew were supposed to encourage labour. All it seemed to do was make her need to relieve herself more often, though-- and like she didn't do that enough, anyway, as it was? It was all very discouraging. Forty weeks headed, unhappily, towards forty-one, and it was all Madilla could do to stop herself from thinking that this baby simply didn't want to come out and never would. An overreaction? Oh, most certainly. One couldn't be a healer to not know that sometimes babies did take their time, but they all came out eventually. 'Eventually', though: Madilla didn't much like that. Now, please. Now. |
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