Here’s the situation.  Because of Tiptoe’s heart problems, M is supposed to deliver at UVA Hospital in Charlottesville, Virginia.  It’s the only hospital in our “area” that is equipped to handle surgery on newborns with heart difficulties.

“Area” is in quotes because the hospital is a good 70 miles away from home.

We’re very nervous about the onset of actual labor because the last three of the troupe have come very, very quickly.

The doctors are hesitant to schedule her to induce labor because the longer Tiptoe stays in the womb, the better the chances of her being healthy are.

However, if M goes into labor at home, there is NO CHANCE that we will be able to get to Charlottesville before she delivers.  If labor occurs and we’re not already halfway to Charlottesville, we will not make it.  The alternative plan is for us to rush to Mary Washington Hospital, which is practically in our back yard, deliver there, then life-flight/ambulance the baby and M to Charlottesville for the surgery.

While I have a great deal of respect for the competency of the doctors at UVA– and believe me, these docs have impressed me– I’m extremely nervous about this whole thing.  It feels like gambling, and as a card-carrying, rather prudish, Orthodox Mormon guy, I don’t gamble.

And last night, M had Braxton Hicks contractions for a good four hours.

“Are you awake?”  She nudges me.  “Scott.”

“Mrrh?”

“I’ve been having contractions.”

“Mrrh?”

“Con-trac-tions.  They’re getting closer together.”

“Mrr…”  At this point, I’ve got this image in my mind of contraptions— a collection of metal-clawed, bipedal men, menacing my wife in a robotic phalanx of some sort.

An elbow in my ribs a moment later, and I’m awake.

She says, “Contractions.”

A quick discussion about how long she’s been having them, how close they are together, how intense they are…and the inevitable question: Do we make a run for Charlottesville, or to the local hospital?

I’d prefer the menacing robots.  Robots, I mean, you just kind of– jump into the fray or run away, and hope they aren’t armed with brain-sniffing missiles.  But trying to project the arrival of a baby vs. the amount of time it would take to drive 70 miles on twisty, rainy country backroads is maddening.

We said a quick prayer for guidance, then gave it another twenty minutes.  The contractions calmed down after she had something to drink and laid down.  By the time I left for work, they were normal, for some definition thereof.  Not worrisome, I suppose is how we define them at the moment.

Like I said last time– enough with the teasing.  Let’s just…get on with it.