I should probably admit up-front that I don’t actually know how to be a good failure, but I’ve given it quite some time and attention. So if being “good” failure just means you’ve failed many times, well then, let me be your role model. Or maybe not.
Whilst I could write a post that goes from here to there (points at some spot a ridiculous distance away, say Peru) then I would actually chronicle all my successful failings. But that would be so tedious to write and preposterous to read, well, there just isn’t enough coffee in this house for such an undertaking. But there is a remaining cup of coffee swirling about the bottom of the pot, so I shall share just one failure.
Actually, it was a week of failures. You see, 4 years ago today (well, seeing as how it’s nearly 11, we missed the actual anniversary by a few hours, but whatever) I went to the hospital to have my beautiful baby boy induced to leave the comforts of his 39-week old home and enter the joyous home that awaited him. You know, the one with a mom, dad, cat and dog and 2 other screaming siblings. That home.
Never was I informed, either by verbal or written means, that it is possible to fail an induction. But it can be done. In fact, it happens 50% of the time for “social inductions” which is what I was having. Because the induction of a baby is such a social kind of thing. And if you are social like me, you can do it well. Not even the gigantic spider dropping from the ceiling right before my pitocin-laden eyes was going to make my cervix dilate. (A social induction is classified as an induction scheduled when the life of the mother or baby is not in danger. In my case, it was to relieve chronic back issues due to earlier pregnancies and deliveries.)
Ladies, listen up. Some of you have buns of steel. And some of you have abs of steel. I have a cervix of steel. A bit harder to appreciate due to its rather private nature, but steel never the less. (And for those of you who struggle with the opposite problem, I am so sorry.)
So, after 12 hours of a full pitocyn drip running through my veins, my husband aided my waddling self back to the car, right along with our empty car seat. Of course, I made him stop on the way to the house. I figured after that fluid onslaught, a slice of berry pie ala mode wouldn’t make much of a difference.
One week later, on his due date, my son made his appearance. After 7 complete days of false (aka failing) labor that would begin by about 6 pm and end by about 11 pm. It is amazing the things you can figure out how to do while doubled over with a contraction. Flipping pancakes is one of them.
Then, I went home with my beautiful little baby boy. Only to head back to the hospital the next day. Ah, the joys of a spinal headache. The pain was so great I agreed to do anything, anything, that might make my eyes stop pulsating. I made not a peep when they extracted the 48 gallons of blood (not really, I don’t have quite that much). I didn’t even grit my teeth when the nicest man in the world injected the “blood patch” into my spinal column. I laid perfectly still on the cold table. But I did whimper when I got up and had the lovely diagnosis of “failed blood patch” added to my chart.
The only thing I didn’t fail to do was fall head over heels with my sweet, sweet baby boy. And in one week, he will truly be four whole years old.
I think it might be time to stop failing to lose the baby weight now.