I was a strange mix between being tired and being emotional.
They'd just given me the medicine to start my contractions (so I could give birth to my dead daughter) and I was convinced it wasn't going to work (In that moment, as in most of my pregnancy after I found out Mia was sick and would die, I just wanted it to be over with.)
"You need to give me more," I cried to the nurse, unsure of why I was crying. I was wrapped up in some of those blankets from the warmers. I had an IV in my left arm, medicine that was supposed to help me give birth to my dead daughter flowing into me.
"You're fine," The nurse assured me, "Just try to relax, darling. Labor will start before you know it."
But I wasn't convinced. I was hysterical. More, I needed more.
I just wanted her out, just wanted this nightmare to be over. I was terrified of the idea that the medicine meant to induce labor wouldn't work.
I kept trying to get up out of bed and go somewhere (I'm not really sure where). I kept asking for more medicine, kept hysterically sobbing and telling the nurse it wasn't going to work.
In the end, I did end up needing more medicine.
In the end, I got an epidural. I pushed and screamed and cried, the warm blanket that was quickly losing its heat wrapped under me, stuck to my back with sweat.
And there she was, so tiny, so fragile, so perfect.
This wasn't what I wanted. I didn't want a dead baby. In that moment I would have done anything to put her back inside me, where she belonged, where she was safe and alive.
All the while the closing song from My Girl played from the TV screen in the corner of the hospital room. I don't even know how it was still on, but it was.
My Girl, My Girl, My Girl.