Birth and rebirth

"This moment of meeting seemed to be a birth-time for both of us; her first and my second life." Laurie Lee, the Firstborn

[rorybirth]

21 June 2016

Rory is 8 months old and Sean and I have just got married. Today he waved - again and again - for the first time. You put your arm in the air, he does the same. The first day he properly understands this. Last week he crawled on his belly, little frog legs pushing forward for the first time. So 2 milestones, one either side of the wedding.

From a Rory perspective the wedding wasn’t his finest hour. I couldn’t do the usual rub his back and cuddle to get him to sleep for his afternoon nap. Instead it was various joggling and pushing around in the buggy by family and friends. Lots of overtired crying. Lots of glugging of milk in between. Exhausted wailing and crawling round cot before collapsing and falling asleep at 8pm. But happy as a little larry again the next day. And a treasured day yesterday when I took him to the swings. ‘Ba ba ba’ he said happily as he sat on my lap. A hearty lunch was eaten. All was forgiven. Didn’t stop me having a restless night, flashbacks to when I discovered his limbs were cold as he wailed in the buggy, partway through the wedding reception. I put him in Lindsay’s cozy waistcoat and that did the trick but it was a powerful flashback nonetheless. We do a good job as parents but any problem or mistake haunts us. It does not spoil the day - it was joyful - and a whirlwind. The main feeling is - we did it! We really are adults now!!!

Anyway the focus of this really is my darling baby boy who I just savour so much. I miss him when I’ve been out of an evening - like now - I just want to hold him in my arms and stroke his soft velvety head. He’ll wake up in the morning and I’ll feel it’s too early, I’ll have to drag myself to him but as soon as I’m there I’ll be filled with delight at his lovely face.

He discovered ‘headbanging’ or vigorous nodding a couple of weeks ago I think. But today for the first time he bashed his forehead on the high chair table. Cue pause followed by crying and a scream. Those little tears bursting from his eyes, the red face and open mouth. Too cute and heartbreaking. I was ready, food mess and all, to gather him in my arms and give him a mother’s comfort but no, Sean’s behind me distracting him with Peter Rabbit. And that works. He’s cheered up and forgotten the hurt in no time.

It must be a month since he pushes his legs up to a stand, holding on to one of us for balance. He loves it, looks so pleased with himself. He can do an explosive laugh. I love it.

We’ve cleared the living room so he has loads of space to move around and explore. It’s perfect for him. I need to go to bed. I miss him.

[rorybirth]

20 April 2016

6 months today! And we have noticed he looks over when we call ‘Rory’! He’s got a cold, worst he’s ever had, proper snotty, but he’s still really cheerful in between whinges.

[rorybirth]

8 April 2016

Still 5 and a half months...

Did I mention how he now turns his face so close - those 2 big eyes blurry in my line of vision, mouth open, straight round my chin, suction on, he can now kiss me back, grabbing little hands straight into my mouth tugging on my bottom lip and teeth. Who’s this person looking after me? he seems to be saying. ‘Whoooooaah’ or ‘eeeeeeee’ his voice clear as a bell, lovely notes, you just want to listen.

Oh, but my heart was torn up again tonight. Crying and crying, he would not settle for over an hour. I felt terrible - what now? It’s been 2 weeks since we started this method. He was fine yesterday but 2 days before at Nanny’s he did have trouble settling. I call Cry-sis again. The nice woman at the end of the line says we must stick with it. He’s only been doing 2 weeks and yes a trip to his Nan’s can disrupt him but stick with it - don’t pick him up. I thank her and go back in to the raging baby boy. I am able to calm him, he cheers up and doesn’t make another noise, even when I leave the room. Phew. My worries about teething - wind - illness even - are gone. My poor lamb now sleeps. She also told me not to worry about naps until bedtime is much more established. One step at a time. And taking him out in the buggy is good. I’ll say - he slept a record 2 and a half hours today (straight) in the buggy.

I love him so much I want to get it right for him. I have become more anxious as he grows. When he was first born I was surprised by how relaxed I was. What will be will be - I just knew he’d be fine. It was all big stuff - life and death, thriving or not. Now it’s more everyday, lots of smaller things to get right / worry about. Perhaps I got shaken out of my bubble those times the health visitors questioned my ability to properly feed him. A blow to my confidence. Reassured by a great GP however. Surely I can bounce back from such criticisms, especially when more intelligent people have got my back? Can I continue to blame my bouts of anxiety on them? I am far luckier than most - there’s 2 of us most of the time looking after Rory. I need to relax more.

[rorybirth]

Rory - 5 and a half months old (part 2)

I had to break this up - I scribbled so much down the first time I got down to it. Must have had a sore hand by the end of it.

Those first 10-12 weeks… Sean would help with the feeding shifts by doing a late night bottle now and then. It was never every night but often enough so that we knew the drill - I’d do a last feed around 11pm, go to bed and leave him with Sean. He was in the moses basket so could be deposited anywhere. He slept through background noise at that time - Sean watched TV and gave him his next feed at 1 or 2am. Then he’d join me in bed, bringing sleeping baby in basket and I’d get up for the 3 or 4am feed. Those 4 or 5 hours were wonderful - I slept really well. When you have less than 2 hours in a row round the clock that is bliss! I’d feel refreshed when I got up to feed Rory, taking him into the living room and diverting myself with the World Service, rolling TV news or breakfast TV, or simply scrolling Facebook. Now I get up once a night to feed him (twice if unlucky) and I am strict not to do any of these things. Would set my head buzzing now. I can have longer sleeps but I’m finding it hard to sleep - a lot on my mind! So trying to be strict, no pm caffeine, no screen time just before bed. I’m not complaining, I could not go back to those days and I pity those who still struggle with broken nights. There’s a limit…! Although of course I’d do it all again for no. 2. Yes thinking a lot about that! Isn’t being pregnant amazing!! (I now think, with distance.) Isn’t having a new baby the most wonderful joyful feeling (I now know)! Yes this is the same me who was crying to my mum last week saying I’d lost all my confidence. I felt pretty low. Peaks and troughs - it’s extraordinary.

I wrote my birth story to my pregnancy yoga teacher (not the long version you see here). I remember thinking I mustn’t leave it too late or I will forget. I revisited it a few months later so I could start writing a fuller version. I didn’t want to forget details; order of events. I’m still working on it. That original note was written one week after Rory was born! I can’t believe it - I remember thinking I’d let loads of time go by.

Another milestone - the name! That took just over a week I think. But everyone seemed to think it took forever. People are quick, we had quite a few cards and presents to ‘baby boy’. And I still call him that, so simple, he’s our (my) baby boy. Can you believe it to be true?? There he is! A new beautiful being, but most of all a baby. These magical things that are babies, and he’s the most magical. And then of course he became Rory really quickly. It suited him, with his wonderful head of hair ‘Red King’ - took a few weeks to be free of the big black scab covering it.

Oh yes, the time when we were much more comfortable with blood and tender parts of you and recovery. Was it weeks of leaking? This never-ending period. Using huge pads. The morning douche was a life-saver. To feel fresh again. Constant leaking breasts. Yes pads everywhere. Couldn’t be naked without making a mess. Painkillers regime - had to write it all down as time was strange, there was no way to remember how long ago the last ones were taken. Feeling like the guy in Memento. Good to live in the present though. It’s like nothing that’s ever happened before, draining and strangely exhilarating. Was only paracetamol and ibuprofen. All that was needed to fade out those vulnerable parts of me that were fusing together again with the help of those excellent surgical stitches - a grand job confirmed those that checked on them. I needed cushioning for a while. Now I am completely healed. I don’t think about it at all.

[rorybirth]

Rory - 5 and a half months old (part 1)

Once I’d written about the birth, I started making the odd notes about the rest - the life after the birth. And now, I’m going to start posting them here, in order, as a few people have mentioned it would be a shame to leave it there.

7 April 2016

Really feels like a milestone around now. He’s just started to really chatter a lot - so that strangers in shops comment - and look at everything - this time at his Nan’s he vocally reacted to a photo of Sean as a boy. He’s reliably a delight to everyone unless of course he’s too tired and had enough. He can push through the tiredness for a bit now though.

So what were the other milestones looking back?

It felt like 3 months things became a bit easier. I think that is when we started establishing a bedtime - 8pm - as he was sleeping for longer spells. 8 hours then even 10 hours! But it didn’t last when teething and cold struck at 4 months. At 5 months we stayed at Nana and Grandpa’s and hit ‘Cry-sis’. I called the helpline as he was going red with crying as I could no longer rock him to sleep for his late nap (always the hardest one). So we did ‘say goodnight and come back after 5 mins, then 10 mins, 15, etc etc’ technique for night time as recommended by the helpline. Yes some call it the dreaded ‘controlled crying’ but it worked a treat. First night it took 40 mins, I think a bit less second time, and then after a couple of hiccups (doesn’t work so well for getting him down for naps especially again that late pm one), he got off to sleep by himself. Now back at the flat, barely a whimper. A smile as you kiss goodnight! The heart melts.

So that too was a milestone.

I remember 6 weeks, like they say, too was important. He did give us that smile I think to the day!! He’d smiled to himself only before, a sleepy, dreamy thing. The first one on the day he was born, to Monica. I took it in my stride at the time - whoa, I’d just given birth.

So... between 6 weeks and 3 months. I remember a lot of moaning if he wasn’t held straight up, looking over one’s shoulder. That seemed to be the case from dot actually but it was gospel then as we juggled him between us. We couldn’t eat together, one of us would have to hold him. Sean always cooked, letting me eat first. He wouldn’t mind eating cold food after.

[rorybirth]

Erm, trying to figure it out, about 5 months old I think? Napping, is there a pattern? Does making notes even help??

[rorybirth]

Just over a month old, I can’t remember. The only halfway a bit OK drawings I have managed. It got harder as he got older, think I was too close to be able to draw him, in both senses of the word!

[rorybirth]

1 day old (in hospital)

What follows is more patchy as I didn’t get round to writing this until sometime after the events. There may be more after this post, but I’m not sure what form it will take at the moment...

Oh my god. I am cut, I have row upon row of stitches, I am puffy, I am just about held together, delicate, wounded, the opposite of intact, in my most intimate part of me. What was once beautiful, now forever sliced, scarred. It hits me all at once and it feels absolutely appalling. I start to weep, I feel helpless, I have no energy left, completely drained and overwhelmed, I don’t know what’s going to happen now. Sean comforts me and he’s doing a really good job. Drusillia, the midwife (in charge I think), comes in at this moment. Although I’d only just started, it probably looks like I’ve been crying for ages. Come on, you’re all right. My heart sinks. Look at this beautiful baby you have. I smile at this as this, there’s no denying that one. Have you had a shower? Did you know there’s some here? No, I’m such a mess but I figured I’d just have to sort myself out at home. I’ve been oozing blood since the birth. Don’t worry about the baby, your partner can look after him. She takes me by the hand to the shower room, stopping en route to sort me out with more of the most heavy-weight pads I’ve ever come across, explains where everything is, turns on the shower and leaves me to it. It’s so so nice to have a shower, and I begin to remember that I’m me again. And I feel looked after. I clean my teeth, I deodorise, aahh!

Visitors

One of the visitors is a big, slightly self-conscious guy in surgical gear. He’s one of the anaesthetic team and wonders shyly if I didn’t mind doing a quick survey. Like a customer satisfaction survey, how did it all go, did they perform ok on the day? I remember the chilled out NZ guy who was so reassuring in his calm professional but friendly way and I was able to reassure him that yes, the service was excellent thank you. Of course I’ll never see this memorable fellow again and I don’t even know his name. He was very kind and reassuring to Sean too at a moment when he felt he was losing it and both of us will never forget this.

A young tiggerish Australian woman introduces herself as a physiotherapist. She has lots of helpful advice and information about my episiotomy. Her enthusiasm for her subject is breathtaking. She takes me through the pelvic floor exercises and makes it all seem so simple. She even checks to make sure I’m doing it right. I come to really appreciate this in the following weeks. A combination of her advice and the skill of the doctor who sliced and stitched me means I will completely heal within the next couple of months.

We are ready to go. We are waiting. I still have to be discharged by the diabetes team. I haven’t been testing myself regularly so I do another test, it’s ok. A diabetes consultant dashes in we’re the people everyone’s always glad to see the back of. I haven’t met her before so she studies all my notes carefully, asks me what I have been eating. Wahey, I’m free for the time being! Good luck with all those sleepless nights she says mischievously as she departs.

We are still ready to go. We are waiting. We need the necessary papers.

[….]

We leave! On the way out we see Chericka coming in to start her shift. She flings her arms around us and wishes us luck as we thank her. We have a wee baby in a pram, a precious package. We retrace the route we took just over 2 days ago. It’s slow going, perhaps tougher than on the way over. Crossing the road feels like an unbearable risk. They don’t leave it on green long enough for a woman post-birth.

2 days old

It hits me: I had narrowly avoided having a c-section (and therefore being cut twice!!). An even more hideous fate.

We talk it all through, we analyse, piecing together the story above. Childbirth: brutal. Life and death so close to each other. What’s natural? Terrible terrible risk, that’s what. How unbelievably fortunate we are to be able to access a hospital like this, all this medical support, meaning that our baby is now alive today. Meaning that I am now alive today. And all of this free of charge. There is nothing predictable about childbirth. We are not designed well enough to make it happen without a hitch. It’s unthinkable that there are so many people in the world, if this is what we all have to go through to get here! I feel I have had a rare taste of real human life: violent, raw, led by the body, not the analytical conscious mind. With added medical support, of course. This was what life was like in the past. This is what life is like for many millions of people across the world today. Most of the time we don’t have to live it. We are cushioned. We are admittedly exhilarated by the experience, but then again we did have a good outcome.

3 days old

Mum and Dad visit! It feels… normal. And so joyful. I’m still breastfeeding lying down as it’s gentler on my stitches.

1 week old

We finally have a name: Rory. Let’s try it out for size. Around this time I have my first outing, up the road to the park. Baby Rory is the sling with Sean.

[rorybirth]

Visitors

Wahey! Alasdair is our first visitor. It seems so normal to see him but also strange. It’s hard to gauge that passage of time since we last saw him. He’s excited and takes photos. Only one visitor at a time so he goes and Monica’s next. She’s full of joy too.

The baby doctor. She gives the little boy his first check-up. Everything is fine apart from his breathing . He makes it little high-pitched whistlely sound when he breathes out. She’s not sure whether to be concerned or not so she decides to consult and pop back.

The Anthony Nolan girls. Two women from the charity appear, bubbling over with excitement. They were present at the birth. Their colleagues had visited me while I was in labour about donating the baby’s cord blood which I was very happy to do. However there had never been a good time for me to fill in all the forms. They were so thrilled at the birth which had amazed them and they said affected a lot of those present. Sean says that one of the other medical staff was in tears. Amazing that it affects people whose job it is every day. I feel like a celebrated hero, hooray!

Time to move on, from Recovery to the Post-Natal ward. I get wheeled through, and see a familiar cast of characters on the way, such as the doctor who shares my birthday. Lots of smiles. Congratulations from strangers too. Eugenia has expertly wrapped the wee thing and tucked him under my arm, facing him out to the world. It feels very special indeed.

Hospital food – a huge menu! I choose a hearty chicken casserole, I think that’s what I need (though it’s not as nice as it sounds it’ll do). It’s evening and Sean decides to leave us to it. He’s going to phone his mum and get some rest at home.

I’m looking forward to some rest too. I never get more than a couple of hours at a time though. A very nice woman, a breastfeeding specialist, is on duty throughout the night. She wakes me up every two hours and helps me to breastfeed. She shows me how to keep the baby awake by tickling his feet or blowing in his face. We are working on raising his blood sugar. The reading at 24 hours old will be crucial.

I hate the catheter. It freaks me out a little bit as I’m not sure how it’s attached exactly. It pinches. Of course I don’t remember it being put in but was necessary as for most of the day I had no use of my legs. When I was wheeled out of Recovery it was a bit of a clumsy ride at times and the catheter tube got caught on something, pulling at me. I felt it was going to rip a very delicate part of me off in the process. I now have use of my legs again, managing a wobbly walk to the loo to change my pad. I had to carry the catheter bag with me, it was a bit tricky. So I have asked for the nurse to take it out along with the canula stuck in the back of my hand. It is no longer attached to a drip, so useless, but they wanted to keep it in, just in case they suddenly decide I’ll need one again. It’s a bloody mess as handling a baby with one of these in is no easy task. In the middle of the night, one of my wishes is granted. The grumpy nurse comes and yanks out my catheter with barely a word. It was that simple.

The grumpy nurse? Yes she told me off for placing the baby’s cot near the window (not my placement, and also a sealed window in a baking hot ward). Then she told me off for not winding the baby (I had put the baby down after a feed, trying to give this nurse my full attention. Still so new to me, I didn’t understand why the baby would cry for a feed then would cry again once the feed was over). Oh yes and I think I’d got off the bed a bit clumsily with baby in hand. She’d told me off for not placing both feet on the floor as I could have had an accident. I did protest that one.

The breastfeeding specialist is back. She’s not too fussed about winding the baby for some reason to do with him being breastfed. I explain I got told off by a nurse in a headscarf. She has a look of recognition – oh yes she’s all right it’s just her manner. And she feels a bit awkward about the conflicting advice (the first of much). OK yes, it is a good idea to wind them she concedes.

[rorybirth]

Tuesday 20 October 2015, 9.44am

I am wheeled into an area they call ‘Recovery’. Sean and baby are waiting there for me. Everything is bright, white and calm (it’s a beautiful day outside). After the trauma, what joy follows.  An unbelievable feeling to meet the little one again and instant love hit me.

I can rest! I hate not feeling my legs (after everything I’ve been through!) Sean – please call my Mum! We talk! We get in touch with Al!

An hour old

Eugenia shows me how to breastfeed. She just marries nipple and mouth, it’s fascinating and simple (though I know it will take me some time to get the hang of). And there he is, eyes staring, cheeks pumping. Little mite knows what to do.

A few hours old

The midwife pricks Baby Boy’s heel to test his blood sugar. Not even a flinch – he’s already a very strong little boy after what he’s been through! She asks if she can take him away and bottle-feed him. Of course! I say. It seems unbelievable that in my barely conscious state I’m in charge of a newborn baby and a bit of time slobbed out without him seems sensible.

[rorybirth]

[rorybirth]

Theatre

Somehow there’s more of a buzz, a team around me. I am wheeled out of the snug darkness of the labouring room, down a corridor and emerge into a bright workaday room. There are windows and we are high up. Daylight… and I know they’re not elegant elongated Montgolfier balloons gently ascending outside the window. What are they? They’re attached to cranes, I’ll work it out later… I turn my attention back inside the room – Heart FM is on, clock to my right is around 9am, the working day is beginning all around London. With my team around me, we set to work.

Right, can you climb onto this bed? Sorry it’s very narrow… Concentrate Claire, I’m huge for it but I cling on and clamber across, looking up at the capable looking woman doctor instructing me. She has a funky surgical cap on (cartoons, patterns?) and I try to compliment her, natural ice-breaking reaction still there, somehow she’s otherwise distracted.

Can you lie on your side please? Fine. Now curl up your back like a banana says the anaesthetist. Fine. No, I’m feeling a contraction coming (hold fire until it finishes I’m thinking?) – no he doesn’t, there’s no time to hang on and it’s done.

Back on my back – legs up high, high as they can go, put into massive black square boot stirrups things (I think there are apologetic noises from the first doctor about this). Girl or boy? We don’t know what we’re having, it’s ok, you can shout it’s a boy / it’s a girl when the time comes! To the right, the clock, it’s still around 9, to the left, the windows, we are still high up, there are cranes, cement mixers attached, soaring up. Sean is to my left, next to the anaesthetist, looking overwhelmed and the lovely anaesthetic is spreading through me like a gentle warm embrace, making me feel clear again, bringing me into here and now. I’m no longer distant inside the crankings of my body, but here, and I start to feel emotion again, some tears squeezing out and running down my cheeks. I look at Sean and he makes a mighty effort to stay strong for me. We reconnect: we’re doing this!

Right, hold one minute. A black woman with a clipboard appears in the centre of it all – sorry we just have to do checks before we can proceed – and runs through a check list. She’s like the stage manager who has to think of the practicalities before the production can begin. There’s a large team of people all around, about 15 of them and some take turns to reply to her. It doesn’t take long, everything’s in place, she gives us the all clear to begin and exits stage left.

The lovely midwife Eugenia has her hands on my tummy and will tell mke when a contraction’s coming – I can’t feel them anymore!! – and so when to push. It seems to take ages before they come.

Is that one? Yes! Push push! I have no idea how well I’m pushing. It’s tricky and I don’t expect anything to happen right away. POP! A shower of blood spatters onto the two women who are at my business end. Birth? No, almost instantly I realise not, there are looks of frustration and one of them is holding the ventouse cap which has popped off the baby’s head. OK, next.

One deft slice from the younger blonde woman, I am open and the forceps, oversized salad servers, are spooned in. Sean watches this all, stunned. And now a pep talk from the commanding woman with the funky surgical cap.

You are doing really well Claire, just keep pushing like you have done before. It’s not your pushing which is the problem, the baby is in a very awkward position, so we need you to do all you can to get him out. This is good. I was beginning to feel like perhaps I just wasn’t good enough, just not capable of pushing this baby out. Her words reassure me not to give up and to concentrate and work just as hard – harder to push the baby out. It’s not like at school sports day when well-meaning teachers told me, well done, you’ve done really well, as I come last in the race (what’s the point I knew they were lying?). She means it, I believe her.

Is that a contraction? the doctor demands. Yes, yes it is Eugenia confirms. OK push! I push so hard that my bottom half is forced up into the air with the effort. Keep your bottom down! Ah, it felt I should let it do that rather than spend extra effort keeping it down. But no avail, I manage 2 pushes during this contraction, taking a tiny breath between them so I can push again. Tiny breath in, looonnnnnng breath out, keep pushing.

Tension, the doctors discuss between them. This is tricky. More words of encouragement and this really is the last chance. We need you to give us one last push. We don’t like to keep babies in this position for too long and this one’s been there for quite a while now.

Had I heard her tell me this before? That this was the last chance? No matter, there’s no way I can trust my own memory right now, there’s no need to analyse anything, I just have to do what they’re telling me. Right now I have no idea of the consequences should I fail this last push. From my point of view it feels like I can keep going. Maybe there will in fact be another chance after. No matter, I need to focus on the task in hand. I remember those amazing long out-breaths I was doing earlier, another world away. My basic knowledge of yoga tells me the mind can tell the body what to do.

So here comes the contraction, tuck the chin down, puuuusssssshhhh. Bottom most definitely down. Keep pushing, keep breathing out. I keep breathing out when I think I’ve breathed out all I need to. Then I think about my legs, am I using every muscle in them to push? Some more can be engaged. Keeping pushing. Still on the same breath, still pushing. I wonder what’s more in the tank? I decide will not stop breathing out until something happens. A sound, pushing out of my mouth. Sean describes it later as a primal scream. A massive mangled moan. And that’s it. Everyone in that room was willing me on and the atmosphere changes but I’m still not sure if anything’s definitely happened. But yes, it’s a boy, there he is, bloody and floppy, handed to me for a beat and then whisked away. He’s a bit floppy, he’s been through a lot. We don’t hear a cry straight away. I’m not sure when we do, I don’t remember. I wasn’t worried for some reason. This baby doesn’t feel like my responsibility…yet.

I have a feeling I can’t quite relax yet. They never show it on TV but I know there’s more pushing to come. The placenta needs to come out. No need for my input though, it seems like between them the women are pulling on the cord, hand over hand, like sailors handling rope. One comments on its length. The placenta follows on through and is caught in a large kidney-shaped metallic bowl and briefly presented to us for inspection. Yes it is huge. Thank you.

There’s quite a chuffed atmosphere in the room, we’ve made it to the other side. I know there’s all sorts of comments going round, chatter, but I can’t take it in. Sean has tears in his eyes and we exchange words. The baby’s still over in the corner when the young woman starts stitching me up – bright light and big needle and thread. Ouch – I can feel that! After everything – I can feel that, I can feel that!

No problem, we’ll sort that says the anaesthetist. The epidural will knock your legs out for a few hours. 

A beautiful little package is handed over, this will distract you. Wrapped in a clean white towel (couple spots of blood) and there he is. Calm, asleep, slightly gritty face but clean otherwise. Wow.

Pins and needles creeping down my legs. I’ve had them up there hanging impossibly high for so long it seems that the blood is draining out of them. At some point I manage to mention that. No that’s the epidural. Duh of course.

People are packing up, even Sean and baby drift away while I’m still being stitched. It does take a while. I think nothing of it. I feel very detached and things just seem to be happening. I have no expectations at all now. We’ve reached the other side. I don’t know what happens now. It seems so relaxed, when she finishes, the doctor types some things into a computer, you’ve got the same date of birth as me she smiles. Exactly the same, 1981 too. Afterwards I wish that I had asked for her name. Maybe I did. As I’m wheeled out, I’m aware of the radio again. Don’t worry about a thing. Cos every little thing’s gonna be all right sings Bob Marley. Ha ha, perfect. Thank you.

[rorybirth]

The Trial

She tells me a plan of action, calling it a ‘trial’. As if it’s simply an experiment, and as if it doesn’t work then it’s really no bother. OK. Firstly, we will try using the ventouse cap, do you know what this is? Oh yes, I remember this from the parentcraft classes. Bit of a whacky idea, using suction to attach the cap to the baby’s head to guide the baby out. That does sound experimental, do they really work? I wonder (I’ll find out). Then we will try forceps. Both of these procedures carry with them a high chance of you having an episiotomy. Oh that’s a shame. OK. Then we will try going to c-section.

The anaesthetist is coming. I’ve got my legs high and apart and a midwife chucks a cloth over my dignity but I’m past caring and do not expect anyone else to be bothered. He is a friendly New Zealander, fresh to our situation and casually explains the menu on offer: the anaesthetic will be administered in the lower spine, masking the pain just enough but still allowing me to feel the contractions enabling me to push when necessary. Or then of course we can always add in an epidural, should I need it, that’ll block everything out. He chats away in a matter of fact way, all this so everyday to him that it can be for us too.

Consent forms containing tick boxes for the above and more are handed over. In the dark, in the distance, we run down the list together as I tick each one and sign my name (I can still produce my signature!). We’re going to theatre; Sean will need scrubs. As we’re wheeled out, I wonder whether it’s worth going through this whole trial thingy. In my spaced logic I think: maybe they’re curious to see what would work but I’ve heard stories from other mums. Surely it’s worth just skipping the other stages and going straight to the c-section?

C-section would not be straight-forward as the baby is already partway down the birth canal she says. And the penny drops, this is not some experimental trial. This is a practical trial, one of these 3 options will work and the higher up the list the better.

[rorybirth]

Push

So things progress quickly – I think it’s around 7am when they discover I’m 8cm dilated. Chericka’s back – wow so much has changed in the hour I’ve been away! About an hour later when I’m 10cm dilated a man gives me the all clear to start pushing - I think he’s been coming to check on me for a little while. Seems odd, I have absolutely no sense that I’m ready to push but I’m in no position to contest, what do I know? I barely know who’s in the room from one stage to the next. I’ve asked for pethidine but the man told me it’s a bit late for that. Makes the baby sleepy, I know. He offered me an epidural but surely I can do without that, I’m not in that much pain. He asks Sean if he wants to cut the cord and he seems up for it, if a little surprised, we’re both thinking, are we really at that stage already...?

So I have to push. Same feeling as when you’re massively constipated and you know it’s not going to happen. Just live with the feeling until you start to loosen up, have a coffee that would help. But I’m not constipated and they’re telling me to push so who knows this might happen. Nothing’s budging so we try another position, I turn round so I’m kneeling with my arms over the back of the bed. Surely that would help but no it does not feel any better at all. Between contractions I stop pushing and shake from sheer exhaustion. Sean’s sitting texting, he’s mirroring my distance. We were in this together until the whole process hiked up a notch. After the gas and air, I didn’t see him anymore; I could barely connect with the world outside of me. I’m aware there’s more coming and going. Around this time Chericka finishes her shift and another midwife (Eugenia) is taking over. A new cast parting the curtains. A doctor with blond hair appears and gives me a pep talk. She’s serious.

Claire you have to push. You’ve done really well up until now but it’s up to you to push this baby out.

I feel like I’m being told I’m not putting the effort in. Am I? I have really no idea. Although I do know it’s tough, really really tough. It doesn’t feel like anything is going to budge and it still feels like constipation. Maybe this is just how it is supposed to feel - like it’s not going to happen when it actually is. So I try again.

We’re running out of time. The pushing stage should not go on longer than 2 hours I’m told, for the sake of the baby’s safety. I move back into my previous position sitting upright. It takes an almighty effort to flip round and feels like I’m wasting precious time. It does feel better than before but still it’s just not happening. We’ve been going for over an hour now with no hint of progress.

I’m vaguely aware of puzzlement. There’s a theory about the umbilical cord bunching up and getting in the way around the baby’s neck area. I’m very distant – an ultrasound device appears – do I see the screen or is it just described to me? Every time you push the baby’s eyes are bulging, the doctor observes almost with amusement. She was right about the cord but there is more: OK Claire your baby is back to back. This makes it very difficult to deliver in the natural way so here’s what we’re going to do.

[rorybirth]

The Labour Room

A woman comes along to measure my legs for surgical tights. For some reason I think, well I won’t be needing them, I guess it’s just what they give everyone. This probably wouldn’t be happening if I was in the Midwife-Led Unit. Another effect of having gestational diabetes. I look over at the woman opposite me who is trying to sleep and wonder how long she has been there. The woman comes back with the tights and squeezes my legs into them, rolling them on with the aid of plastic bags.

It’s 11pm and a doctor checks me again – I brace myself for slow progress but it’s good news, I’m now 5cm dilated, the magic signal for moving me on to the next stage. He leaves and a woman tells us that Room 1 is ready for us, what pain relief would I like? Umm. Pethidine, gas and air, epidural...? Umm, gas and air (feels weird ordering it up now as I’m doing ok – good to have up my sleeve though) gas and air it is. We pack our stuff and bring it over to the room. It’s huge and dimly lit, loads of space to be moving round doing whatever crazy actions are needed. It even has a generous en-suite. We feel like we’ve just been shown to our hotel room and are imagining a few days stay – should be quite good here we reckon.

Chericka, our midwife, comes in and introduces herself. Bringing us back to reality ever so slightly she says I will have to be bed-bound as the baby’s heart-rate and my contractions need to be monitored. This involves strapping two big pieces of elastic round my belly to hold the monitors in place. Leads from these are attached to a machine by the bed which spews out charts. Oh well, yoga poses out the window. The one concession is that by manoeuvring the bed, she enables me to sit upright rather than on my back. At least this is a stronger position. The only technique I have left that I can remember is singing out long ‘ahs’ and ‘ohs’ with every contraction. Sean joins in for good measure, harmonising. OK it’s odd but it seems to be working well for the time being.

Chericka encourages, you’re doing really well. She sits at a table writing neat notes under the aura of an inspection light, darkness all around. Each hour is marked by her pricking my finger to check my blood sugar. After a few hours she’s apologetic, she feels bad having to do it. Thankfully the blood sugar stays at a reasonable level, meaning I can avoid the insulin drip. We’ve brought snacks, protein bars, oatcakes and carrot sticks but eating them isn’t that enticing.

It’s an awkward position. When the contractions come on strong I want to move forward, off, out, try anything else that I can. However I should try not to even lean forward. Chericka says the baby’s heart-rate slows every time I do that – I need to be slightly leaning back. I sing out the longest notes I’ve ever done; Sean can’t even keep up.

At 4am they check my progress – still only 5cm after all that! Chericka says not to feel downhearted as the baby would still be making progress all that time inside. However, this baby needs a helping hand so she decides to break my waters. The intensity of the contractions sharply increases after this. I start on the gas and air. Explosive sick – carrots from earlier – all over my nice white nightie. This puts me right off the gas and air although the midwife assures me that this is an effect of having my waters broken – everything comes out.

It gets harder, far more intense. She’s not taking it properly – I’m reluctant to drag on the gas and air as I don’t want to be sick again. The midwife persuades me and I start to feel much more distance. It’s harder for me to connect with Sean like I was before. I go more into myself. Chericka goes on her break, and a midwife called Juliette covers for her. She makes herself busy, sets herself up further away from me than Chericka was, moving lights, discussing things quietly with a man who comes in (could be entirely unrelated to me). At one point, she’s concerned, staring up at the wall behind me, the electrician says we mustn’t use all the green sockets, he’s working on that circuit. Sean and I, bit mystified, try to respond in an intelligible way. Ok, we’ll bear that in mind... At another point she wants to change my bed. There’s a lot of mess following the waters breaking. You need to move she says impatiently. I’m off the bed, standing on the floor, palms on the bed. Fluids pour out of me, making the floor slippery and I try to stay stable. I’m quite clearly in her way – her job would be so much easier if she didn’t have a labouring woman taking up space in the middle of everything.

[rorybirth]

Monday 19 October 2015

I wake up with pain in my lower back – it’s around 4.30 in the morning. Sean is sleeping in the living room on the sofa bed – a common occurrence in the latter part of my pregnancy. It’s not easy to share a bed with me shifting around all night, hulking my big belly around as I go. I have various pillows that I rearrange in an attempt to get comfortable and I try to go back to sleep. By 6am I can no longer stay in bed so I nip past Sean to sit on the birthing ball in the dark, nursing a cup of raspberry leaf tea. I then take a bath which gives me some relief. I leave Sean to sleep – if this does happen to build into Something I’ll need him later.

I spend the day in the flat using some of the pregnancy yoga techniques I’ve learned to get me through these early stages. These include standing, arms out, palms flat on the wall doing various rotations and swings of the hips. I can’t face trying the positions on all-fours, how would I ever get up again? Bobbing about on the birthing ball helps get through the sensations too. It’s exciting – something’s happening for sure. It’s hard to count the contractions, though I need to have 3 in every 10 minutes before I can show up at the hospital. Now were we supposed to phone the midwives first or just turn up? And was it the 3rd or 4th floor we were supposed to go to? I’m sure we knew the answer before but today our brains haven’t retained any concrete details. In the end Sean phones the midwife paging service about where to go but no one gets back to us. I imagine them rolling their eyes when they hear the message – I remember something about just turning up so that’s what we decide to do.

We set off around 5pm. So they were right it is possible to walk with contractions. It’s just a bit slow. In fact, getting into a car would feel downright weird, I’m glad this is the way we’re doing it. I feel in control, doing things at my own pace. It’s slow but it’s exciting – it’s happening! I get knowing looks from a woman with a small child coming in our direction. This journey to the hospital that I’ve done so many times before feels different, epic. I make use of lampposts, walls and rails to cling to while a contraction comes and don’t feel self-conscious. I’m way too distracted for that! When the contraction’s over – yes I think it’s gone – we move on again. Each of those stops feeling special for the minutes that we spend there. We can’t believe we’ve reached the hospital. I cling to the outside stair rail for my last outdoor contraction. That’s one more gone encourages a woman passing by pushing a wheelchair user.

And we use the stairs – we’re in no hurry – four storeys, pausing at each level and looking out the window to the building across. We can see the caterers on one level, people working at their desks on another. It’s a quiet time when we arrive at the Harris Birthright Centre (can I help you? Er, yes, I’m in labour. OK please wait there) and luckily we are seen quickly. I am hooked up to a machine which gives readings of my contractions. Of course they have slowed and I’m now having 2 every ten minutes. That’s the effect we have says the midwife. Also I’m only 3cm dilated. She seems undecided. You can stay in. But it might be nicer for you to go home, have a nice meal of something you like at home, then come back. Here, it’s hospital food, not so nice.

She makes going home sound like a more comforting option. However, our cupboards are bare; we’ve not had a chance to go shopping in the last couple of days. Also, as much as we enjoyed the expedition I cannot imagine repeating it twice. So we stay. I’ve missed the hospital food anyway and Sean dashes out for a jerk chicken takeaway.

Al and Monica come and visit straight from work, they’re intrigued but look a bit apprehensive for me. I’ve done what might be my last injection of insulin, munching greasy chicken between my strange rotations of the hips and ‘aaaahs’. It’s a tiny space curtained off where I can hardly turn between the wall and the side of the bed. We all take a walk down the corridor, Al and Monica wish us luck and we tell them we’ll keep them posted before they leave. We expect the birth to be a long time coming. I spend some time bobbing on a birthing ball – one member of staff asked me how it feels, looking slightly amused. I can’t really explain – I guess I just need something to keep me occupied, something that my energies can manage (I wouldn’t be able to read a book I can tell you) so I just inadequately explain that ‘it helps’. Which it doesn’t, really.

[rorybirth]

Look at this lush room, it’s called the Woodland Room at the Midwife-Led Unit at King’s. We even had a tour a few months before (when I was still low-risk). There’s even a picture of some woods with bluebells on the wall. It looks much better than most of the hotels I’ve ever stayed in. Ah well, dream on, can’t use this lovely space when you have gestational diabetes...