Tags

, , , , , , ,

“She’s eight centimetres dilated. The baby’s coming now!”

No. No. No. No. No. This can’t be happening. Only a few hours before, I’d been told that my mild contractions were probably caused by a bladder infection. I expected to go home and carry on my pregnancy for another three months, not to give birth now. Not now. Not now!

“Please do something. Delay the labour. Keep him in my womb. Even if he can just make it to 28 weeks’ gestation…”

“There’s nothing we can do. If the baby is coming out, there’s a reason for it.”

The previous Saturday I had attended my first antenatal class, learning about the pros and cons of different birthing options and forms of pain relief, as well as studying a serious of helpful diagrams showing the baby’s journey out of the womb.

I had gone home very excited and written up a detailed birth plan. I wanted a natural water birth in as peaceful an environment as possible, with my mother as birthing partner. I intended to remain drug-free for as long as possible, then take gas and air, finally having a local anaesthetic as the baby arrived to relax my cervix and avoid the pain of tearing. I imagined the midwife lifting my beautiful little son from the water and placing him in my arms. He would cry at the shock of being out of his cosy womb but I would hold him and soothe him, sobbing with joy, and he would settle down to gently suck at my breast. A photographer friend had agreed to capture our first magical moments together.

Barnaby’s actual entry to the world was slightly more dramatic…

The moment the labour pains intensified, all my natural Earth-mother ideals were discarded.

“I need an epidural…NOW!”

“It’s too late for that.”

TOO LATE?! How could it be too late? I’d been in hospital for over fifteen hours and nobody had noticed that I was going in to labour. The pain was becoming unbearable, like a belt of dull iron spikes being pulled ever tighter around my abdomen and jabbing into my lower back. I was sure I would pass out at any moment. How could I give birth without pain relief?

A flurry of alarmed midwives, nurses and doctors suddenly surrounded my bedside. I was wheeled out of the ward, leaving the two full-term women still moaning. Even in the confused jumble of my panicked brain, the irony of beating them to the delivery room, after only half an hour of active labour pain, did not escape me.

I was wheeled down the corridor, numb with terror and disbelief. How could this be happening after everything I had been through to conceive a child? A healthy son was to be the golden reward that made the entire hellish struggle worthwhile.

There were around ten people in the delivery room, scrubbing up and making preparations.

“Are we fully staffed?” someone shouted and received affirmation that they were. I felt a slight wave of relief in this knowledge but couldn’t help wondering what happened if another woman suddenly went into labour.

The pain was worsening and I cried again for an epidural. A midwife shoved the gas and air tube into my mouth, which had no effect whatsoever. She assured me that they were preparing an epidural. I knew she was lying.

I was lifted from my ward bed onto a table, lying on my back. I remembered from the antenatal class that this was the worst position for birth, despite the stereotypical portrayal of birth in films, as the coccyx is curled inwards, narrowing the gap through which the baby must pass. I kept asking if I should kneel up but they told me to remain where I was.

As the agony in my lower half increased, something very odd was happening inside my brain. My consciousness split into two, each part vying for control of my body and voice.

One part of my being was out of control, racked with helpless delirium. I screamed and convulsed and gibbered nonsensical outbursts. I pleaded to the people around me, and then to God, to make the pain go away. I felt like Winston Smith in Room 101, confronted by his greatest fear, willing to do or say anything to prevent the torture. I would even have consented to forceps or an emergency caesarean (both of which were suggested and which I had been adamantly against). Just end the pain. I thought I would die. I thought the baby would die. I grabbed the midwife’s sleeve and told her that if they had to make a choice between the two, to save my baby. I had given up my whole life for my child and couldn’t live without him.

The second part of my consciousness took a step back from what was happening to become a logical, scientific observer, determined to get through the next few minutes as safely and effectively as possible.

The delirium took over again. In true British bureaucratic style, I was asked to sign a lengthy form on which could have been written anything.

“This is just to give your consent to whatever procedure we do here today and that you understand all the risks. In the worst case scenario we might have to cut out your uterus… but that’s highly unlikely.”

Given what was happening, ‘highly unlikely’ was no longer a reassuring term, but I’d neither the time nor capability to explain that I wanted more children and would require the use of my uterus in future. My shaking hand signed the form, the end result in no way resembling my signature. Still contorted in agony, I managed a loose squiggle roughly in the vicinity of the line. My logical brain wondered, for a moment, whether that could be considered legally binding.

The doctors finally decided to let me push the baby out naturally. I was relieved to be having the natural birth I’d longed for but couldn’t believe that I was capable of delivering it. The staff manned battle stations. I had a midwife on each arm, two doctors between my legs and a team at the ready to try to stabilise the baby on arrival.

“The membrane’s still intact,” commented one of the doctors, referring to the fact that my waters hadn’t broken. I felt a slight tap and then GUSSSSSHHH! An ocean poured out of me, soaking the table and probably the doctors too. I had been measuring large throughout the pregnancy and actually looked as though I was full term. All my friends had joked about the fact that I was going to give birth to a giant and, knowing that the sperm donor had been six-foot-four, I had expected a huge baby. That entire massive bump turned out to be fluid.

My logical self took the reins again, asking in a calm, monotone voice, when I should start pushing.

“Very soon, when the contractions come.”

“OK, the contraction is starting to build. It’s coming now. The pain is coming. It’s here. Do I push now? Yes?”

I pushed with all my might, grimacing and yelling and still asking for pain relief.

The midwives reassured me, telling me how well I was doing, but I knew they were just trying to keep me as relaxed as possible. I still didn’t believe that the baby was going to fit. I was terrified of causing damage to the baby, if he got stuck in the birth canal. I was certain I was crushing him.

After two more contractions and strained pushing, I thought that I was surely there.

“You’re doing brilliantly. We can see the top of the baby’s head.”

‘Is that all?!’ I thought.

“Ok, we need you to get the head out with the next push.”

No pressure then.

The contraction arrived and I gave it everything. At last, it felt as though someone had poured burning acid on my vagina. I put banshees to shame with my howling.

“I’M BEING TORN APART!”

“It’s fine; the baby’s head’s there. We need you to get him out now.”

Steely determination. Two more contractions and I felt his body slip from mine – and the placenta too for good measure – and a numbness wash over me.

I raised my head to see a tiny red body lifted by the doctor and placed in a clear plastic bag, to be rushed to the corner of the room. Even though I knew that this must be done to keep the baby clean and warm, nothing could have prepared me for that image. It will haunt me for the rest of my life.

The pain was gone but I was in shock. Frantic action was taking place behind me but I couldn’t see or hear what was going on. I tried to focus on the tone of the voices. Is the baby ok? Are they panicked?

The doctor checked me and confirmed that I had a small tear. While being stitched up I thanked God that I still had my uterus. Now please let my baby be ok. Please let him live.

Finally, I heard the tiniest cry from the corner of the room and sounds of elation from the staff. A good sign. Someone came over and tentatively congratulated me.

“Let mum see him before he goes upstairs to SCBU.”

“Don’t wait for me,” I called out. “Just get him to safety.”

They lifted me back down onto the ward bed and turned me to face the exit as they wheeled the tiny red being past. I knew that I was looking at the baby who I had loved so dearly inside me but it just didn’t seem real. I reached down to feel my empty belly and longed to feel my little companion’s reassuring kicks.

I understood nothing of premature babies, other than that they often didn’t survive or turned out to have severe mental or physical disabilities. I felt I’d already lost him – lost everything. Future shattered. Dreams stolen.

The doctors may as well have removed my heart.