jojo_b
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Apart from the beginning where I just knew that I was pregnant, in spite of tests telling me that I wasnt, every stage of my pregnancy seemed to mess about with my female intuition. I had been adamant from my first positive pee on a stick that our little baba was a girl, to the extent that I hadnt even considered boys names. I was certain that it was a pink bump, and nothing was convincing me otherwise
until, of course, our 20-week scan. As my husband (who will be happy if its a boy or girl yeah right) leapt around the room whooping, I lay there stunned, staring in confusion at my goo-covered bump and the wriggling, grainy image on the screen. I asked the sonographer if she was sure, and she replied that they are never allowed to say that theyre sure, but she was pretty confident she could see a set of boy bits. Hmm.
Science 1, intuition nil.
Unfortunately, this trend was to continue as I confidently predicted that I would definitely, absolutely, positively go into labour before my due date of 18th October. As that date came menacingly closer, my confidence in my psychic abilities began to waver, and when it came and went, I rapidly sank into the gloom that only fellow 9 month-plus-ers can truly comprehend. A sweaty, aching, furious mess, I was ready to throttle the well-meaning friends and family who were brave enough to suggest that I stock up on sleep now. Hissing at them through gritted teeth that sleep isnt easy with a watermelon bouncing on your bladder, and that I would get more sleep with my baby out so at least my husband could help, I remember only too well the smiling, knowing looks. If only she knew, they implied. Yes, turns out they were right, but so what? Right then, all I wanted was my little boy out so I could get cracking with this mummyhood business.
So, my due date came and went, and the annoying texts started. Nothing yet? theyd ask. Still no baby? And a personal favourite: Hell come when hes ready! Oh, really? You think? Grr. My terse answers to these near-constant messages were more polite than I felt at the time, and (yes, ridiculous I know), every hour that passed without a twinge made me more and more convinced that he was never coming out. My Facebook status from 21st October was me telling my friends that my husband had sent me to our room until I could be less grumpy! Well, I was allowed to be grumpy; I was going to be pregnant forever, after all.
Luckily, I was wrong about this too, and just four days after my due date, I felt relatively cheerful (though in real terms, I was still horrid). Id semi-resigned myself to the fact that I was going to be The World Famous Eternally Pregnant Woman, and embraced the fact by doing some shopping. Id dragged my long-suffering husband off to a gorgeous little baby boutique that my friends had told me about, and assaulted the overdraft by buying some over-priced swaddling blankets and scrummy little knitted hats. I waddled around the shop in pain, but nothing felt contraction-esque. It didnt come and go and it didnt feel like period pain. I huffed and puffed and shuffled about, sitting down every few seconds and snarling regularly at the hubby for being unreasonable by breathing or moving. I was great company. Really.
Glutton for punishment, after I had finally granted my husband a reprieve and allowed him to go to work, I decided that I wanted to do yet more shopping, despite being 3 pounds past skint. I picked up my sister-in-law and hobbled around looking for a washing basket. All that I eventually managed to buy was a cheeseburger, seeing as I was too uncomfortable to waddle far, and as I dropped her off home, she chirped up with the ongoing joke, Bet next time I see you, youll have the baby! Humph.
Anyway, the good news was that she was right. The bad news was that I wouldnt see her for another four days.
So, at about 8pm that night (22nd October), the pain that Id had all day began to worsen, and had also developed a vague kind of pattern to it. I now knew that these were contractions, but the excitement and anticipation that Id expected to feel werent there. Perhaps even in those early stages I somehow knew that this was going to be a long process
By midnight, I hadnt slept at all because my contractions were coming sporadically, but generally speaking, about every 4-8 minutes. There was no sense of them getting any closer together, but they were certainly painful enough by that stage. I had gone into the spare room so I could get up and walk around during each contraction, which seemed to help marginally. Our cat, who was normally devoid of any kindness or compassion, was stuck to me like a furry limpet, meowing anxiously at me as I was yelping my way through contractions and clambering in and out of the bath. At 4am, Id gotten to the stage where they were all about 4 minutes apart, so I waited until Id just finished a contraction and would be able to talk to ring Labour Ward. They told me I would need to wait until each contraction was lasting two minutes to go in to hospital. I was gutted at that stage, they were lasting about 30 seconds. I couldnt believe that Id have to keep going like this for potentially hours with no pain relief other than paracetamol. I started to cry, and after another two hours alternating between the bath and pacing up and down the landing, I waddled downstairs where I managed, somehow, to doze off on the couch.
Id woken up at 9am after three hours of fitful dozing. As I came around, I realised that the contractions had stopped. Gutted doesnt even begin to cover it. I was furious with myself for sleeping and allowing them to stop. I got up, crying again, and spent the next two hours bouncing on my pregnancy ball. It seemed to work, and by 11am, they had started with a vengeance again, though were still no closer than every four minutes and lasted no longer than 30 seconds. They were really painful now though, and felt like the baby was forcing his way out through my back. I had expected the contractions to be like very strong period pains, but they were quite different; much tighter and sharper.
When the doorbell rang and my mother-in-law showed up, I decided that I was not up to company and shuffled upstairs. After a few hours of trudging up and down the landing, I did the logical thing and decided to change the sheets in the spare room. I suppose that I felt that if was up and about, my contractions would pick up a gear and I would finally be allowed into hospital.
By 7.30pm, I had still not progressed and was starting to feel exhausted. My husband made me dinner, but as I was still having contractions every 4 minutes, it proved near impossible to eat anything. With hindsight, I realise that I should have stuffed my face with everything in sight, but I barely ate anything, which didnt help my exhausted state.
For the few weeks prior to this, the advertisements for Piers Morgans chat show with Cheryl Cole had prompted me to tell people that I had to be home from hospital by then because I was determined to watch it. Murphys Law of course dictated that it would be halfway through the programme that I would sob hysterically down the phone to Labour Ward that they had to let me come in because I was going to die. Melodrama has always been one of my talents. Anyway, just as Cheryl was sobbing over Ashleys betrayal, I was pulling on the most eclectic collection of clothing ever for the journey to hospital as I grabbed the closest semi-comfortable things to hand. I remember for the full 9 months of pregnancy, I was determined that I would be arriving at hospital in a stylish yet appropriate ensemble, with all necessary shaving and grooming complete. Needless to say, this was not the case.
Somewhat resembling a bag lady in distress, we were five minutes away from hospital when I realised, horrified, that my contractions had stopped. In dread of being sent home from hospital without pain relief, I decided to lie down, as I knew that lying down had been making them stronger. With all the finesse youd expect, I somehow managed to get myself horizontal, and sure enough, they started again. In a suitable state of agony, I finally arrived at Labour Ward at about 10.00pm (Friday 23rd October).
The lovely midwives saw me to a room and got me on a bed so I could be examined. I was introduced to what, at the time, was the most wonderful offering ever gas and air. Oh sweet relief. I was adamant beforehand that I didnt want it because Id had it before when I broke my ankle, and didnt like how weird it made me feel. Luckily, Id stayed open-minded about all other birthing options and was happy to go with the flow, because in all of my research for this book, I have never once met anyone who had the birth she had expected or planned. The strongest advice I can give is to try to approach the whole experience in a state of knowing what could happen, and preparing for every eventuality. If you go in with rigid expectations, you will almost certainly be disappointed. So, back to the gas and air. Yes, it made me feel weird. My voice sounded odd a bit like a drag acts voice booming in a cave. It seemed to bounce around my head, and the room felt like it was spinning. I couldnt have cared less though, because the pain floated away. Aaaahhh bliss.
The painful examination revealed that I was a disappointing one centimeter dilated. One. Bloody. Centimetre. I had been in labour since the beginning of time (or so it felt), and I was only one centimeter dilated. Weirdly, I apologized to my husband at that point I felt that he must think I was a right wimp if Id been whining all of this time, all for one measly centimeter. I also feel a bit useless why was my body taking so long to do its job? This was the first moment where I really began to doubt myself. Unfortunately, in the hormone-addled weeks that followed, it wouldnt be the last.
After the examination, the midwife talked to me about pain relief, and I said that Id try to manage on gas and air until I was able to have an epidural later on. After hearing horror stories of girls who were refused pain relief, I was quite surprised that she talked me into having an injection of diamorphine. I was worried about it crossing the placenta and making my baby sleepy, but she assured me that as I was barely dilated (sob!), it would be unlikely to affect him. I agreed, and met the substance even more beautiful than gas and air. It was wonderful! I floated down to the toilet, where I discovered that the examination had clearly dislodged my plug, and in my drug-induced euphoria, I began to feel the excitement that I had been expecting. I was in labour! My baby would be here soon!
It was around midnight by the time I told my husband that he may as well go home, seeing as nothing especially dramatic seemed imminent. He was reluctant, but I persuaded him that he needed to be well-rested so he could support me when things stepped up a gear. I asked him to get me a drink before he left, and he spent forever rummaging around in my ridiculously overstocked bag. After ensuring that I had everything I needed, he eventually agreed to go home to get some sleep, on the proviso that I allowed him to come back early. I told him no earlier than 10am unless something impressive was happening, and he wearily shuffled off.
I attempted to doze, which is nigh-on impossible in the worlds most uncomfortable bed - why does every midwife think you have to be in a sitting position with 28 pillows to be comfy?! I wanted to be lay down flat, on my side, but well-meaning staff kept coming in and hiking me up. Every time I told them that I was fine, they assured me that its no bother. They were incredibly kind and full of good intentions, so instead of sleeping, I lay staring at the ceiling, pondering the ongoing miracle that meant that I was soon to be a mummy.
At this point in my fairly epic tale, I want to say this to the expectant first-time mummies-to-be who are reading this: many labour tales will sound like horror stories, and I suppose from an outside perspective, thats how mine might sound too. Trust me though it really wasnt. As I lay there, many hours into labour, alone in the early hours of the morning, I was able to appreciate with real clarity the true beauty of what was happening. I was venturing into motherhood and about to meet my little baby. I look back on those days that I was in labour with something close to reverence. There will never be anything to match it, and for all of the indignity and pain, it was start to finish the most incredible, life-affirming experience of my life. It wasnt perfect, but nothing ever is. Even with the difficult moments emotionally and physically that you will experience, bringing your child into the world is the rawest, most powerful experience you will ever have in your life.
I was checked regularly throughout the night, and by 3am, I had progressed to a disappointing 3cm. At this point, the midwife asked if I would like an epidural. I confirmed that I would, as the diamorphine had worn off and the contractions were very strong, and all in my back. I was worried about the process of actually having the needle into my spine, thanks to yet more horror stories from women about foot-long needles and the like, but it really wasnt bad at all. There was a sharp, scratching pain from the local anaesthetic, and that was it. I then felt a cold feeling creeping over my legs and the sweet relief of no pain. It was so odd being unable to move my legs, and though I loved being pain-free, I hated the fact that I had to be hauled about by the midwives whenever they needed to move me. Once the epidural drip was in, a midwife broke my waters, which we all hoped would speed things along.
Because Id had an epidural, I was (obviously!) permanently beached on my back. I also had to be monitored, with belts around my tummy monitoring contractions and babys heartbeat. I felt as though I had wires and tubes coming from everywhere, which, combined with my numb legs, meant that I was incredibly uncomfortable from that point onwards. This is the state my husband found me in when he arrived back at 10am on the dot. He was disappointed that he hadnt been there to support me while I had my epidural, even though I assured him that it had been fine. He stayed with me then in a room that was feeling increasingly claustrophobic as the hours slowly ticked by. Regular examinations continued to show that I was still just 3 cm dilated, and by then, the fear was beginning to kick in that I would be too exhausted to push him out, should I ever dilate far enough.
At 1pm, a senior consultant came to see us, and he had the brusque, matter-of-fact manner that I would come to associate with many of the doctors over the days that followed. He examined the feedback from the monitor and said that he wanted to put me on a syntocin drip, an artificial hormone that would stimulate my body and encourage my cervix to dilate more quickly.
After about half an hour of being on the hormone drip, our babys heart rate started to drop alarmingly with every contraction, to the extent that it sounded as though it had almost stopped on occasion. This sounds horrible, but I cant even begin to explain just how truly frightening it was. The consultants and midwives raced back in to ascertain what was going on, and spent the next few hours trying to increase, then decrease the amount of syntocin I was receiving. Nothing they did increased my cervixs dilation, and the contractions continued to slow the babys heart rate.
Once again, I told my reluctant husband to leave, as his rumbling belly was threatening to drown out the sounds of the monitor. Yet again, he seemed doomed to miss moments of action, as at this point, the consultant returned to say that he wanted to get a blood sample from the babys head to check his oxygen levels. This turned out to be a painful and undignified process, with several people rummaging around down the business end with what looked like miners lamps, but eventually the consultant peered up and me and told me that our baby had a lot of hair. This was a glimmer of light in quite a dark moment for a very exhausted me, as I was reminded of the little person camped in there! However tired and defeated I was feeling, our baby was there we would meet him soon. It was this that kept me going. While down there, the consultant also told me that the baby was back-to-back, meaning that his spine was pressing on my spine. This explained why I found the contractions so painful, and why I felt them more in my back than anywhere else.
The test results on the babys head were soon back, and were encouraging his oxygen levels were good, which suggested that he wasnt under undue stress. The consultant suggested that we spend a few more hours on the drip to see if I could dilate any more, but at 7pm, a further examination revealed that I was still just 3 cm dilated and would need an emergency Caesarian Section.
While I know that many women are disappointed to be unable to give birth naturally, I signed the consent forms in a state of murky numbness as countless nurses undressed me, removed my nail polish and disconnected different wires.
In theatre, I was getting rubbed down with alcohol and having my epidural topped up when I recognised one of the nursing staff as a girl whom I knew at high school. Not what you want while youre lay there with your bits out. We made awkward conversation for a minute, and then she was discreet enough to leave theatre and swap with a colleague, which I was grateful for. Doctors began the process by checking if I was still numb by spraying cold water on my tummy, which I could vaguely feel. I told them I could feel it, so they topped up my epidural again, and began the procedure. Though I couldnt feel them actually cutting, I could feel the pulling as they worked through the layers of tissues and muscle, and eventually wriggled my baby out. This surprised and shocked me, as it was really uncomfortable, and a combination of shock, fear, pain and exhaustion left me shaking and tearful throughout. My husband was by my side the whole time, and was a pillar of strength for me.
Finally, at 7.13pm on 24th October 2010, Finley Andrew Brennan was born, weighing 6lb 12oz. In spite of my very long labour, he was very well, with an APGAR of 9 at birth and 10 five minutes later. He was handed to me straight away for a cuddle and some photos before being taken away to be quickly checked over.
Even through the tiredness, I immediately felt that I knew him. There was no euphoria to meet him, because I felt as though he was someone whom Id already known for a very long time. It was the strangest feeling that, as you may be able to tell, I still struggle to put into words. What I didnt feel, however, was that rush of overwhelming love that many women describe feeling. Perhaps it was the fact that I was so exhausted, but either way, I would urge all women to remember that this feeling isnt guaranteed. It doesnt mean that you will love your baby any less or are unnatural; for many women, it simply takes time to come.
As the afterbirth was removed and I was stitched up, the surgeon told me why I hadnt dilated beyond 3cm. It turns out that I had undiagnosed partial placenta praevia, a potentially life-threatening condition where the placenta lies low in the uterus. The surgeon explained that the placenta was blocking Finley from moving into a position where he could encourage my cervix to dilate further, hence me getting stuck at 3cm. While he was explaining this to me, I was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate due to a hot, searing pain in my shoulder. This was getting worse by the second, and, noticing my discomfort, the anaesthetist explained to me that blood may have leaked into my stomach. Weirdly, the effect of this is the shoulder tip pain that I was feeling, which was almost as painful as the contractions had been! I begged for some pain relief as I was wheeled into recovery, where my husband was doing skin-to-skin with our son.
After about half an hour in recovery, I was nearly begging for something to ease the agony that was racing through my shoulder. Of the whole process of giving birth, this was the hardest. I was so tired, stuck prostrate on the bed because of the epidural, and in so much pain with my shoulder; all I wanted to do is sleep, yet I couldnt I was a mummy now, and my first priority was my little boy. He was still having skin to skin with his daddy, who I could see was totally besotted with him already. I, on the other hand, felt physically sick with dread at the fact that I was supposed to care for him in my current condition. I was utterly overwhelmed and lost, a feeling that nobody had prepared for me. Everybody would say things like, Its scary, but its wonderful etc etc. At that stage, I didnt feel like any bit of it was wonderful. As I was helped by a midwife to get him latched on to feed, I was waiting for the happiness to sink in, but it didnt. Honestly? I was in a fog of fatigue and had no idea what the next few days were to hold.
This is written for a book on surviving the first few months that I am working on, so the style of it might not be totally "forum-ish"
If you managed to read the whole thing, you deserve a medal
Science 1, intuition nil.
Unfortunately, this trend was to continue as I confidently predicted that I would definitely, absolutely, positively go into labour before my due date of 18th October. As that date came menacingly closer, my confidence in my psychic abilities began to waver, and when it came and went, I rapidly sank into the gloom that only fellow 9 month-plus-ers can truly comprehend. A sweaty, aching, furious mess, I was ready to throttle the well-meaning friends and family who were brave enough to suggest that I stock up on sleep now. Hissing at them through gritted teeth that sleep isnt easy with a watermelon bouncing on your bladder, and that I would get more sleep with my baby out so at least my husband could help, I remember only too well the smiling, knowing looks. If only she knew, they implied. Yes, turns out they were right, but so what? Right then, all I wanted was my little boy out so I could get cracking with this mummyhood business.
So, my due date came and went, and the annoying texts started. Nothing yet? theyd ask. Still no baby? And a personal favourite: Hell come when hes ready! Oh, really? You think? Grr. My terse answers to these near-constant messages were more polite than I felt at the time, and (yes, ridiculous I know), every hour that passed without a twinge made me more and more convinced that he was never coming out. My Facebook status from 21st October was me telling my friends that my husband had sent me to our room until I could be less grumpy! Well, I was allowed to be grumpy; I was going to be pregnant forever, after all.
Luckily, I was wrong about this too, and just four days after my due date, I felt relatively cheerful (though in real terms, I was still horrid). Id semi-resigned myself to the fact that I was going to be The World Famous Eternally Pregnant Woman, and embraced the fact by doing some shopping. Id dragged my long-suffering husband off to a gorgeous little baby boutique that my friends had told me about, and assaulted the overdraft by buying some over-priced swaddling blankets and scrummy little knitted hats. I waddled around the shop in pain, but nothing felt contraction-esque. It didnt come and go and it didnt feel like period pain. I huffed and puffed and shuffled about, sitting down every few seconds and snarling regularly at the hubby for being unreasonable by breathing or moving. I was great company. Really.
Glutton for punishment, after I had finally granted my husband a reprieve and allowed him to go to work, I decided that I wanted to do yet more shopping, despite being 3 pounds past skint. I picked up my sister-in-law and hobbled around looking for a washing basket. All that I eventually managed to buy was a cheeseburger, seeing as I was too uncomfortable to waddle far, and as I dropped her off home, she chirped up with the ongoing joke, Bet next time I see you, youll have the baby! Humph.
Anyway, the good news was that she was right. The bad news was that I wouldnt see her for another four days.
So, at about 8pm that night (22nd October), the pain that Id had all day began to worsen, and had also developed a vague kind of pattern to it. I now knew that these were contractions, but the excitement and anticipation that Id expected to feel werent there. Perhaps even in those early stages I somehow knew that this was going to be a long process
By midnight, I hadnt slept at all because my contractions were coming sporadically, but generally speaking, about every 4-8 minutes. There was no sense of them getting any closer together, but they were certainly painful enough by that stage. I had gone into the spare room so I could get up and walk around during each contraction, which seemed to help marginally. Our cat, who was normally devoid of any kindness or compassion, was stuck to me like a furry limpet, meowing anxiously at me as I was yelping my way through contractions and clambering in and out of the bath. At 4am, Id gotten to the stage where they were all about 4 minutes apart, so I waited until Id just finished a contraction and would be able to talk to ring Labour Ward. They told me I would need to wait until each contraction was lasting two minutes to go in to hospital. I was gutted at that stage, they were lasting about 30 seconds. I couldnt believe that Id have to keep going like this for potentially hours with no pain relief other than paracetamol. I started to cry, and after another two hours alternating between the bath and pacing up and down the landing, I waddled downstairs where I managed, somehow, to doze off on the couch.
Id woken up at 9am after three hours of fitful dozing. As I came around, I realised that the contractions had stopped. Gutted doesnt even begin to cover it. I was furious with myself for sleeping and allowing them to stop. I got up, crying again, and spent the next two hours bouncing on my pregnancy ball. It seemed to work, and by 11am, they had started with a vengeance again, though were still no closer than every four minutes and lasted no longer than 30 seconds. They were really painful now though, and felt like the baby was forcing his way out through my back. I had expected the contractions to be like very strong period pains, but they were quite different; much tighter and sharper.
When the doorbell rang and my mother-in-law showed up, I decided that I was not up to company and shuffled upstairs. After a few hours of trudging up and down the landing, I did the logical thing and decided to change the sheets in the spare room. I suppose that I felt that if was up and about, my contractions would pick up a gear and I would finally be allowed into hospital.
By 7.30pm, I had still not progressed and was starting to feel exhausted. My husband made me dinner, but as I was still having contractions every 4 minutes, it proved near impossible to eat anything. With hindsight, I realise that I should have stuffed my face with everything in sight, but I barely ate anything, which didnt help my exhausted state.
For the few weeks prior to this, the advertisements for Piers Morgans chat show with Cheryl Cole had prompted me to tell people that I had to be home from hospital by then because I was determined to watch it. Murphys Law of course dictated that it would be halfway through the programme that I would sob hysterically down the phone to Labour Ward that they had to let me come in because I was going to die. Melodrama has always been one of my talents. Anyway, just as Cheryl was sobbing over Ashleys betrayal, I was pulling on the most eclectic collection of clothing ever for the journey to hospital as I grabbed the closest semi-comfortable things to hand. I remember for the full 9 months of pregnancy, I was determined that I would be arriving at hospital in a stylish yet appropriate ensemble, with all necessary shaving and grooming complete. Needless to say, this was not the case.
Somewhat resembling a bag lady in distress, we were five minutes away from hospital when I realised, horrified, that my contractions had stopped. In dread of being sent home from hospital without pain relief, I decided to lie down, as I knew that lying down had been making them stronger. With all the finesse youd expect, I somehow managed to get myself horizontal, and sure enough, they started again. In a suitable state of agony, I finally arrived at Labour Ward at about 10.00pm (Friday 23rd October).
The lovely midwives saw me to a room and got me on a bed so I could be examined. I was introduced to what, at the time, was the most wonderful offering ever gas and air. Oh sweet relief. I was adamant beforehand that I didnt want it because Id had it before when I broke my ankle, and didnt like how weird it made me feel. Luckily, Id stayed open-minded about all other birthing options and was happy to go with the flow, because in all of my research for this book, I have never once met anyone who had the birth she had expected or planned. The strongest advice I can give is to try to approach the whole experience in a state of knowing what could happen, and preparing for every eventuality. If you go in with rigid expectations, you will almost certainly be disappointed. So, back to the gas and air. Yes, it made me feel weird. My voice sounded odd a bit like a drag acts voice booming in a cave. It seemed to bounce around my head, and the room felt like it was spinning. I couldnt have cared less though, because the pain floated away. Aaaahhh bliss.
The painful examination revealed that I was a disappointing one centimeter dilated. One. Bloody. Centimetre. I had been in labour since the beginning of time (or so it felt), and I was only one centimeter dilated. Weirdly, I apologized to my husband at that point I felt that he must think I was a right wimp if Id been whining all of this time, all for one measly centimeter. I also feel a bit useless why was my body taking so long to do its job? This was the first moment where I really began to doubt myself. Unfortunately, in the hormone-addled weeks that followed, it wouldnt be the last.
After the examination, the midwife talked to me about pain relief, and I said that Id try to manage on gas and air until I was able to have an epidural later on. After hearing horror stories of girls who were refused pain relief, I was quite surprised that she talked me into having an injection of diamorphine. I was worried about it crossing the placenta and making my baby sleepy, but she assured me that as I was barely dilated (sob!), it would be unlikely to affect him. I agreed, and met the substance even more beautiful than gas and air. It was wonderful! I floated down to the toilet, where I discovered that the examination had clearly dislodged my plug, and in my drug-induced euphoria, I began to feel the excitement that I had been expecting. I was in labour! My baby would be here soon!
It was around midnight by the time I told my husband that he may as well go home, seeing as nothing especially dramatic seemed imminent. He was reluctant, but I persuaded him that he needed to be well-rested so he could support me when things stepped up a gear. I asked him to get me a drink before he left, and he spent forever rummaging around in my ridiculously overstocked bag. After ensuring that I had everything I needed, he eventually agreed to go home to get some sleep, on the proviso that I allowed him to come back early. I told him no earlier than 10am unless something impressive was happening, and he wearily shuffled off.
I attempted to doze, which is nigh-on impossible in the worlds most uncomfortable bed - why does every midwife think you have to be in a sitting position with 28 pillows to be comfy?! I wanted to be lay down flat, on my side, but well-meaning staff kept coming in and hiking me up. Every time I told them that I was fine, they assured me that its no bother. They were incredibly kind and full of good intentions, so instead of sleeping, I lay staring at the ceiling, pondering the ongoing miracle that meant that I was soon to be a mummy.
At this point in my fairly epic tale, I want to say this to the expectant first-time mummies-to-be who are reading this: many labour tales will sound like horror stories, and I suppose from an outside perspective, thats how mine might sound too. Trust me though it really wasnt. As I lay there, many hours into labour, alone in the early hours of the morning, I was able to appreciate with real clarity the true beauty of what was happening. I was venturing into motherhood and about to meet my little baby. I look back on those days that I was in labour with something close to reverence. There will never be anything to match it, and for all of the indignity and pain, it was start to finish the most incredible, life-affirming experience of my life. It wasnt perfect, but nothing ever is. Even with the difficult moments emotionally and physically that you will experience, bringing your child into the world is the rawest, most powerful experience you will ever have in your life.
I was checked regularly throughout the night, and by 3am, I had progressed to a disappointing 3cm. At this point, the midwife asked if I would like an epidural. I confirmed that I would, as the diamorphine had worn off and the contractions were very strong, and all in my back. I was worried about the process of actually having the needle into my spine, thanks to yet more horror stories from women about foot-long needles and the like, but it really wasnt bad at all. There was a sharp, scratching pain from the local anaesthetic, and that was it. I then felt a cold feeling creeping over my legs and the sweet relief of no pain. It was so odd being unable to move my legs, and though I loved being pain-free, I hated the fact that I had to be hauled about by the midwives whenever they needed to move me. Once the epidural drip was in, a midwife broke my waters, which we all hoped would speed things along.
Because Id had an epidural, I was (obviously!) permanently beached on my back. I also had to be monitored, with belts around my tummy monitoring contractions and babys heartbeat. I felt as though I had wires and tubes coming from everywhere, which, combined with my numb legs, meant that I was incredibly uncomfortable from that point onwards. This is the state my husband found me in when he arrived back at 10am on the dot. He was disappointed that he hadnt been there to support me while I had my epidural, even though I assured him that it had been fine. He stayed with me then in a room that was feeling increasingly claustrophobic as the hours slowly ticked by. Regular examinations continued to show that I was still just 3 cm dilated, and by then, the fear was beginning to kick in that I would be too exhausted to push him out, should I ever dilate far enough.
At 1pm, a senior consultant came to see us, and he had the brusque, matter-of-fact manner that I would come to associate with many of the doctors over the days that followed. He examined the feedback from the monitor and said that he wanted to put me on a syntocin drip, an artificial hormone that would stimulate my body and encourage my cervix to dilate more quickly.
After about half an hour of being on the hormone drip, our babys heart rate started to drop alarmingly with every contraction, to the extent that it sounded as though it had almost stopped on occasion. This sounds horrible, but I cant even begin to explain just how truly frightening it was. The consultants and midwives raced back in to ascertain what was going on, and spent the next few hours trying to increase, then decrease the amount of syntocin I was receiving. Nothing they did increased my cervixs dilation, and the contractions continued to slow the babys heart rate.
Once again, I told my reluctant husband to leave, as his rumbling belly was threatening to drown out the sounds of the monitor. Yet again, he seemed doomed to miss moments of action, as at this point, the consultant returned to say that he wanted to get a blood sample from the babys head to check his oxygen levels. This turned out to be a painful and undignified process, with several people rummaging around down the business end with what looked like miners lamps, but eventually the consultant peered up and me and told me that our baby had a lot of hair. This was a glimmer of light in quite a dark moment for a very exhausted me, as I was reminded of the little person camped in there! However tired and defeated I was feeling, our baby was there we would meet him soon. It was this that kept me going. While down there, the consultant also told me that the baby was back-to-back, meaning that his spine was pressing on my spine. This explained why I found the contractions so painful, and why I felt them more in my back than anywhere else.
The test results on the babys head were soon back, and were encouraging his oxygen levels were good, which suggested that he wasnt under undue stress. The consultant suggested that we spend a few more hours on the drip to see if I could dilate any more, but at 7pm, a further examination revealed that I was still just 3 cm dilated and would need an emergency Caesarian Section.
While I know that many women are disappointed to be unable to give birth naturally, I signed the consent forms in a state of murky numbness as countless nurses undressed me, removed my nail polish and disconnected different wires.
In theatre, I was getting rubbed down with alcohol and having my epidural topped up when I recognised one of the nursing staff as a girl whom I knew at high school. Not what you want while youre lay there with your bits out. We made awkward conversation for a minute, and then she was discreet enough to leave theatre and swap with a colleague, which I was grateful for. Doctors began the process by checking if I was still numb by spraying cold water on my tummy, which I could vaguely feel. I told them I could feel it, so they topped up my epidural again, and began the procedure. Though I couldnt feel them actually cutting, I could feel the pulling as they worked through the layers of tissues and muscle, and eventually wriggled my baby out. This surprised and shocked me, as it was really uncomfortable, and a combination of shock, fear, pain and exhaustion left me shaking and tearful throughout. My husband was by my side the whole time, and was a pillar of strength for me.
Finally, at 7.13pm on 24th October 2010, Finley Andrew Brennan was born, weighing 6lb 12oz. In spite of my very long labour, he was very well, with an APGAR of 9 at birth and 10 five minutes later. He was handed to me straight away for a cuddle and some photos before being taken away to be quickly checked over.
Even through the tiredness, I immediately felt that I knew him. There was no euphoria to meet him, because I felt as though he was someone whom Id already known for a very long time. It was the strangest feeling that, as you may be able to tell, I still struggle to put into words. What I didnt feel, however, was that rush of overwhelming love that many women describe feeling. Perhaps it was the fact that I was so exhausted, but either way, I would urge all women to remember that this feeling isnt guaranteed. It doesnt mean that you will love your baby any less or are unnatural; for many women, it simply takes time to come.
As the afterbirth was removed and I was stitched up, the surgeon told me why I hadnt dilated beyond 3cm. It turns out that I had undiagnosed partial placenta praevia, a potentially life-threatening condition where the placenta lies low in the uterus. The surgeon explained that the placenta was blocking Finley from moving into a position where he could encourage my cervix to dilate further, hence me getting stuck at 3cm. While he was explaining this to me, I was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate due to a hot, searing pain in my shoulder. This was getting worse by the second, and, noticing my discomfort, the anaesthetist explained to me that blood may have leaked into my stomach. Weirdly, the effect of this is the shoulder tip pain that I was feeling, which was almost as painful as the contractions had been! I begged for some pain relief as I was wheeled into recovery, where my husband was doing skin-to-skin with our son.
After about half an hour in recovery, I was nearly begging for something to ease the agony that was racing through my shoulder. Of the whole process of giving birth, this was the hardest. I was so tired, stuck prostrate on the bed because of the epidural, and in so much pain with my shoulder; all I wanted to do is sleep, yet I couldnt I was a mummy now, and my first priority was my little boy. He was still having skin to skin with his daddy, who I could see was totally besotted with him already. I, on the other hand, felt physically sick with dread at the fact that I was supposed to care for him in my current condition. I was utterly overwhelmed and lost, a feeling that nobody had prepared for me. Everybody would say things like, Its scary, but its wonderful etc etc. At that stage, I didnt feel like any bit of it was wonderful. As I was helped by a midwife to get him latched on to feed, I was waiting for the happiness to sink in, but it didnt. Honestly? I was in a fog of fatigue and had no idea what the next few days were to hold.
This is written for a book on surviving the first few months that I am working on, so the style of it might not be totally "forum-ish"
If you managed to read the whole thing, you deserve a medal
x
(That's actually on our boys name list right now, spelled Finlay)
