It’s definitely been a looong time since my last post. But, again, I have great excuses, which you’ll know all about soon enough, so I’ll just get on with it:
My last post, you will have noticed was on the 21st February. This also happened to be the last day that Dave and I could call ourselves a DINK couple (Double Income, No Kids). I wasn’t feeling so great that day. I thought I just needed to up my fibre intake. I dutifully chewed through a giant bottle of Extra gum (Warning: Excessive consumption may have a laxative effect), ate lots of bran, and even chugged down a dose of Metamucil. I was wondering why after finally going to the bathroom, I didn’t feel any better. It was then I noticed that my achy back was coming and going rather regularly. I told myself it was a false alarm. Statistically, most first babies come late, and this was nine days early. Could still be a false alarm. Dave helpfully commented, “I hope you’re not in labour, because I’m exhausted.”
By about 8:30pm, I realised this was most likely labour. Suddenly I couldn’t really think straight. Our room wasn’t finished, our hospital bags weren’t packed, and I was completely unprepared. So I did the most logical thing I could think of – I sat on the end of our bed, and tried to do the ironing. As you do. The pain soon drove me to distraction, so I did the next most logical thing, I took a long, hot shower. For those of you who don’t know this, hospitals time your admittance from midnight to midnight, so if you book in at, say, 11:55pm, guess what? Those five minutes count as one day! So despite my contractions being rather strong and painful at this point (10:30pm), I decided to hang tight and try to make it past midnight. Dave, like some kind of multi-tasking super man managed to time my contractions, bring me water and food, take directions from me on what to pack in our woefully empty suitcase, and compose a birth plan (epidural as last resort thank you). Miraculously, I made it past midnight with contractions coming every few minutes, and we headed for the hospital. Somehow, in our hasty planning, we’d forgotten to inform the hospital we were coming. A big No-No.
We made our way to maternity ward at the hospital with me stopping every few metres to gasp through another contraction. Upon arriving at the desk, we were thoroughly scolded by a cranky midwife for forgetting to call first, before she handed us over to another nurse with a warm and welcoming “Can you take care of that?!” I was so embarrassed, insulted and hurt that combined with being in pain, and a bit shell shocked, I exclaimed to Dave that we should leave and go somewhere else. Being the functioning one, he managed to convince me that really wasn’t an option and we were led to a birthing suite where I tried to recall my name and date of birth to the patient nurse who filled out my admission forms. And that done, the serious business of giving birth could commence!
At first, things were pretty much the same as at home. After being informed that I was already 4cm dilated, I was offered pain relief. Valiantly, I accepted the gas. How painful could it be? It was about 1:30am by this time, and things were just ticking along fine. I was then told I really wasn’t progressing, and my obstetrician we be along soon to break the waters, and this would strengthen the contractions. No problem, it can’t be too much worse could it? Well, pretty soon I found out. My OB arrived, inserted what looked like a crochet hook, and ruptured the membranes – possibly the single most disgusting sensation I have ever felt. A gush of warm liquid rushed forth, creating the sensation of seriously wetting your pants, and being unable to stop. Ever. They don’t tell you about that bit. I wonder why…
Still thinking things weren’t so bad, I hopped into the shower again. It didn’t take long before all the heat and gas in the world wasn’t going to ease the pain. ”This can’t go on for hours and hours can it?”, I asked. ”No…”, the midwife carefully replied before adding, “Well, maybe.” OK, perhaps I’ll try the pethidine thanks. If you think the idea of someone jabbing a needle into your thigh muscle is nasty, believe me, when you’re in labour, you don’t care. Not a bit. Compared to the contractions, it tickles! There I was – naked. In a shower. Everything hanging out. With a stranger stabbing me with a big syringe, and I just didn’t care. I did have one problem though – pethidine didn’t work. Despite not being fully dilated, I couldn’t stop the involuntary pushing, and I had to be escorted back to the bed. Dave, steady as a metronome, continually offered gentle and soothing encouragement as I wailed like a banshee and screamed that I wanted to die while the midwife silently mouthed to him, “Completely normal.” At least, that’s what he later told me, but maybe she was yelling it and he just couldn’t hear her over my shrieking. I was then offered my “last resort” epidural. I calmly and politely screamed, “ANYTHING!!!!” as the midwife dashed off to make the necessary preparations.
An anaesthetist soon appeared and attempted to introduce himself and explain the risks and side effects of the procedure while I screamed over the top of him and tried to stop pushing. I’ve decided that men, and women who’ve never been pregnant, shouldn’t be allowed to be anaesthetists because they simply don’t understand that asking a full term pregnant woman to lie on her side and bring her knees up to her chest while in full blown labour is a feat worthy of a televised award ceremony. After an epic five minutes of attempting to pierce my spine while I writhed and moaned, we had success, and within moments I was relaxed and pain free. Suddenly, completely composed, I thanked the poor man and cheerfully announced, “Well, I should have done that as soon as I got here!” Then our baby’s heart rate dropped. Dramatically. After reassuring me that it was normal, and would be fine, I heard my midwife grab a phone and say rather urgently, “I need the OB. Now!” It must have been all the drugs, because I just happily sat there thinking how wonderful everything was. Dave, finally able to take a break from comforting duty, promptly fell asleep, utterly exhausted in a large armchair.
My obstetrician arrived, and that’s when I began to get concerned. There’s something very disconcerting about a doctor arriving in knee high white gumboots and a waterproof apron covered by heavy duty, also waterproof, coat. Far from thinking about the “miracle of birth”, mental images of being a cow in a slaughter house raced through my head. But running for dear life isn’t an option when you’re paralysed from the waist down. I was hastily wrangled into the stirrups (no, they’re not at a comfortable angle like in the movies) as the doctor explained my baby was in distress, and needed to be delivered quickly. Drugged to the eyeballs I flippantly waved my hand and replied, “Oh, I know. I’m just not worried about it.” I was jolted into shock though when he produced a large (and I mean seriously large) pair of scissors. ”I’m going to have to cut you.”, was his simple explanation. Upon seeing the look on my face, the obstetrician, midwife, and Dave all blurted in unison, “You won’t feel it!!!” I gritted my teeth and resigned myself to the situation. A suction cap was then fitted to our baby’s head and within two more contractions, and a snip from the enormous scissors, little Lincoln slipped out into a cold and bright world at 4:10am on the 22nd of February, 2009. The rest is a drug induced blur as Lincoln was cleaned, weighed, measured and at some point placed in my arms. His cries turned to contentment as he was then given to Dave and heard his Daddy’s voice cooing softly to him. I meanwhile was still lying on a hospital bed, feet in the air, in the single most undignified position known to man (and woman!).
And my first words to Dave upon the arrival of this amazing little creature? ”Well he’s not very pretty is he?”
