I began my previous post, ‘The Road to Motherhood’, at 40 weeks and 2 days pregnant. I had just returned home from the hospital after having a membrane sweep to initiate labour and was feeling pretty close to breaking point.
So here I was, this swollen, sleep deprived, sweaty beast so eager to give birth that I got on the see-saw at the park and made my husband bounce me up and down with no shame whatsoever. Yeah, I had resorted to bouncing out the baby… if only it was that easy.
I knew people who had had the membrane sweep and given birth the following day, so to say I was banking on it to work was an understatement. I’d spent one afternoon bouncing around in my mum and dad’s pool (again with the bouncing) and when I got home some 40 minutes later, I bent down and felt a small gush of water, so I called the hospital.
“I think my water just broke, but I don’t know because there’s a chance I just peed my pants…”
I went in for an exam and unfortunately, my water had not broken. It was just a build up of pool water. I have quite a lot of experience as a woman swimming in pools and never, in my life, have I heard of water collecting in your vagina but apparently this is a thing ladies – you’ve been warned.
At 40 weeks and 6 days I received a message from my godsend of a midwife, Erin, “we’re inducing you, can you come in tomorrow?”
It was finally happening. I was having this baby – no bouncing required.
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On Tuesday the 17th of January I went into hospital to be induced. I was part of a trial offering two different types of inductions: the first a tape or gel that is inserted and the second a balloon catheter.
I was stoked to be picked for the balloon catheter because it meant I could get it put in and go home, whereas with the tape you needed to stay in hospital. Plus, the balloon has a much higher success rate. Well, for most people that is.
The idea behind the balloons is that you get them put in and overnight your cervix dilates until at around three or four centimeters when the balloon catheter falls out. You chuck it in the bin, haul ass to the hospital and push out a baby – easy peasy lemon squeezy.
“If the balloon comes out in the middle of the night, call us at the hospital and come in,” instructed the midwife, “but if it comes out in the early morning then just come in at your original appointment time.”
The following morning came and my balloons were still in their original position.
“Well that doesn’t mean that you’re not dilating,” Steven offered, “You could even be three centimeters.”
I clung to that ray of hope. What would the magic number be?
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7:30am
“Zero. You’re zero centimeters dilated,” said Erin.
It was time for ‘Plan B’ – breaking my waters.
Now, I’m not exactly sure what she did down there but a ‘hook-type-thing’ (not the real medical term) was inserted and used to scrape the amniotic sac so that my waters would break. Seems like a pretty foolproof plan except that I had the most stubborn baby – ever.
“You have an amniotic sac of steal!” cried Erin, her hand frantically maneuvering the ‘hook-type-thing’.
The only thing left to do was try the other form of induction. So, Erin put in the gel/tape and by 9am my contractions had started. Hoorah!
I was sent to the maternity ward to wait it out for six hours before my next exam. At first it was fine. Then it was a little less fine. By 3pm Tuesday afternoon my contractions were regular, and my back pain was growing stronger by the minute.
“That’s a good sign,” said Erin, “Let’s check how dilated you are.”
Two centimeters dilated. TWO.
“How can it hurt this much and I’m only two centimeters?”
“It’s different for everyone. Let’s try again to break your waters.”
My hook friend returned but it was no match for my bitch of an amniotic sac.
“I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to bring in the doctor,” sighed Erin.
You learn pretty quickly that the midwives are the ones you want. They’re just the right combination of sympathetic and encouraging, insistent without being too pushy. They’ll talk you through it; hold your hand and start off gentle if you ask them too. The doctors? They tend to favour the ‘quick and dirty’ approach, which usually equals way more pain.
So basically, your midwife going to get the doctor is the medical version of “wait till your father gets home.”
Thankfully, there was another midwife at the front desk who caught wind of our situation and decided she wanted to give it a crack. An amniotic sac made of steel? This was a challenge too sweet to pass up for a midwife. Hell, send ‘em all in!
So, there I was along with Steven, Erin, a student doctor Ava and the other midwife Annie, who attempted to break my waters for the fifth time that day. Eventually, it worked. But it was not easy feat.
Now it was simply a matter of getting to 10 centimeters dilated so I could push this baby out.
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5:00pm
Water trickled smoothly over my body. I watched it wash down my legs and pool at my feet. Hot pain grew in my lower back. My head bowed and my hand gripped the side shower rail, my fingertips turning white. A low growl escaped from my lips as the pain intensified.
I swayed from side to side, a sick feeling taking over my stomach. The contraction subsided but the back pain remained, giving me no relief.
“My back is killing me, it doesn’t stop, even in between contractions.”
It became worse as the time went on to the point where I could no longer stand. Unfortunately, I wasn’t dilated enough for the epidural and the gas simply wasn’t cutting it.
“You do have another option,” said Erin, “But it is really, really painful. If you rated getting your waters broken a seven, this will be a twenty on the pain scale. It will make you squeal.”
Okay so she wasn’t exactly selling it, but by around 7:00pm I was desperate. Steven had been holding the shower head over my back for hours and I felt like I was splitting in two. I gave Erin the nod and she returned with a second midwife, Sally and four needles.
These needles were water injections. They work by injecting a pocket of water underneath the skin and onto the pressure points in your lower back. They work a treat but the level of pain that comes with them is a hefty price to pay.
They sat me down on a chair in the shower and I hunched over facing the wall. Erin drew four dots marking the pressure points on my back before arming herself and Sarah with needles. Two midwives must perform this together because the pain is too much to do the four injections individually.
They waited for a contraction and at its peak, injected the pockets of water into my back. It was bad. Real bad.
Erin and Sally threw the first lot of injections into the bathtub (a fact I was unaware of until Steven told me) and started on round two.
Once those second injections had been completed, an instant wave of relief washed over me. My back pain had subsided to a completely tolerable dull ache.
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9:00pm
“We usually like to wait until you’re dilated five centimeters before we give you the epidural,” said Libby.
There had been a shift change and unfortunately Erin had to go home. Thankfully Libby was equally as lovely and equally as willing to give me all the pain relief she could.
“But you’re only four centimeters. If you’re absolutely sure you want the epidural, I can give it to you now.”
“Please. Just give me the epidural. It’s been twelve hours and I’m only four centimeters, my baby could walk out before I make it to five.”
Libby kindly called the anesthetist, a South African man called Bruce with a soothing ABC radio voice. I liked Bruce. Partly because of his soothing radio voice and partly because his name was Bruce, but mainly because he had drugs.
The epidural was a walk in the park after the water injections so once it started to kick in, I forced myself to eat a sandwich and lay back in the bed to gaze at Steven as he slept awkwardly in a chair.
Libby checked me every three hours over the course of the night. I had a drip that was administering me medicine to bring on contractions. It worked too well, and my contractions were coming on too fast, so they turned it down. Then we had the opposite problem. It was a long night.
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3:00am19th of January
It was a new day and with it came fresh hope.
“You’re eight centimeters dilated,” said Libby.
“Eight!” I squealed with delight.
I turned to Steven with the expression of someone who’d just won the Lotto.
“That’s only two centimeters away from pushing!”
Libby had to tend to another woman and was due to check on me again at 5:40am. By 5:45 I had a sudden surge of pain and because the birthing suite was so busy, Libby wasn’t able to get back to me until 6:00, at which point I thought Steven was going to deliver the baby.
“You’re ten centimeters, let’s push!”
Annie had started another shift and was back in my room to relieve Libby. I pushed for what felt like fifteen minutes until I heard the midwife say to a doctor, “in another twenty minutes she will have hit the two-hour mark.”
The doctor gave me a quick exam only to announce that I was in fact, only nine centimeters dilated and that I had to stop pushing and “breathe through the contractions for the next hour.”
At this point my contractions were coming every thirty seconds and my epidural had decided to shut up shop, the pain growing stronger and stronger.
“Cut him out, he’s not coming just cut him out!” I moaned.
“We don’t need to do that, you’re doing great.”
I was instructed by the midwives to change positions but with each movement I reenacted scenes from The Exorcist. Steven, my trusty vomit bag holder, began laughing as I cursed my poor midwives, spraying them with a range of expletives and no doubt, spew.
“What are you laughing at? What could you possibly be laughing at, at this particular point in time? You want to leave? You can get out if you’re going to laugh.”
“I’m not laughing!” said Steven, mid laugh.
“We’re going to get the anesthetist to top up your epidural,” said Annie.
Bruce was gone and a new man came in. Not only was he lacking in soothing ABC radio voice, but he also had trouble upping the epidural.
“That’s it. I’ve had enough. I’m pushing. I don’t care if I’m meant to wait. I’m pushing this baby out.”
“Okay,” said Annie, “Let’s do this.”
We were now also joined by Sally, who sweetly encouraged me with each push.
“Nothing is happening!” I cried, nearly an hour later.
“It is!” insisted Sally, “You’re doing it, I can feel the head!”
At an hour and a half, he still wasn’t out and the doctors were called in. Sally continued to whisper encouragement into my ear as the doctors set up around me.
“You can do this Lauren, you’ve got this. You don’t need them, you can do it, you’re so close just keep going!”
I pushed right up until the doctor gloved up and plunged inside to grab the baby’s head.
“His head is hyper-extended. We need to do an emergency C-Section.”
They prepped me for surgery and began wheeling me out of the room.
“I told them to cut him out,” I spat.
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10:00am
Suddenly there were dozens of faces swarming above me, people moving at top speed.
A woman held ice to my stomach and asked where I felt the cold. Then she began pinching my skin.
“Can you feel that?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“What about now?”
“Yes.”
“She can feel too much and she has a lot of movement in her legs…we’ll have to put her under.”
“What about my husband, can he come with me? Where is Steven?”
Steven appeared cloaked in blue hospital clothes.
“He’ll have to go.”
A tear rolled down my cheek as Steven left the room. I watched the people work above me and waited for the dark.
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2:00pm
“Carl, CARL! You’re in the hospital Carl. You’re okay. You’ve just come out of surgery.”
My eyes slowly blinked open, taking in the scene around me. Someone named Carl was having a post-surgery meltdown beside me as nurses worked busily behind the counter.
“Hi love,” said a friendly voice.
“Where’s my baby? Is he okay?” I croaked.
“He’s fine, we will take you to see him soon.”
“Is he with my husband?”
“I’ll ring the ward and check for you.”
After I’d been checked and given the all clear, I was wheeled to my room in the maternity ward.
There, I saw Steven sitting on a chair in the corner, a tiny bundle wrapped tightly in his arms. Tears swam to my eyes. He was here.
The nurse took my baby and placed him on my chest.
“This is your mum,” she said.
I looked down at his squishy little face and fell in love.
“Why don’t you try to feed him,” said the nurse.
Within two minutes she took him back from me, a concerned look on her face.
“His breathing is too quick. I’m sure everything is fine but I’ll need to take him to the special care nursery to be checked out.”
I had waited so long for that moment, to hold him in my arms. I watched as she carried him out of the room and felt my heart collapse like a deflated balloon. I trusted that he would be fine but felt a little cheated that I didn’t get that ‘magic movie moment’ where you first meet your baby. Not only was I unconscious when he entered the world but now our first meeting had been cut painfully short.
I had little time to sook over these details as when the nurse went out, another doctor came in.
“This isn’t what you want to hear but unfortunately an instrument from your surgery is missing and it’s protocol that we give you an X-Ray to make sure it’s not inside you.”
After 25 hours and an emergency C-section under general anesthetic, a tool left inside you is totally not what you want to hear. But I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Of course. Of course, there is. Now my baby is in the special care nursery and they’re going to have to put me back under! I’ll have to have another surgery and it could be ages until I see him again!”
They wheeled me in to have an X-Ray and six people shifted me from my bed to the table. The downside was they caught my catheter on the table but on the bright side, I was instrument free.
Upon returning to my room we were told that our son had an infection from breathing poo into his lungs. His lungs were working overtime, causing his breaths to come at double speed. He would need to stay in an incubator in the special care nursery and start a course of antibiotics.
The next week passed in a blur of tears and triumphs. We watched our baby grow healthier as the days passed and after seven long nights, we finally took him home.
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Since welcoming our son into the world, I’ve had a lot of women who have yet to give birth ask me, “What is it like?” and “how bad was it? Is it really bad?”
This is such a difficult question to answer because giving birth varies so much from woman to woman, child to child. Nobody can tell you what it’s going to be like; we can only share our personal stories. Is it bad? Well, it’s no walk in the park. But you weren’t expecting it to be, right?
A friend and I were chatting over coffee one morning and we asked ourselves: ‘why do people get so caught up in the birth process? Why is everyone so fixated on it?’
The truth is, the birthing process is probably the easiest part. Pregnancy is hard. Body changes are hard. Having a newborn is hard. Being sleep deprived while trying to take care of yourself, your home and keep a tiny human alive is hard. Making decisions for you and your family and then constantly feeling like you have to explain or justify these decisions to others is hard. None of it is easy, but all of it is worth it.
So, if you’re pregnant or want to have a baby in the future and the idea of giving birth seems all too much – relax, you were built for this. The pain will pass in a blur and then the true journey begins.