Eighteen months have passed since our beautiful
little miracle emerged (I say emerged because
'vigorously ripped out' doesn't have the same ring to it). The rollercoaster of
the past year and a half has somewhat levelled off, and things have become
almost normal. Now feels as good a time as any, for me to confess (to HONESTLY
confess) what it's like to give birth, become a mother, and cope with the joys
of reflux, teething, milestones and TODDLERDOM! And how having an NICU baby with a heart defect makes these things
all the more stressful. Oh, and there's also my increasing fear
that Elijah is Damien from the Omen, with his endless antagonising of our cats.
I will save the nine glorious months of swollen
feet, constipation, and eating chocolate on the sofa, like a whale (whilst
watching RHOBH in my pants) for another time.
This is the story of how Elijah was born.
To be honest, after watching numerous programmes on
TV, they make it look like, once your waters break, you give a couple of
pushes on the bed, and boom, the baby is here. Did that happen? Did it
bollocks!
We were really not prepared for what ACTUALLY
happened when I went into labour. The classes did not tell you how to cope with
the pain, what to do with timing the contractions, and when exactly you should
call. And there were NO breathing exercises (which are always on TV!) Instead,
the class was about mucus plugs, and how to look after the baby once they are
born and trying to indoctrinate you to breast feed. They tell you WHERE to go,
and gloss over the numbers to call, but nobody really explains HOW to give
birth.
This led me to do what every expectant mother does
when they don't know something.... GOOGLE IT. Is it a good idea to Google
labour stories before you give birth? OH HELL NO! My friend had given birth a
month before. She had a hard time with numerous inductions, and was in labour
for 4 days without food or sleep. I was petrified! There is also that
horrendous scenario of something that isn't really spoken out loud to your
partner, but the fear is there.... "OMG am I going to poop?" "Is
he going to see me poop?" "Jesus, will he even want to touch me after
the baby comes out? Never mind have sex with me” "How is it going to come
out?"... I had visions of shitting the bed whist the baby tears
through me Alien-style and of Greg shaking his head in horror before leaving!
That, thankfully, didn't happen, but there were
some pretty traumatic incidents that I'm sure have scarred Greg for life. It
started off the night before, whilst watching The Great British Bake Off. I
joked to Greg that it would be funny if I went into labour the next day, as he
wouldn't have to go to work on his busiest day. Yep, that did happen. Looking
back, I'd gone for a really long walk that day, and had been drinking cup upon
cup of Raspberry Leaf Tea. I had high blood pressure in my last midwife check,
and horrendous back pain. It was all pointing towards going into labour soon.
But of course, as this was my first baby, I didn't really think much about it
at the time. My main focus was to make Greg get me chocolate cake, as the Bake
Off made me hungry.
We went to bed as normal that evening, and I woke
up at around 4am, needing a wee (so far so normal, as this usually happened
four or so times a night) However, as soon as I stood up, I could feel the
water pouring out of me. This continued, even after sitting on the toilet.
After I had gone through four pairs of knickers and pads, I decided to wake
Greg up by shouting, "I think my waters have broken!" His response?
"Are you sure you haven't pissed yourself again?" About twenty
minutes passed, and we decided that, as I wasn't having contractions, we would
go back to sleep, and call the hospital in the morning. Pretty much the second
that was decided, I started getting a period-like pain every fifteen minutes.
Greg wasn't too fussed at this point, and actually went back to sleep! I wanted
to have a bath. I don't know why, but I thought the best thing to do was to have
a bath, and read Gone Girl. I managed to get through about 5 chapters before
the pain got a bit too much. I decided to let Greg sleep though, and headed
downstairs to find out if Scotland had won the right to independence. I don't
know why, but it felt as if this was a most important thing I had to do. I was,
at this point, kneeling against the sofa, with my cat rubbing his head against
me (bless). With the contractions down to every ten mins, I decided to call the
delivery suite, and was told to call back when they were five mins apart.
Shortly after, I thought it best to wake Greg from
what he refers to as his ‘little nap’. I then felt the urge to go to the
toilet... like now. After the fourth time, I started throwing up as well. Yep, sickness and diarrhoea… NO ONE TELLS YOU
THIS! After that, I started bleeding slightly too. So with me rooted
to the toilet, Greg called the delivery suite and we were told to come in.
Here is where is gets a bit like an episode of Some
Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em... Greg and I did were not legal drivers at this point, so
we’d appointed my best friends and Uncle as our emergency drivers.
Unfortunately, two of them were on holiday, and the other one wasn't answering!
Greg called EVERY contact on his phone until finally, one of his work friends
came to the rescue. He was greeted at the door by me on all fours, throwing up
on the dining room rug... Classy! Thank god Greg had managed to get some
leggings on me at this point! My last memory of leaving, is of me waddling to
the car, and spotting a family friend. I recall yelling, “The baby is coming!
The baby is coming!” I now realise that this may have come across as slightly
alarming, for that poor old man. Who was just out for an innocent stroll to get
his morning paper.
I didn't realise it at the time, but the urge to
push was beginning to happen in the car, and of course, we’d just started to
hit the A47’s rush hour traffic. I was convinced the baby was going to come out
in my leggings around the footwell. Greg, as usual was trying to crack jokes.
Thankfully, his friend told him to shut the fuck up. Had he not, I’m pretty
sure I would have killed him.
We arrived at the hospital, and I still needed to
poop! I decided to drag Greg into the toilet (bear in mind I’d NEVER
pooped in front of him, but at this point, I had little choice and even less
dignity). He held a bin for me to throw up into, whilst I had a small
breakdown. It was the usual “It’s too
painful” “I can’t do this” “I don’t wanna”… We eventually got to the delivery
suite where the idiotic receptionist pestered me for my mobile number. That’s
not something I have readily available whilst rocking on the floor in pain!
Thank goodness for our angel midwife, who rescued me and took me in a room, and
didn’t ask a single question! She simply left me in peace on the toilet, and
quietly wheeled in gas and air. God bless that wonderful lady!
Fast-forward five laborious hours, and I was still
on the bloody toilet. I tried getting up, and walking around, but I only ever
felt comfortable on the toilet. “Great,” I thought, “my baby is going to
be born in the bed pan!”
Greg, bless him, was actually pretty good.
Especially given that I didn't even want to know him, let alone speak to him. I
don’t think I actually said a word to him… Actually I did yell at him for
drinking all my Powerade. One thing I will never forget, is him plaiting my
hair out of my face, after I started to resemble a sweaty Jabba the Hut. It’s odd
because, usually, I am pretty needy, and crave attention from Greg (I make him
rub my belly when I have a period!), but in labour I completely shut him out.
It was as if my body became too focused on what it was doing to do anything
else. It almost felt like I wasn’t in control, and that I was on autopilot.
The midwife noticed I was 'pushing' on the toilet
and she examined me. This was so painful, that it felt like her entire arm was
inside of me and was going to come out of my mouth! I’d lost my leggings and
knickers long before, and was wondering around with my arse out. I was now
8cm, and was really starting to get off my head on the old gas and air
(cracking shit, I highly recommend it!). It was time to 'push' again, although
I’m pretty sure that's what I'd been doing since the bloody A47!
The baby’s heart rate had dropped slightly, and I
was starting to feel tired, so couldn't push as much as I needed to. The only
solution was for them to cut me (sounds horrendous, but I don't even remember
this happening). I do, however, remember Greg saying that he could see the
head, and the midwife confirming that I was crowning. She asked if I wanted to
feel it. “DO I FUCK. JUST GET IT OUT OF ME, YOU STUPID COW!”
More people came in, and before I knew it, he sort
of just flobbed out. Yep, flobbed. That's my made up word to describe it. It
was like an increase of pressure, which stopped suddenly, as he was yanked out.
So, after eight hours in labour, my beautiful
little human was born on the 18/09/2014 at 12.27pm. And the miracle of
childbirth had been reduced to my son flobbing out of me.
Compared to most, I would say that I had a fairly
easy labour experience. I can’t remember that much as I was pretty wasted.
This is why I think people do it again and again. They get so wasted that they
can’t remember the full extent of what happens! Greg can probably remember
the weird noises and faces I pulled. I certainly remember his description of
his firstborn’s emergence, as like ‘a Doberman with a pheasant in its mouth.’
Thanks love.
I now liken child birth to getting a tattoo. It
hurts, but it’s a nice kinda hurt. It also becomes slightly addictive, as I
would do it again, for sure! Except, next time, I hope Greg is quick to tell me
about shitty bits of tissue that get stuck to my arse cheek, rather than wait
until afterwards. Once again thanks love.
Since this is starting to feel like an advert for
contraception, I will leave it for there for now. That and Elijah is pulling
the cat’s tail again... Meh.
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| Elijah, a few hours old |
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