Birth Plan 1: Survival

Prior to having kids, what I knew about pregnancy and childbirth would have easily fitted onto a Post It note – and even then you’d have had to fill half of that with a drawing of a pregnant stick lady to bump it out. No pun intended, but I did just make myself smile, so it can stay.

I had zero interest in kids. Either other people’s or having any of my own. And while I did have a few friends who’d had babies, they’d rather considerately waited until I’d left the country, so my experience of all things baby growing was totally nada.

Even when I got pregnant myself, I wasn’t all that interested in what was going on. Beyond the pressing questions of: When would I want to eat food that wasn’t crackers again? And did I really need to bother with anything as hideous as maternity leggings?

I had no idea week to week how pregnant I was or what aspect of my child had formed at that point. Both my children had the decency to stay small (2.9 and 2.5kgs respectively) so my bumps were pretty little and while I might have taken advantage of being up the duff a few times at school – like to get out of playground duty – in all honesty, my pregnancies didn’t really affect me that much. I was still spinning and stepping right up until the days before I had both of them and I never spewed, wet myself or gave up soft cheese with either.

But, while pregnancy itself was of little interest, actually giving birth - that turned out to be a whole other thing. Quite unexpectedly, I found child birth to be absolutely fascinating. Physically, emotionally, psychologically, spiritually… and since having my kids, it’s not just my birth experiences that interest me. I want to know every one else's stories too.

In fact, I did declare about three hours post-partum with Abe, that were I not so old, I’d have re trained as a midwife. The irony of which given Sean’s current endeavours is not lost on me.

So, just in case you love a birth story too, I’m going to share mine with you in the next two blogs.

If you don’t like any mention of fannies or swearing or are a bit squeamish, you might want to stop reading now. Otherwise, gather round and I’ll tell you all about the first of the two most bizarre experiences of my life. Quite a claim given I’ve ridden the Trans Siberian in mid-winter and used to be a hostess in a strip club...

With my son, my birth plan could be summed up in one word: survive. I had no idea what to expect or what I’d need to get me through it. I was happy to take or to do whatever I needed. I had no qualms about any kind of drug or intervention. No concerns about who was in there for the delivery – be they doctors, nurses or giraffes.

That I didn’t feel the need to be surrounded by midwives who were ‘familiar’ to me which ruled me out from a more managed programme the hospital ran and thus I was on the bog standard, NHS-esq get-your-bits-out-for whoever-is-on-duty and see-what-happens one.

A week before Abe was due, all was good. I was totally ready. I had my Lucozade, my lollies, my playlist and my one pair of non-daggy pjs packed. All I needed to do was wait until Thursday when he was due.( I told you I was clueless).

On Saturday morning, I went to spin and smashed out 19 kms. I felt amazing. The best I had felt all pregnancy. Like the old, not 15 kgs heavier, me. It was wonderful. Or, it was for an hour or so. And then I had really bad indigestion. Really, really bad. It lasted all night.

By 6am on Sunday, I had to accept that my indigestion might actually be early labour. Something Sean had twigged to hours prior but had the good sense not to mention as I munched my way through an entire packet of Rennies in denial.

I called birth suite to discuss my options (none of which were my preferred ‘let’s just not do this’) and decided to stay at home a bit longer - until I felt like I needed to go in. I took that to mean, the point at which I required drugs stronger then I could legally access myself.

At 8am, I required exactly that kind of drugs.

I was given gas and air on arrival – which had about as much effect as a puppy pissing on a house fire. And then, when it was clear I wasn’t yet ‘comfortable’; a fact ascertained by my overuse of the words 'fucking hell’ maybe? The midwives examined me to see if I could have some morphine.

I was 6cm dilated and looked like I’d have at least another 5 hours to go and my morph was given the tick of approval. Despite the idea of five more hours to go, I breathed a sigh of relief because a) er drugs and b) I’d been terrified after all that time and all that pain she was going to say I was only at 2cm and that would not have been happy news. 6cm and yes drugs seemed OK. Especially if I ignored her 5 hours to go comment.

And the drugs? Morphine, morphine, morphine. Oh how I loved the morphine.

I’d like to describe my morphine high to you, but I’ll be honest, I don’t remember it. All I remember is that I was happy. The pain was still there, but it was manageable and I felt great. Elated. I sailed through on my morphine cloud with little hits of gas and air right up until I was fully dilated and the midwives created a makeshift paddling pool on the bed so they could break my waters and get on with the business of delivering the baby.

I did think this was overkill on their part – the whole dam system they’d set up I mean, But, turns out, they knew what they were doing (who’d have thought?!) because even with their Wivenhoe replica there was still shit eeeeeverywhere.

And, in this case, I mean shit literally. Not mine; but Abe’s. The medical professionals call that first poo meconium and it’s not a good thing if it’s in your amniotic fluid. They can tell from the colour and consistency whether it’s new poop or old poop. Abe’s was old, meaning at some point in the pregnancy he’d been either sick or stressed, and this sticky stuff had been floating around in there with him getting ‘breathed’ in and out for some time. It meant that his lungs and his windpipe were going to be blocked and he’d need to be resuscitated …

My little team of Sean, student Kyleigh (the best student ever as she’d had seven kids herself so she totally knew her stuff) and the odd passing glance from one of the three midwives on duty suddenly grew by a couple of doctors, a lot more midwife sightings and a crash cart. I was told there would be no skin on skin. No first feed in the birth suite. Abe would need to be taken away to special care as soon as they’d gotten him breathing.

You’d have thought I might have stated to panic at this point, but, weirdly, I was fine. Hazy perhaps as there was a breakdown of communication which saw me trying to get in ‘three big pushes per contraction’ as I’d been told – apparently not the case and exhausting. Odd looking for sure, as this effort had lead to a busted blood vessel in my eye (which later rendered all the early mother and baby pics less cute and more ‘why is Terminator in the shot?’) But panicked? Not at all.

In fact, I was so not panicked that I recall quite vividly and quite calmly pondering out loud why no one was just ‘…hooking under his arms and pulling him out,' while I was pushing? (Spoiler alert, after a vacuum assist with Betts, I now know the answer to that question and, er ouch!)

Once he was out I watched the team resuscitate my son, thinking about how apt his ready chosen moniker meaning ‘life breath’ was and said a cheery 'see you later' to Sean who headed up to the nursery with Abe, before I had a chat about Spanx with the guy stitching my fanny tears, a shower and a roast dinner. Quite a lovely roast dinner in fact - I remain grateful to Abe for having the good sense to be born on a Sunday.

Later, I Skyped mum from the special care nursery to tell her that he’d been born. I hadn’t wanted to bother her beforehand because I figured all she’d be able to do was worry about how things were going from the other size of the world, plus I was a bit preoccupied with the whole giving birth thing. As I made the call I did wonder if maybe I should have let her know. But, had I done so, I’d have missed out on one of the most vivid and wonderful memories I have of not only Abe’s birth, but my lovely mum. Who, as I told her he was here, lost her shit entirely and screamed and screamed with disbelief. I don’t think she could have been any louder, or any more surprised, had I kept the entire pregnancy a secret from her.

All in all, despite the chaos of Abe’s delivery and him needing to be on a drip of antibiotics for a couple of days, it was perfect. The three days he spent in special care gave me time to adjust to the fact I had a child who I was about to be thrust out into the world with (read, to try and calm my farm a bit and not freak the fuck out that I had a child I was about to be thrust out into the world with) and meant I got trained up in how to change a nappy, feed a very small baby with enormous boulder tits and pick up a few tips about settling and soothing from the amazing nursery midwives.

In fact, it was such a positive experience that it lulled me into a false sense of security when I was pregnant with Bette. I mean, I’d successfully birthed one child and I knew what it was all about and exactly how painful it was, so I knew just what to expect the second time round…

I’d stay at home until I needed my morph, bob up the road to the hospital and pop her out like the Thai ladies with ping pong balls I’d seen on the Khao San Road. Because second babies births were always easier and faster. Right?

Let’s just say, I was wrong for now. If Abe’s birth plan could be summed up with the word ‘Survival’, Bette’s was ‘Delusional’. But, that’s a (birth) story for another day.

#Birth #labour #Newborn #Mum