Right, apologies to my loyal readership (ah ha ha ha).
I had completely forgotten about this bloglet. I got caught up in recruiting my maternity cover (actually working for once), then going on maternity leave, then having a whole MONTH of visitors (16 Dec-16 Jan) and during this never ending torment, having a baby. Not being bored at work, I’ve had little time to write random rubbish.
Right, anyway, time to catch up. Let’s start with birth, it is the beginning after all…
Anyway, everyone loves a good birth story. So being the medicalised monster that I quite obviously am, I had rejected all offers of midwife led units and birthing pools and happy clappy home births and whale music.
‘No’, said I in an overly self-assured and confident manner, ‘I will be having baby number two in the hospital with an epidural. Just like baby 1″.
I even wrote a great birth plan;
“Epidural please at about 4-5cm. I understand this can statistically increase the risks of an instrumental delivery. Thanks”.
My midwife (a wise woman in all senses of the words) said that seeing as I had produced baby one in 7-8 hours, hadn’t thought it was that painful despite insisting on an epidural and that because I am (was?) fit, healthy and sporty with strong stomach muscles, it may be possible that number two may be fairly quick.
‘Pah’, I thought to myself, ‘I’ll still have time to get dripped up, what does she know? I like drugs’.
Anyway, as pregnancy things progressed, I was measuring small. This concerns the medical professionals in a manner that is not altogether healthy (ironically speaking). Seeing as I ‘measured small’ with my first pregnancy (fundal height 32cm at 40 weeks – the day he was spontaneously born), that I have a long back and stumpy legs and that all scans showed a ‘normal’ size baby, I was less concerned. However, at 40 weeks I was measuring 31cm and they decided this meant I needed to be induced.
So, in I pottered in on New Year’s Day (due date) at about 9pm. I was examined and told that my cervix was “posterior, high and not at all favourable”. 0/10 on the metaphorical scorecard for me. With this in mind, they inserted some magic gel (think it had a medical name too in case you’re wondering if I’d wandered into some quack’s joint) up my fanny and said that this would make it easier to break my waters the following morning. The Man then left and I settled in to a nice evening of playing on Facebook. With perhaps some Words With Friends thrown in.
As it transpired, I pressed the ‘call the midwife’ button at about 5.30am as I felt a little bit funny. I quite obviously looked a little bit funny too as the poor lady pottered along, took one look at me and said, in a slightly alarmed manner, ‘phone your partner now’. From my telephonic records, I rang the other half at 5.36am – this was just before the midwife examined me and said that I was 1cm dilated, cervix was still high and that the baby wasn’t engaged but that this didn’t matter because as far as she was concerned I was clearly just about to have a baby.
As it transpires, I’d encountered another wise woman as within 2 minutes, I could no longer stand up (perhaps she’d hexed me with a wise woman spell?). They threw me in a wheelchair and tried to get me down to the delivery suite. This wasn’t too clever because I couldn’t sit down. I couldn’t stand up either mind. All I could do was lie across the wheelchair and mumble “help me please” to anyone who’d listen (including a presumably now traumatised-for-life small child that was inexplicably wandering the ward corridor). They did suggest I put my knickers on as we were going into “public areas” of the hospital. I was unaware I had even removed my pants.
I must pause here to offer profound thanks to the lovely lady on either floor 3 or 4 of the hospital (excuse my lack of precision) who despite pressing the lift button once and being told by the midwife with me to bugger off (quite forcefully for a wise woman – she may have rattled her wise woman beads too), kept letting the lift door close and then pressing the lift button again too soon which meant the door kept re-opening and then re-shutting.
And then re-opening and then re-shutting.
And going bloody nowhere.
I think my wails of “help me, help me, help me” finally scared her off.
I’m imagining at this point, the scene in the lift resembled something akin to the John Hurt scene in Alien:
Finally in the delivery suite, there were no midwives (it was just 6 hours after a bank holiday). One was finally found together with a poor healthcare assistant, brought in, I suspect, to ensure there were two people at the birth. I felt sorry for them both really and not only because I have some vague recollection of trying to bite the healthcare assistant – I’m hoping this was a hallucination…
By this stage I’d managed to expand my moaning repertoire from ‘help me, help me, please’ to ‘help me, help me, help me, PAIN RELIEF PLEASE’. I still couldn’t move and couldn’t open my legs. They had to manhandle me onto the bed. The healthcare assistant offered me the gas and air. I tried. I really did. It did nothing. I suspect some build up to the baby coming out may have helped. However, it did give me something to bite – rather like those films you see when they cut bullets out without anesthetic and give the patient a stick between their teeth. Here is the result of 5 mins of biting on a plastic tube – it was something to do I suppose:
I really don’t think I’ve ever been in so much pain. Continual pain. There were no contractions. There was just pain. Anyway, less than 15 mins after getting to the room, they managed to wrench my legs apart to declare that a head was popping out. Then, inexplicably, the wise woman says, ‘do you want to touch it?’.
Forced back to reality, I just about managed to express disgust (please refer back to the lack of whale music and happy clappy stuff – I’m not into ‘enjoying’ and ‘touching’ the birth experience).
Then at 6.26am – baby came out.
So to recap:
5.45am(ish) 1cm dilated
6am(ish) Delivery suite
6.26am Baby Born
6.27am Rang other half to tell him off (he had only just got to his parents to drop Child One off). Pah.
6.30am Starting to get bored, phoned mother.
6.45am Cut cord myself. Nearly took off a baby finger too.
6.47am Midwife took my photo and I posted it to Facebook (still bored).
7.04am The Man FINALLY arrived.
Don’t miss the next thrilling installment on the Bad Mummy Bloglet;
‘Not Only Female But It’s Ginger!’
And for getting this far – a newborn photo (I have a new subject for my photography – poor child):