Wednesday, March 24
but then there was a star dancedI joked about the wee one's arrival being not so much a birth as an eviction. I also joked about not wanting let anyone know when we went into the hospital 'in case I was one of those women who ended up having a 36-hour labour followed by an emergency Caesarean section'.
Heh.
In the end, I was ten days overdue when we went in to the Rosie Maternity Hospital to be induced. By the time she was born, it was twelve days. I won't forget the intervening 46 hours in a hurry. We did, however, manage to adhere to the original birth plan, which, as such regular readers as there are may remember was: a) give birth to healthy infant; b) survive. The more detailed version, produced at the community midwife's request was, as predicted, thrown aside with great force fairly early in the proceedings.
Inducement of labour, as I've mentioned elsewhere, has three stages: a prostoglandin pessary is introduced to try and 'ripen' the cervix, making it dilate; the waters are artificially ruptured; a hormone drip is set up to speed up contractions and thus hasten labour. We arrived at the delivery suite at about 10 am and were shown into the room in which we were to remain until the next evening. A midwife examined my cervix and found it still closed up like a clam; the first pessary was introduced and I was told to lie still for an hour, after which I was encouraged to get up and go for a walk to get things moving. After about 5 hours, contractions started. We kept walking, pacing the corridor of the delivery suite and circumnavigating the hospital corridors, food court and grounds, with me pausing every few minutes to lean against Jack and pant, to the visible consternation of passers-by. Eventually we went back to our room and tried to settle down for the night, Jack on a trundle bed next to mine. By five am we were onto our third midwife, the contractions were regular and painful, but my cervix was still refusing to yield an inch. To make me more comfortable the midwife helped me into the birthing pool and then, when that was required for some lucky woman who was actually in active labour, into a warm bath. At this point, the contractions stopped short. The following morning, midwife number four examined me and pronounced me no more dilated than I'd been on admission. Frustrated and knackered, I announced that it was clear to me that there was no point to all this - obviously the baby had no intention of being born, ever, and if it was all right with them, I was going home to live out the rest of my days as a human pupa, possibly eking out a modest living as a fairground attraction. After hasty but patient negotiations on the part of Jack and the midwife, pessary number two was introduced and day two continued along pretty much the same lines as day one, the contractions becoming more arresting and offers of help from concerned passers-by more solicitous and more urgent. At about 5 pm they examined me and found that I'd dilated to a cavernous 1 cm - enough for midwife number five (or was it six?) to skilfully break my waters with the aid of an implement that apparently resembled a crochet hook. Jack held my hand while I sucked on the Entonox pipe until the sides of the canister caved in, and moments later I was sitting sobbing in a puddle of warm goo.
Once my waters had gone the contractions began in earnest and soon the Entonox pipe had become less of a help than a hindrance to the time-honoured pain management technique of bellowing like a wounded bison. Jack had been worried about being roundly cursed during this point in the proceedings but frankly if you can actually manage to articulate speech, however profance, while in labour, you're doing better than me, although I do remember hollering 'DRUGS!' at one point. Apparently the baby had worked her way into the 'posterior' or 'back to back' position, meaning that she was facing the same way that I was - this position is less than optimal for the progression of labour because the baby's head gets stuck in the pelvis and can't put pressure on the cervix, making it dilate. It's also bloody painful. When they wheeled me into another delivery room to administer an epidural, I discovered that if there's one thing worse than labour pains, it's labour pains punctuated by an anaesthetist hammering a heavy gauge needle into your spinal column. Still, at least it gave me something to look forward between contractions. And once it had kicked in, blessed relief followed - I could still feel the pull of the contractions but the pain had gone. The midwife set up the hormone drip and the three of us settled in for the night, Jack under instructions to doze in an armchair and conserve his energy until required to look lively and supportive for the vital pushing the baby out stage.
Unfortunately, this stage never came. In the course of the night's labour I developed a fever, the baby's heart rate, closely monitored throughout, was dipping after each contraction, and by 7 am the doctors, worried about infection and the baby's oxygen levels, were advocating a Caesarean. Jack was taken away to dress in theatre garb, I was wheeled after him and the epidural topped up to the point that I was numb and immobile from the armpits down. A screen was erected in front of my face, Jack was installed on a stool by my head, and a team of doctors set to work rummaging in my abdomen.
Suddenly I felt a weight being lifted out of my belly, and seconds later I heard two distinct cries. And, naff as it is to have to resort to a not particularly inspired Sondheim lyric, it was the most beautiful bloody sound I ever heard. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a small slime-covered bottom being thrust unceremoniously at Jack for the purposes of gender identification (Jack telling me the sex was about the only part of the birth plan we adhered to. That and holding the Pethidine). He paused, gulped, and then came the wobbly pronouncement 'It's a girl'. I knew it. Tears of joy. 'So, Rebecca?' He nodded: 'Rebecca.'
Rebecca Williams Elder was taken away for a mop-down, weigh-in (8 pounds! 8 ounces!) and the usual run of post-natal tests, before being given back to Jack - he sat beside me cradling her so I could catch a first glimpse of her face while the surgeons sewed me back together.
The stitching-up process was longer and more involved than the baby-removal process, and was enlivened by a post-partum haemorrhage in the course of which I apparently lost 1.4 litres of blood (I was eventually given a transfusion before being allowed home). Perhaps because of this my memory of the next few hours is patchy. Once in recovery Rebecca was placed at my side and I was able to breast-feed her for the first time before she was taken off the Neonatal Intensive Care (NICU) for the day, where they investigated her high temperature. So I didn't see much of my daughter for the first few hours of her life. I asked for her to be brought to me, and they obliged whenever possible.
I spent the next four days on the post-natal ward and on the fifth day of Rebecca's life we took her home. She's eight days old now, and, thank God, she's in better shape than her baggy and battle-scarred mum. She is bright-eyed and pink-cheeked, frequently ravenously and vociferously hungry, and is the most wonderful astonishing thing that has ever happened to us both. Already I can't imagine, or bear the thought of, life without her. And I even got a Mothers Day card.
As a post-script I'd like to say that the care we all received from the staff at the Rosie was exemplary. The staff, although overworked, were patient, kind, supportive and cheerful, and I didn't encounter a moment's impatience, grumpiness or shortness from a single one of them in the 6 days we spent there. Have a baby there today! And if you happen to be a millionaire philanthropist, gve them lots of your money!
And thank you to Jack for being the best birth partner in the world, ever.
Friday, March 12
Still no sign of the wee stubborn one, in spite of a thorough fisting from the midwife yesterday. (Or possibly because of.) Pity, if it were born today (there's still time, but probably only just) it would have a very cool birth date.Suggestions for birth-inducing techniques continue to abound. (Latest method is for the father-to-be to put his face up close to the bump and shout 'Oi! You! Out! Now!') Certain individuals have suggested alcohol, presumably with the rationale that mini-Elder will get drunk, loosen his/her grip and simply fall out of me. Umm, guys, I don't think that's how it works. And anyway I don't want the poor wee one to start life with a hangover. On the subject of the demon drink, wicked mad props (as I believe is the expression) to my devoted husband on his continued abstinence until the baby appears. I can only assume that the young'un has somehow got wind of this and has decided to make Daddy suffer... Nowt to do with me, I promise!
Many thanks to those folks who have e-mailed/posted encouraging messages over the last week or so. Keep sending the happy sprog-dropping vibes, and I'll see what I can do.
Thursday, March 11
Well, mini-Elder is now a week late and to be honest I'm starting to get a bit disheartened. If things don't get going of their own account it means I'll need to be induced, and I really don't fancy that at all. For one thing it might mean a less 'active' birth - at least if it gets as far as the hormone drip. Before they try this they usually try first rupturing your membranes, and if that doesn't work, introducing a pessary to try and coax the cervix open. However if neither of these methods works then you are put on a syntocinon drip - this is a synthetic version of the hormone oxytocin, which your endocrine system is supposed to release naturally to start labour. Trouble with syntocinon is apparently that the contractions it sets off are stronger and more frequent (and more painful) than the regular kind. This in turn places more stress on the baby, and for this reason its heartbeat must be constantly monitored. Unfortunately use of a heartbeat monitor leads to reduced mobility for the labouring woman. I'm quite keen to be able to move around while I'm in labour rather than being flat on my back, but may not have much choice. The strength and speed of the contractions also means a greater likelihood of an epidural. And of course if you're induced, bang go your chances of having a water birth, which is apparently an excellent way of delivering if you can manage it - I've signed up for one in any case.More info about induction, for those who are interested.
All this may appear to fly in the face of my earlier pronouncements concerning the naturalistic fallacy and the spurious arguments against 'intervention' in childbirth - in fact I stand by those comments, not least because, face it, just how 'natural' is giving birth in a jacuzzi anyway? It's more to do with how I think I'll cope, and I believe I'll cope better if I can move around rather than being pinned to a bed. But I also believe that once the baby's here such issues will suddenly seem unimportant.
Midwife's coming this morning to check out the old cervix and talk induction dates. I just hope she shows up, or that I can manage to go into labour in the next few hours - wish me luck!
Woke up this morning, as is our custom, to the the Today Programme on Radio Four (sounds like a v poorly-scanned first line of a blues number, I know) and it occurred to me that the media may be to blame for my plight. Maybe having been subjected on a daily basis to tales of human rights abuses, planetary vandalism, terrorism, bigotry, cruelty, ignorance, vanity, stupidity, cupidity, Schadentelly and Anne Widdicombe, the wee one has sensibly concluded that it's better off where it is.
Wednesday, March 10
don't be sad...Thus far, today's deliveries:
Fish tank stand, flat-pack assembly: One (1)
Sofa, red, two seater: One (1)
Baby, ready-made, pink, wrinkled, pissed-off looking: Zero (0)
Oh well, two outta three eh?
Tuesday, March 9
gah!Monday, March 8
... drums fingers, hums little hum, glances pointedly at calendar...Sunday, March 7
hey ho....Saturday, March 6
still pregnant.Friday, March 5
please proceed to the emergency exitJust opened my personal page of BabyCentre to be greeted with the following:
Welcome back, HeatherWE!
Congratulations on your newborn!
Congratulations, your baby is here!
For the record, no it bloody well isn't.
Thursday, March 4
amplify the ping machineI'm due today. Baby, however, is showing absolutely no inclination to emerge, but then apparently only 5% are born on their EDD (estimated delivery date), so not to worry, eh? Nevertheless as I have now also officially reached the Get This Thing Out Of Me NOW, M******f****r stage, am experimenting with various traditional labour-inducing remedies, some of the more mentionable of which include raspberry leaf tea (doesn't work but quite palatable if you take it with honey), curry (didn't work but tasted good and amazingly I kept it down) and fresh pineapple (refreshing and rich in vitamins but the only thing it induced was vomiting).
Midwife came on Monday and was unable to figure which way the baby was lying because every time she poked the bump it contracted angrily into a large pink boulder with no palpable topographical features. She's coming back next Thurs to do a 'sweep', which means shoving a (hopefully gloved) hand up and having a fossick around to see if she can ginger the baby into coming out. Although knowing this baby it'll probably just shrink away from probing fingers and retreat grumpily into my lungs. Anyway if all else fails I'll have to be induced next weekend, which doesn't sound pleasant so we'll just pretend that that's not going to happen, OK?
In the meantime I sit and wait and watch DVD after DVD of Cold Feet and try to decide who's more irritating, Helen Baxendale or Fay Ripley. Have just started series 3, which I've never seen before so please don't tell me how it all ends, although am secretly hoping that chainsaws may be involved, at least where Mmes Baxendale and Ripley are concerned. Am pleased to report that I have not yet succumbed to daytime telly. Further bulletins as events warrant.
