“You’ve never failed and you won’t start now.”

People often explain this moment as the greatest moment in their lives. No other humanly experience could compare. After the months and months of growth, change and worry… to see, hold, touch and nurture your child… your own flesh and blood… your very heart now beating outside of you… life is now meant to make sense. The moment to be marked as the pinnacle of life itself was nothing as I had imagined it to be. I still remember the words I uttered to hubby; “This has been the second worst week of my life…” You could probably guess which came in first.

My waters had clearly broken, but there were no signs of any dilation or contractions. Due to my GBS results, I was induced soon after my arrival at the birthing unit and given antibiotics at various intervals. Although the test is highly controversial, and the possibility of a negative outcome is rare, there was no way I would even dare to take the chance. The professionals can have me on this one. I’ve been hooked up to two intravenous drips and a heart rate monitor is strapped around my belly. I cannot move due to the cords draped all around me. As contractions kick in, I find myself asking the nurses to ‘unhook’ me so I can go to the bathroom. The walking and moving makes me feel more comfortable, rather than lying motionless on my back in bed. Through the toilet wall, I can hear the lady next door screaming as if she was being tortured to death. It horrified me. In my mind, I’m imagining being strapped back down on that bed without being able to move again, and imagining that type of pain waiting for me. So far, I’ve been strong, but now I’m filled with doubt. As I return back to my bed, I’m hooked back up to all the machinery. I’ve convinced myself that I cannot face what’s to come whilst in this situation, contained in this prostrate position. I ask my midwife, a humorous and kind-hearted Dutch man, that I’d take up that offer of an epidural. Everyone was surprised by my change of heart. I’m checked at a full 5cm, which further solidified my decision, as the overwhelming discomfort experienced just from ‘checking’ my progression was violating enough. I’m obviously not cut out for this. The anaesthetist returns to inject the good stuff into my spine. With her second attempt, a third bag is placed alongside my other two drips. I start to lose all sensation of contractions for about 30 mins and I’m given a catheter. I watch the waves on the monitor as each contraction comes and goes, each time Little Man’s heart rate dips then climbs back up. At this time, my mum arrives to visit with some flowers. It wasn’t the plan, but she ended up staying (thank goodness).

To my surprise, contractions suddenly emerge back, which requires the nurses to fiddle around with both the induction and epidural levels. The obstetrician emerges with concerns regarding my progression. I’m now at 7cm and the effect the contractions are having on Little Man’s heart-rate are becoming concerning, as his heart beat continues to dive and slowly climb back up each time. A c-section was mentioned, however, the overpowering army of midwives in the room defended that they would turn down the induction meds and continue to monitor. It was quite comical to watch the interaction between the doctors and nurses. The tensions were obvious, seeing as the midwives continued to voice their frustrations through ‘professional gossip’ once she had left. A heart rate monitor was then attached to Little Man, by inserting a small suction pad to the top of his head.

The midwives seem perplexed after reaching the full epidural ‘top-up’ capacity, that I’m still experiencing the full effect of contractions, and once I hit 10cm, I’m back in full swing. It appears I am the lucky 1% whose epidural top-ups wear off quickly, making them absolutely pointless. Another thing to add to my book of statistics. I’m given the gas, oh wonderful gas, which is soon taken away from me with the instruction to push. It’s noted that I am an excellent ‘pusher’ and I must remember to add that to my resume, however, things are not happening as it should. One pace forward, one pace back. The anaesthetist returns with a dose of morphine and adrenaline for pain relief and to stimulate the fetal ejection reflex. As a result of my drug concoctions, my legs are completely paralysed, contractions are raging, but I’m as happy and high as a kite. I hope they give me a doggy bag, so I can take some of this ‘good-stuff’ home.

It’s that time of night and shifts are ending. My midwife now has to go home as a new one takes over. He mentions to the new midwife, “She’s going to need some help”, which is returned with the snarly remark, “Not on my watch!” This wasn’t exactly the ‘handover’ conversation I was expecting. I’m told to push for a further hour, with no progress, totalling nearly 2 hours of continuous pushing. My whole body is now strained. There has been no change, and all involved are becoming worried. From here a sense of urgency emerges as a team appears; two nurses, an obstetrician, a paediatrician, my midwife, along with hubby and mum.  The team has come to get him out, and get him out now with a venthouse delivery, otherwise known as a vacuum extraction. At the obstetrician’s second attempt, Little Man’s head is yanked and emerges, “Don’t be alarmed. It’s going to be ok. When he’s out, we are going to take him away and we don’t want him to cry, so don’t be concerned if he’s quiet.” Little man is given the instruction by the doctor, “Don’t cry!”  and with the next pull, Little Man is delivered with an almighty full-lunged cry and rushed to the paediatrician. He had pooed while in utero, a sign of fetal distress. He required immediate attention to be suctioned to remove any meconium in his lungs and airways.

I haven’t yet been able to see him. Everyone has left me in my delirium as they huddle around him. I can’t see. My glasses were taken from me, so all I can hear is rushing, gurgling and sucking. I begin to cry asking if he is ok, as my mum calls over, “He’s beautiful.”

He is finally brought to me and placed on my chest as the search for my glasses continue. At this time, the obstetrician gives me a local and for the next 45mins stitches me back together. Mum and hubby take photos of him and comment on how “asian” he looks. Not exactly the comment I was expecting with a room full of mostly asian doctors.

As I stare down at him, I feel relief that he is here, but in complete disbelief. He is alive. I’m alive. But certainly this can’t be the greatest moment of my life. I’m holding a stranger that I’ve prayed life into, worried over and cried over. Now I’m holding him and there’s nothing familiar about him. Who are you and what have you just done to me?

This was meant to be my moment of healing. Just when I thought I couldn’t feel anymore defeated…

On Sunday 7.7.13 at 11:34pm, weighing 3650g (8lb) and 52cm, Little Man made his grand entry… and now it seems the story begins again.

Meeting Little Man for the first time

“The child that is born on the Sabbath day is bonny and blithe, good and happy.”

“Be strong enough to stand alone, smart enough to know when you need help, and brave enough to ask for it.” -Mark Amend

“Dear heart,

Don’t be discouraged. Don’t be disappointed. There is no such thing as failure. We’ve been conditioned to believe. We are told it’s our biology. It’s a natural process. The evil lies within the practitioners, with conspiracies to intervene with their medical witchcraft.

But dear heart, natural is great, and for many easily achieved, but listen…so is death.

It’s our biology. It’s a natural process. For most, our trust lies within the practitioner with the goal to intervene with each life-saving medical breakthrough. Natural is best, until it’s not. We are a flawed creation, and if we were to apply the ridiculous ideals we hold for women and childbirth to other areas of health and life, we would see how very misled we are.

Natural is best: a failure to progress, abnormal presentation, prolapsed umbilical cords, umbilical cord compression, placenta previa, meconium inhalation, nuchal cord, infection, cephalopelvic disproportion, preeclampsia, placental abruption, congenital abnormality, haemorrhage, atonic uterus, ruptured uterus, trauma, retained placenta, placenta accreta, blood clots, sepsis, amniotic fluid embolism, nerve damage, incontinence, intrapartum asphyxia, malpresentation, birth defects, dystocia, infertility, miscarriage, stillbirth.

Natural is best, until it’s not.

I know how much you love facts; How much you need proof, so here it is: According to the World Health Organisation, “Globally, little progress has been made in reducing maternal mortality. An estimated 515,000 women die each year as a result of pregnancy and childbirth”, 7 million have serious long-term complications and 50 million women have negative outcomes following delivery. But natural is best, until it’s not. UNICEF findings show that most maternal deaths were preventable. Only 7% of women who died while giving birth had with them a skilled medical attendant. Evidence shows that to deal with these harrowing statistics, UNICEF and other aid organisations have been establishing health care services, equipping them with essential drugs and equipment, with capacity to undertake caesarean sections, assisted delivery and safe blood transfusions, providing training to establish skilled birthing attendants, nurses and midwives, along with providing education to recognise signs in abnormal pregnancy and complications. Lets make this comparison clearer: for every 1,000 live births, 118 Afghani babies with die and in Australia only 4. Now times these horrendous truths by all the other underdeveloped nations in the world. When comparing statistics on maternal and infant mortality rates, it’s conclusive from all major agencies, and for most with a hint of common sense, these discrepancies are due to the “lack of access to medical intervention.” (UNICEF)

Now why would I overwhelm you with all of this? The facts are, a problem- free, natural pregnancy and labour is desirable and definitely achievable, but will not be for everyone. The truth is, 1 in 4 women in our developed nations, including Australia, require medical intervention, whether it is induction, augmentation, episiotomy, forceps delivery, vacuum delivery or caesarean section… and we’re surviving. Dear heart, remind yourself of the aim. The aim isn’t to join a club of drug-free dolphin mums. The aim is not to somehow prove your womanhood. The aim is to survive, just as women have been doing since the dawn of time. We are the lucky ones who get to reap the reward of childbirth. Some never see the day; others go home with empty arms. 

Children’s Hospital queue, Cambodia. 

Children’s Hospital queue, Cambodia.

In our developed nations we live longer, with greater quality of life, and we can thank the ever-improving access to medical intervention. Our pathetic ‘first world problems’ constantly cloud our better judgements, as we all continue to live with a sense of ‘entitlement’. Remember when you visited that Children’s Hospital in Cambodia? The endless queue that weaved around the block of parents cradling their children waiting to see a doctor. You were told that many won’t go home, but will stay for days until someone can see them. Remember how embarrassed you felt; how you couldn’t make yourself take a photo of the queue of people. Remember how you thought, “how does this happen?”, and for a moment in time you had a deep sense of appreciation for what you had? I’m not surprised that you had forgotten. Oh, how quickly you forget the injustices of the world and continue to be swept up in your own little ambitions. How lucky you are to have resource. How lucky you are to be educated on what you want. How lucky you are to have a choice, or at least entertain the idea of choice. How lucky you are to know that natural is best, but when it’s not, you have teams and resources on your side fighting for your survival.

Dear heart, you are no less of a woman, let alone any less of a mother. Sometimes the lavender candles and happy thoughts aren’t enough. “If you want it enough, you’ll get it”, but dear heart, you know that’s not true. We need to remind our sisters that going through two days of labour resulting in an emergency C-section is not ‘disappointing’; You have experienced all there is to be a mum. Remind your friends, that scheduling a C-section on doctor’s orders is not a cop-out; You are not missing out on anything that will make you more ‘mum’. If you’ve gone through the tedious, heart wrenching IVF process, if your labour has failed to progress, if you’re requiring an induction, if nothing is going as planned, just remember… your body has not failed you. You are but the result of a perfectly fallen human nature. If baby becomes distressed and all your well-meaning plans go out the window, you epitomise everything it is to be a ‘mum’; giving up your own wishes and desires for the health of your child. You have not been defeated. And don’t forget to tell your sisters, if you’ve been blessed to have all your ducks line up in a row and it all works out just as you had imagined, we are relieved and pleased for you. If you feel you need to be an advocate for your cause, we will cheer with you, but we also hope you will cheer for us. Don’t look down on us, but lift us up, as we all know, natural is best, until it’s not. Block out the toxic opinions of others. Some people will never understand that not all experiences are the same. Don’t be conformed to the pressures of social-media. Comment threads are merely the over-compensation of a hurting world. 

Dear heart, sometimes things feel unfair, but it is ok. No one holds anymore value than the next person. Life happens. You know this. No one has taken anything away from you. Don’t be discouraged. Don’t be disappointed. There is no such thing as failure… just be grateful.”

If I could go back in time, I’d write this to myself. I’d make sure I read it, again and again. I’d read it until I believed it. Until the words could be recited off by heart, until it ran through my veins and became truth…

… because nothing went to plan.

“People change for two main reasons: their minds have been opened, or their hearts have been broken.”

Sometimes we forget how good we’ve actually got it…

*Stats: World Health Organisation, UNICEF.org & UN.org

“I will learn to love the skies I’m under.”

Lucky for me, little man’s birth date coincides with the school holidays so even though I’ve now finished up at work, I have technically scored 2 weeks off before his anticipated arrival. My timing is impeccable. Even though I’ve packed all my things and handed my beloved class to new hands, it still doesn’t seem real. I’ve never not worked. I’m flooded with advice to spend as much time with hubby, to go to the movies, to watch DVDs, to do nothing and do everything. The greatest thing you’ll ever experience in your entire humanely existence lies around the corner. The reward. The love. You’ll learn what tired truly means. It’ll be your greatest achievement. You’ll never be the same again. Yeah, yeah… I continue with my internal eye rolls. How can so much be wrapped up in one part of their lives (*please insert another one of those wet-fish-slap moments here.*) I spend my first week off continuing with my ‘nesting’ rituals. Everything is cleaned, and then cleaned again. Everything is in perfect order. I’ve watched a movie a day and I’m clearly now bored. I’m so bored of this house, of the TV, of cleaning, of worrying… but I think mostly I’m bored with the anticipation. I’ve now been pregnant for 59 weeks! YES, over the last 20 months, I’ve been pregnant for 15 of them… and I’m over it. 40 weeks of morning sickness, 59 weeks of angst, 20 months of fake smiles, a hurting heart and trembling fear. Lets get this over and done with already.

39 weeks

It’s Saturday and I’m now 39 weeks. I take my usual belly photo and go to bed, where I am met with the most vivid dream. Hubby and I are on a holiday, which seems to be at a warm coastal suburb. The sand roads meet gutter-free driveways, followed by front lawns to beach shacks. The sky is a cloudless, brilliant blue. As we wander the streets, I see a sign for my doctor from the Feto-Maternal Unit. We walk down the sandy driveway to his office, which appeared just like any other ultrasound clinic. As I’m stretched out on the examination table, we get to look at little man on the monitor, yet the image, rather than being its usual pixelated black and white, is as clear as a photo. I can see him. All his features; his face, his hair. It’s as if I could reach out and pull him through the screen. I beg the doctor with desperate urgency; “Please, I need him now. I can’t wait any longer. I can see him. I need to hold him to know he’s ok. Please help me!” The doctor, with a surgical hook, inserts and pulls…

I wake up suddenly from my dream with a sensation of wetting the bed. I run to the bathroom, dripping wet. My waters just broke. That didn’t just happen, did it?

“Courage, dear heart.” –C.S. Lewis