“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.”