There is a voice that doesn’t use words. Listen. -Rumi

Has the story nearly come full circle? The answers I’d be longing for since the beginning of this Mummy Wagon tale, had unexpectedly come to light. I was resigned to the fact that I’d just never know, however, the questions of ‘why?’ continued to flood with no resolve. For the first time I can say with full certainty… this isn’t how it’s meant to be.

After each obstetrician appointment, my ‘positive-birthing confidence’ would be eroded just that little bit more. I was just another number. I’m just another pleb in the public health system; “move along, we have more important things to do.” I’m a ‘second’ time mother. I’m expected to already know what I’m doing. As the date moves closer, I cannot fathom going through another delivery and recovery as last time (My Story Begins Again; 07.07.13). But I’ve heard the stories of empowerment. How your second birth can mend all that was once broken. This was meant to be my season of redemption. This is meant to be my story of healing. After each plea for reassurance, I am met with the same medical jargon and statistics; “vaginal deliveries are the safest with the quickest recovery.” I’d question, “but what about last time?” No answer. That is the end of the discussion. Do your duty, women. The fingers are pointed at me. I tell myself, you must be mentally unstable. Exaggerator. A light-weight. Hypochondriac. For some of us, this is just how it’s meant to be. They haven’t said otherwise… I try to bury the fear.

Why won’t anyone just listen.

But grace.

I’m 37 weeks pregnant and attending my last scheduled doctors appointment at the hospital. I reveal a glimpse of my impending doom to a midwife in passing. She gives me a warm nudge that reignites the deep fire that had slowly been diminishing. I’m tired of the constant drag of fear. I’m at wits-end with the lack of empathy, explanation, or support from these obstetricians. I have to keep reminding myself that they too are ‘human’, regardless, I’m ready to battle.

I can’t be ignored any longer. I dig my heels in and tell the doctor with full certainty, “I’m not delivering this baby.”

With this stern declaration, I’m rescheduled to see a specialist obstetrician. She comes with the weapon of fear to push me back in-line. She comes with an aura of superiority. She talks down at us. She speaks over us. She points her finger at us. “Do your duty, uneducated women.” She didn’t need to say the words. The message was thickly suffocating.

I’m trusting my gut.

“I’m not delivering this baby.”

I appear at the hospital for the third time in the week. Specialist obstetrician number 2. As we wait, I’m called over by two senior midwives. They are perplexed by the nature of the appointment as they pull out my file; MOD meeting (Mode of Delivery). The midwife from earlier in the week walks by with a grin, “oops, that’s my fault.” I think I have finally found an ally.

The midwives ask ‘why?’

But grace.

They listen.

With expressions of horror and intrigue, they sift through my file and begin to piece together the story.

By their expressions and explanations of the could-haves, should-haves and would-haves, it’s clear that they’re frustrated with the system. A system where the real masters are the servants. They continue to talk in waves of injustice, frustration, anger and with sympathetic sadness. They reassure with warmth, “You certainly could have a natural birth, but you are now too far gone. This could have been so much different,” along with the clear message, “You need to have a positive experience this time.” 

It’s explained to me for the very first time that Little One was posterior. I should have been positioned differently. The progression and decisions made thereafter were all ‘troubleshooting’. I should have been assisted. I shouldn’t have been made to push for so long. The delivery was ‘emergency’ in nature. His head was in the wrong positon and at the wrong angle. His injuries could have been so much more significant. The vacuum was placed on the wrong part of his head. I had suffered a suspected dislocated coccyx. I had no adequate aftercare. My tear and stitches were significant. My previous loss and birth-experience should have been taken into consideration in establishing continuity of care. I should never of had a student-nurse for my appointment.  I should have had adequate follow-up after a traumatic birth experience. My recovery was in no way usual or normal.

I should feel angry.

But grace.

I’m called into the appointment. After this influx of information, I finally feel at rest. The giant bolder that has been sitting on my chest has finally been rolled away. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t normal. I hadn’t gone completely mad. I’m not a light-weight. All my concerns have finally been validated and all the loose ends of ‘why?’ answered.

I feel like I have finally been heard.

As the doctor looks at me from across the room, I now feel I have nothing left. I can’t explain myself anymore. I think I’m finally done fighting.

And then there was grace.

One of the midwives who had just divulged all this new information sat with us and pleaded my case to the final obstetrician. I didn’t have to utter a word. She explained eloquently everything I’d been trying to resolve for the last 3 years, and even more desperately, over the last few months since becoming pregnant again. She carries me in her words as she insists to the doctor, ‘This is completely our fault.“

She was my grace.

The doctor points her finger at me. I’m expecting a retaliation but instead she exudes understanding and compassion, “I assure you, you will be fine. This will be nothing like last time.” And with a warm smile, a wink and one swift signature, there was grace.

A week later, our little bundle of multiplying love entered the world via Elective Caesarean Section, in a room full of joyful conversation and jovial laughter, by a warm team of people and a down-to-earth, kind-hearted doctor.

With a thick mop of hair, a hearty cry and weighing a hefty 4.18kg & 57cm, we were met with utter overwhelming calm.

As Little One is taken away with hubby and I’m wheeled into recovery, I’ve finally surrendered the should-haves, could-haves and would-haves. As my expected 20 minute post-op recovery drags into it’s 3rd hour while waiting for a bed in the maternity ward. As the nurses impatiently continue to call for answers and profusely apologise for the prolonged separation from Little One, I feel no angst. I feel no restlessness. I feel no hostility. All I feel is the saturation of that one little word…

grace.

Is this now my season of redemption? Will this now be my story of healing?

“Ah, kindness. What a simple way to tell another struggling soul that there is love to be found in the world.”