Childbirth
On the morning I went into labour with Ali I remember how the cat stayed very close to me. My mind threw back to Lorraine Kelly on morning TV talking about something similar happening to her when she started to contract with one of her children. The cat knew that something was going to happen, and it wasn’t long before I knew too!
Straining my eyes as it became daylight I wandered through to the bathroom, cat very close behind me. I had stomach cramps, like as if I was starting my menstrual cycle but this was nothing new, I had been experiencing these for weeks. At one point I had convinced myself that Ali was going to be 2 weeks early – I was now exactly a week overdue and becoming increasingly fed up.
No sooner had I lowered myself to the toilet, than the entire contents of my digestive tract emptied – stat – into the basin. This continued, for some time. I thought maybe I was ill. A stomach bug or I had eaten something dodgy. But as this thought drifted out of my mind the pain struck hard. Immediately contracting every 3-5minutes, thick and fast, my abdomen tightening with such strength that it made me feel sick, I prayed that I was actually labouring and not being completely pathetic. There was none of the gradual ‘build-up’ from crampy pains to increasingly strong contractions that I had been learning about for near on 3 years; no time to focus and get myself psychologically in the right ‘frame of mind’.
When my gut was empty I ‘hobbled’ back through to the bedroom, clutching my belly, where I proceeded to inform D that I was in labour – or if I wasn’t then my pain threshold was zero and I needed an epidural – now! I have never seen D move so fast. Bouncing out of the bed he quickly phoned work and returned to my side. Worried I wasn’t in labour I rang the hospital for advice. As I was told to take paracetamol and have a warm bath, I bit my tongue, ended the conversation and threw the phone across the room. I knew that advice all to well. I had regurgitated this advice on many occasions.
The perpetrator of the advice was right about one thing. I needed a wash. There was no way that I was going to set foot in a hospital and have the intimate care that was about to occur without having a shower. This was my pet hate. When you are 41 weeks pregnant, there are things that you can’t do – practicality just doesn’t allow. For example, undertaking an aerobics class or sex in the missionary position with someone other than a contortionist. Maintaining hygiene is not one of them. Adamant I would be clean on entering my labour room, I ‘puffed’ my way through the quickest shower ever and pulled on something baggy and black.
Still part of me felt I should be waiting some time before making that all important trip to the hospital, that I was going to be deemed ‘weak’ and ‘not yet in established labour’. D persuaded me otherwise as I struggled into the ‘alpha romeo’ where her forced me to sit on eight layers of towel as a precaution should my waters break. Erm…priorities!
The journey was horrendous. I couldn’t move about or breath properly because my lungs were so cramped. The 25 minute journey seemed like an eternity but then suddenly we were there at the maternity unit. I had done a week as an elective placement in the same maternity unit and knew it was a good hospital, and I knew just the midwife I was going to ask for.
Stopping every so often to breath and moan, as we worked our way through the corridors, I remember everyone staring – I knew they were thinking ‘rather you than me’, and ‘will she get there in time’, but it didn’t affect me for long as the next wave of agony would rupture into full force and I would be clinging onto something as if for dear life.
On the labour ward I was taken to the ‘admission room’ – the room we take people when we don’t believe they are in established labour. I wanted to cry. Surely this much pain had to mean I was in labour or they were going to have to knock me out.
6cm – hoorah – now give me the damn gas and air! I was moved to a labour room where the midwife gave me the entonox, which I virtually snatched from her. Ironically the midwife I had hoped for was not working that day, but I had a lovely midwife, for what I remember of her.
It took a while to get changed into my nightie (why we all feel the need to birth in nightie’s is still beyond me) as I didn’t have much time between contractions. They were getting closer together and certainly increasingly painful. It is so hard to explain the pain. Intense, crippling, extreme, severe, relentless. In my native Geordie language ‘it bloody knacks like nothing I’ve ever felt in my entire life’. In truth I caved and could not cope with it any longer. At 6 cm I could be another 5 hours in labour at least, if I were to progress an average of a cm an hour as the ‘books’ relate. I didn’t think for a second I would last that long.
Just my luck – No diamorphine. I didn’t want the pethidine but I had to have something so I agreed. Big mistake. Big, big mistake.
On the morning I went into labour with Ali I remember how the cat stayed very close to me. My mind threw back to Lorraine Kelly on morning TV talking about something similar happening to her when she started to contract with one of her children. The cat knew that something was going to happen, and it wasn’t long before I knew too!
Straining my eyes as it became daylight I wandered through to the bathroom, cat very close behind me. I had stomach cramps, like as if I was starting my menstrual cycle but this was nothing new, I had been experiencing these for weeks. At one point I had convinced myself that Ali was going to be 2 weeks early – I was now exactly a week overdue and becoming increasingly fed up.
No sooner had I lowered myself to the toilet, than the entire contents of my digestive tract emptied – stat – into the basin. This continued, for some time. I thought maybe I was ill. A stomach bug or I had eaten something dodgy. But as this thought drifted out of my mind the pain struck hard. Immediately contracting every 3-5minutes, thick and fast, my abdomen tightening with such strength that it made me feel sick, I prayed that I was actually labouring and not being completely pathetic. There was none of the gradual ‘build-up’ from crampy pains to increasingly strong contractions that I had been learning about for near on 3 years; no time to focus and get myself psychologically in the right ‘frame of mind’.
When my gut was empty I ‘hobbled’ back through to the bedroom, clutching my belly, where I proceeded to inform D that I was in labour – or if I wasn’t then my pain threshold was zero and I needed an epidural – now! I have never seen D move so fast. Bouncing out of the bed he quickly phoned work and returned to my side. Worried I wasn’t in labour I rang the hospital for advice. As I was told to take paracetamol and have a warm bath, I bit my tongue, ended the conversation and threw the phone across the room. I knew that advice all to well. I had regurgitated this advice on many occasions.
The perpetrator of the advice was right about one thing. I needed a wash. There was no way that I was going to set foot in a hospital and have the intimate care that was about to occur without having a shower. This was my pet hate. When you are 41 weeks pregnant, there are things that you can’t do – practicality just doesn’t allow. For example, undertaking an aerobics class or sex in the missionary position with someone other than a contortionist. Maintaining hygiene is not one of them. Adamant I would be clean on entering my labour room, I ‘puffed’ my way through the quickest shower ever and pulled on something baggy and black.
Still part of me felt I should be waiting some time before making that all important trip to the hospital, that I was going to be deemed ‘weak’ and ‘not yet in established labour’. D persuaded me otherwise as I struggled into the ‘alpha romeo’ where her forced me to sit on eight layers of towel as a precaution should my waters break. Erm…priorities!
The journey was horrendous. I couldn’t move about or breath properly because my lungs were so cramped. The 25 minute journey seemed like an eternity but then suddenly we were there at the maternity unit. I had done a week as an elective placement in the same maternity unit and knew it was a good hospital, and I knew just the midwife I was going to ask for.
Stopping every so often to breath and moan, as we worked our way through the corridors, I remember everyone staring – I knew they were thinking ‘rather you than me’, and ‘will she get there in time’, but it didn’t affect me for long as the next wave of agony would rupture into full force and I would be clinging onto something as if for dear life.
On the labour ward I was taken to the ‘admission room’ – the room we take people when we don’t believe they are in established labour. I wanted to cry. Surely this much pain had to mean I was in labour or they were going to have to knock me out.
6cm – hoorah – now give me the damn gas and air! I was moved to a labour room where the midwife gave me the entonox, which I virtually snatched from her. Ironically the midwife I had hoped for was not working that day, but I had a lovely midwife, for what I remember of her.
It took a while to get changed into my nightie (why we all feel the need to birth in nightie’s is still beyond me) as I didn’t have much time between contractions. They were getting closer together and certainly increasingly painful. It is so hard to explain the pain. Intense, crippling, extreme, severe, relentless. In my native Geordie language ‘it bloody knacks like nothing I’ve ever felt in my entire life’. In truth I caved and could not cope with it any longer. At 6 cm I could be another 5 hours in labour at least, if I were to progress an average of a cm an hour as the ‘books’ relate. I didn’t think for a second I would last that long.
Just my luck – No diamorphine. I didn’t want the pethidine but I had to have something so I agreed. Big mistake. Big, big mistake.
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