Stale sandwiches & square wetness
A birth story
Going into the birth of my daughter, other than us both coming out the other side healthy, I wished for two things:
To be in control of the decisions being made, and have the confidence to voice my preferences,
To experience it as naturally as possible, until pain-relief and intervention were needed to be gradually increased.
As there were no local NHS antenatal classes (thanks COVID), in the final few weeks I threw myself into learning my own way, because knowledge is power. I joined a private hypnobirthing group, read hypnobirthing books, absorbed hypnobirthing Instagram accounts and their downloadable resources, as well as picked the brains of my midwife mum. I was walking into birth quietly confident in what I wanted and how I wanted it to happen, but with enough of an open mind to be flexible.
I learned I wanted my preferences for birth to be centred around being drug free and intervention free - unless absolutely necessary - and then informed choices would be made about best next steps. I did not want a synthetic oxytocin drip if I needed an induction, as I’d understood it could be a slippery slope down the excessive intervention tunnel. And I was hoping for a water birth if the pool was available.
Unfortunately during childbirth there are things which will happen completely out of your control and will knock your plans clean off their path, no matter the intentions and efforts being made . Mine being lack of sleep, and consequently, my body’s reaction to it.
At 41 weeks + 5 days pregnant, I was admitted to hospital for a planned induction on Monday 10th January. Over the previous few weeks I’d had 3 failed cervical sweeps, and had been hitting it hard on all of the magic labour inducing activities (walking, bouncing, dousing myself in clary sage) in the hope of jump-starting labour. Thanks to high cortisol levels, C-PTSD and a lot of personal stress throughout pregnancy, a natural start to labour was not to be. An induction isn’t something I initially wanted, but I knew my body was struggling to allow labour to happen on its own. I told myself, I could be induced and hopefully my birth preferences follow from there.
Knowing I was going into hospital and THIS WOULD BE IT, I spent the weekend soaking up as much rest as I could. Monday 11am, I arrived at hospital and had a good chat with the midwife in the antenatal ward about my preferences. She was incredibly understanding about the hormone drip and instead offered a different procedure which I hadn’t heard of before - the Cook Balloon - which would be coupled with my waters being manually broken to kick start labour. A Cook Balloon is when a balloon is inserted into the cervix and inflated on each side with an aim to soften and flatten the cervix and help it open - needing to be left in for 12ish hours to do it’s thing. (Making jokes about the midwives taking requests and could I have a poodle don’t go down well, FYI.)
Thanks to an uncooperative cervix and the baby’s head pushing the balloon out, this normally relatively swift and straight-forward procedure took over 45 minutes of uncomfortable poking, leaving me feeling really tender and anxious. From 2pm until 2am, I was going to be left to let the balloon magic happen, with semi-regular monitoring of my steadily increasing contractions.
5pm. Induction done. Dave home for sleep. Hospital dinner with classic scooped mash eaten. It was time to refocus on the birth I wanted. From about 9pm my contractions were steadily ramping up, needing to be breathed through. It was here, things started taking an annoying turn impacting the rest of my labour.
On the ward, in my bay of 4 women, 2 were causing significant disturbance to the others trying to get our rest. One in a loud video call to her family opening her baby presents for her and then watching Shrek on full volume. The other very much in labour screaming like a possessed banshee, swearing and kicking at her mum and the midwives. Obviously, I don’t begrudge the labour noises, but I do feel like more could have been done by the midwives to protect the sleep and experience of those of us trying to rest. It took all my strength to focus on me and reassure myself her experience wasn’t going to be mine. This level of noise lasted until about 1.30am when the banshee was moved to the delivery suite. By this time, a lot of damage had been done to my rest and I found myself impatiently clock-watching waiting for the 12 hours of induction to be over.
As my balloon time was coming up, I told Dave to get to the hospital. I’d been told once it had been removed we’d be taken to the delivery ward to have my waters broken and I wanted him with me. No space in the delivery unit meant I waited a little longer and Dave spent hours waiting in the reception area. At about 3.30am the balloon was taken out and I was told to get some sleep. About 4.30am I was woken up to be moved upstairs for the next stage.
Midwife #1 greeted me and read through my birth preference sheet, impressed by my knowledge and detail. At this early point, I ruled out a water birth - the room was sickeningly warm and the thought of a warm pool made me queasy. About 6am, my waters were manually broken and I was told the induction was successful - my cervix had flattened significantly, but I was still only 2cm dilated. It needed to progress significantly within 2 hours or I’d have to go on the drip. While we waited, I was treated to breakfast.
Around 8am, the shifts changed and Midwife #2 introduced herself to me as the one to see me through to the end. Following my waters breaking, contractions ramped up really intensely. Breathing and bouncing on the birth ball were starting to not be enough, so I asked to try some gas and air. Within about 4 puffs I was spewing my bran flakes back up, so I asked for pethidine instead.
Midwife #2 went on a break and Midwife #3 and student midwife introduced themselves as covering. Soon, I was told Midwife #2 had gone home with a migraine so #3 and student were with me until baby arrived. Again, we went through the preferences and made sure everyone was on the same page. They checked my progress, and sure enough the threat of a drip had worked - I’d gone from 2cm to nearly 10cm within just a few agonising hours.
By this point, I was exhausted and struggling to focus on everything I’d learnt in hypnobirthing, especially my breathing. I was fighting off the intensity of the contractions whilst also fighting to keep my eyes open. I’d had less than an hour’s sleep and not eaten since dinner the night before. Despite really not wanting an epidural, I knew I needed to try to get some rest and strength. So, for lunch at 12pm I was having my back pumped with delicious drugs just so I could try to grab a nap. I remember being super spaced out and dozing off to sleep, but coming to a sudden awareness there lots of people in the room and finding it really disorientating. Soon enough I was in a deep sleep, allowing everyone else a break and Dave some time to get lunch and watch Cobra Kai.
When I woke up an hour or so later, approximately 2.30pm, it was showtime. Pumped full of epidural and no feeling below my waist, still quite exhausted, I had to push. I found it really unnerving not being able to feel anything, to know if my pushes were doing anything. After a while on my back, I tried with a peanut cushion which I instantly hated. And then rather stubbornly tried to get on my knees and hang myself over the back of the bed - I was determined to not give birth lying on my back! Balancing with no feeling in my legs was tricky and I was focusing on not falling more than pushing, so begrudgingly I went back to lying down.
Dave was doing everything he could to support, including dabbing me with cold flannels. At one point I forgot the name of them and frustratingly called for ‘square wetness’ to be put on my forehead. Midwife #3 told him to go to the business end to see the baby's head, and at that point, I laid a tiny nugget of poo. He reassured me my efforts were making progress and I needed to keep going. A bit more pushing and my heart rate and blood pressure were going wonky, I was warned by the midwife I might need to consider forceps and episiotomy to help get the baby out. It had been over an hour since I’d first started pushing and they were estimating it could take another hour more. I was getting frustrated but was determined to not have any more intervention - things felt like they were spiralling and I wanted control. I haggled for 30 minutes more pushing and if no baby then we’d escalate things.
Unfortunately, I was too exhausted to have much impact, and my vitals were on the cusp of starting to affect the baby. I agreed for support to be brought in. Before I could even realise what was happening, an extra team of people appeared, my legs were in stirrups, an episiotomy cut had been made, giant salad tongues were inside me and my baby was being pulled out. 5.42pm, Freya was born! A whole 9lbs of her!
In my hazed state, when the midwives asked me what I’d had, I went into a little confused panic, completely forgetting what I needed to be checking for. Eventually I realised, held her up, turned to Dave to tell him she’s a girl, to find him in a hot mess of tears instantly causing my face to leak too. The next hour or so was a muddle of drugs and hormones so my memories are vague. I remember chatting my head off to the student midwife showing me my placenta whilst I was being stitched up. I remember the euphoric feeling when my baby first latched onto my boob to feed. I remember that holy grail NHS tea and toast being brought before I was ready meaning it went cold (still hold a grudge about that!)
After a time, I got dressed into my comfy pyjamas and was taken down to the postnatal ward, saying goodbye to Dave for the night. On this ward, I was the only person in my bay and honestly, I felt a little forgotten about. The timing of our birth meant I’d missed out on dinner and had to ask a couple of times if there was anything to eat - I’d not had anything for 24 hours and I needed something substantial to help me recover. All that could be found was a stale sandwich with the most measly amount of cheese. Why do they dish out so much white bread to new mums when the first postpartum poop is enough of a struggle?!
Despite being under the care of the perinatal mental health team from 30 weeks pregnant, and them arranging for me to stay in for a few days allowing me to adjust to motherhood, I asked to be discharged about 1pm the day after Freya was born. I didn’t feel like I’d been well cared for or noticed very much and I would recover better at home. I don’t even think they asked how I was doing - mentally or physically - everything was about the baby. I was pretty disappointed in the postnatal care as we unceremoniously left the hospital.
Whilst the birth definitely wasn’t what I would have chosen, I did manage to keep in control of the decisions needing to be made and I confidently voiced my preferences. Yes, some of those decisions didn’t have great options, but I’d like to think I did the best for me and baby in those moments and for that, I cannot be upset about my birth experience. I am, however, quite annoyed that more wasn’t done to protect my rest on Monday night and how much my body and in turn my experience were impacted by exhaustion. I’ve often thought about how differently I might have handled birth had I been able to get a decent kip.
Maybe I’ll find out next time.