The new piddle pot brought me no luck, the protein was back with a vengeance and my blood pressure was up again. The nice doctor lady who had taken care of me during my last hospital stay quietly and apologetically told me that I would need to be induced. She explained the induction process to me, answered all of my questions, and then, with further regret filling her eyes, informed us that I would be induced that night or the night after. I attempted to buy us an extra day or two, but after consulting Mr. Lim, the doctor said I'd have to be admitted right away. A woman from the Day Assessment Unit came to speak to us and answer any questions, consoling me after I burst into tears as the concept of going into labour in the very near future sank in.
Crying seems to do wonders for me; my blood pressure dropped back down afterwards and my head felt a lot clearer. Paul and I were happy with the hospital's philosophy on induction so far: they realise that it's an unnatural process and they do not push it more than necessary. I would be given three doses of gel every six hours to get my cervix ready for labour and if that didn't work, they would leave me for 24 hours before attempting anything further. If my blood pressure was okay, I could even go home for those 24 hours. No one would be watching a clock with a harpoon in one hand waiting to leap in and break my waters, nor would they pounce upon me with an oxytocin drip. The doctor said that they prefer to let things happen naturally and intervene as little as possible. We were pleasantly surprised and hugely relieved.
Paul went home to pack my things and I settled into my room - my OWN room with a TV, even! The midwife strapped a monitor to me and as usual, Pip was doing splendidly and completely unaware that his beg debut was rapidly approaching. I knew that he wasn't quite ready to be born yet, so it came as no surprise when the midwife said my cervix was "completely unfavourable". She applied the first dose of gel but was fairly certain it would take a few doses to get things going. It stung, a bit like having a UTI, and I had to lie still for 30 minutes while we listened to Pip’s galloping and swooshing noises. Paul stayed until the "get the hell out, visitors" bell rang and I got settled into bed.
I feel a combination of fear and excitement, while part of my brain is refusing to think about the inevitable. I'm fairly calm at the moment (although I'm annoyed by the person who has been standing in the echoey corridor talking very loudly and singing. I'm hoping it's a new mother gone loopy rather than one of the midwives who are responsible for my health and wellbeing) and I don't expect things to really get heated until tomorrow night. I'm half expecting to be sent home for 24 hours.
So tonight I try to sleep as much as possible and think happy thoughts. Time for "The Simpsons", which is surely a sign that it's time to shut off my brain and put the pen down.
I slept a grand total of about 3 hours and was woken up at 6am with another dose of gel administered by the World's Dopiest Midwife. She said she'd do a membrane sweep and when I asked if she was successful, she mumbled "Erm...not sure..." Grand – thanks for poking my nether regions and hurting me for no good reason. The good news was that my blood pressure was still down and I had no traces of protein. The bad news was that the previous night's dose of gel hadn't accomplished anything and more gel was in the cards. By the time Paul arrived, contractions were coming fairly regularly but I knew that they were not the productive variety. They felt like period pains under my bump and a dull ache in my back, and they came every few minutes. A nice midwife from last night was back with me again for my noon gel dose, and verified that my cervix still wasn't open for business. The contractions subsided, I managed to get a bit of sleep, and Paul and I whiled away the afternoon. At 6pm, another midwife checked in on me and although my blood pressure was fine, the protein was back. We finally met and spoke to a consultant, the far less mysterious but very nice Mr. Hakim-Habeeb. He explained that I would get a 24 hour break, but unfortunately, the break would be in hospital because of the protein. On the plus side, at least I get to keep my private room and believe me, I'm going to take the sleeping tablets I declined last night. I will forgo the Horlick's - I'd never had it before and I decided to try it when the tea lady came the night before. Good lord almighty, it's the most vile hot beverage I've ever tasted. I'll stick to tea, thanks.
So the plan is to leave me for 24 hours, see if/how things progress tomorrow, and get another dose of gel at 6pm if necessary. Otherwise, my waters may be broken to get things going. I've had a few chats with Pip asking him if he could be so kind as to get ready to be born and help mummy have a nice, peaceful birth. I'm not sure if he understood, but he has been much wrigglier lately. I really am excited to see him soon; hearing all the little babies making noises throughout the night and seeing all the tiny wrinkled bundles being wheeled around in their cots is making me jealous.
In other hospital news, some dispstick has brought a horrible diarrhoea and vomiting virus to the ward two doors down. A person afflicted with the virus decided to come and visit his/her friend/relative in the hospital without being bright enough to realise that viruses are contagious. They have shut the ward down - here's hoping it doesn't sneak down the hallway to the maternity ward.
At one point, I thought my waters broke and the midwife who was on that night was so certain that I was going to go into labour that night. Unfortunately, my waters stayed put and my contractions eventually stopped. I'm still quite anxious, but feeling okay overall. I am hoping that my overpowering urge to get the hell out of this hospital will be enough to induce labour naturally. Hopefully, Pip will get the urge to flee, too.
This is a typical day for me in hospital: somebody wakes me up at an ungodly hour, takes my blood pressure, hooks me up to a foetal monitor for half an hour, has a good poke around and tells me that things are still "not favourable", applies gel, starts the foetal monitor back up again for another half an hour, and then the tea lady comes. A little while later, breakfast arrives, I take a shower, read the paper, Paul arrives with a delicious eggy cheesy bagel from home, we chat for a long time, the tea lady comes back again, lunch arrives, Paul goes home during "quiet time" from 1-2.30, returns afterwards with more real food (steak pies! Chicken pies!), another round of blood pressure/monitoring/poking around/gel happens, the tea lady (who by now knows exactly how we both take our tea) does another round, Paul and I wander around the hospital for a bit, we chat and read together, supper arrives, Paul leaves once visiting hours are over, I watch a bit of TV, the tea lady comes around one final time (at night, I opt for Ovaltine because it reminds me of my childhood), the drugs trolley does the rounds (renitidine for heartburn and a sleeping tablet for me, please), another blood pressure check, then I attempt to sleep. It sounds incredibly dull, but I'm actually feeling like a million bucks. For the first time, I have been forced to rest completely and do nothing, and it's been fantastic. Although the contractions are very uncomfortable, I no longer feel heavy and exhausted, and I can eat for England without heaving. I'm so hungry that even hospital food is bearable, and I've been taking luxurious naps in the afternoons. I feel relaxed, despite the situation. I feel extremely lucky that I can plan ahead; eating, sleeping, and drinking as much water as possible before I go into labour. Except that labour isn't happening and there's a small change in plans. Tomorrow, I'm having a c-section. I finally met the elusive Mr. Lim, who turned out to be a kind, soft spoken man. I’m told that my lack of progress means that the baby would have to be born by caesarean - once induction is started, the baby has to be born somehow. To cap it all, I’ve lost my private side room and have moved back in with the general population, which also happens to be in the bed across from Waynetta Slob (she shuffles apathetically down the corridor every few minutes to go outside for a cigarette).
With all the reading and research I've done over the past nine months, I neglected to learn much about caesareans. I suppose there's not much to do in preparation, it's a fairly passive procedure. I'm scared of having such major surgery and disappointed to have such a minor role in the actual birth. The lengthy recovery time and being unable to drive for six weeks worries me. I don't even want to think about the pain. The scar I can live with, it's not like I could wear a bikini pre-pregnancy and I'm a tad old for crop tops and low rise jeans.
On the other hand, I'm relieved. I knew that Pip wasn't getting ready to be born and I dreaded a long and painful labour that may have ended in a c-section anyway. One of the midwives thinks his head is too big to fit through my pelvis (this is likely the one and only time in my life that anyone will describe me as being "small framed") and predicts he'll be over 8 pounds. I won't have a risk of an episiotomy (something I dreaded knowing I wasn't going to get a water birth), haemorrhoids, and I won't know the pain of delivery and birth. Secretly, a small part of my brain hoped for a c-section as I got more anxious about the birth and possible intervention. We will know exactly when he'll be born and Paul won't have to massage me through several hours of labour. He still gets to witness the birth and cut the cord. I'm happy to learn that I will be able to go home on Friday (I always thought they kept you in for five days afterwards), but most of all, I'm thrilled to know that tomorrow morning, we will be parents.
I've got another three hours to stuff my face, drink lots of water, and have my Ovaltine before my "nil by mouth" requirement kicks in. In less than twelve hours, we find out when my surgery is scheduled. Then, after all of these months, we meet our little boy at last.
Like I'm gonna sleep tonight, even with the tablets.
I'm in "giddy nervous" mode; I appear relaxed and keep cracking jokes while making friendly banter with everyone, but on the inside I'm a wreck. Or more precisely, my brain refuses to think about the inevitable and is forcing my mouth to ramble on, drowning out reality. Another consultant comes to see me first thing in the morning, and I have to explain my entire history to him because he's not bothered to read my notes. He tells me that I will have a c-section, and is that alright? I just want to know when, and he says it'll be around lunchtime. Paul and I sit and wait until we're finally taken to the delivery suite. The ward is full and everyone is struggling to navigate around the beds without opening all the curtains. I am one of three c-sections scheduled this morning, so it's a full house in the recovery room. We meet Layla who will be my midwife for the afternoon, and as she speaks I realise that she must be the Canadian another midwife called Cosi told me about. I ask if she's from Toronto, and she says she's from Vancouver. "Ah, Cosi said you were from Toronto." "Cosi always does that - wherever in Canada you say you're from, she thinks that's where I'm from as well," she laughs. Layla is lovely, and we have a good long chat about Canada and living in the UK. She loves Peanut Butter Cups; we're kindred spirits. The anaesthetist comes to speak to me, and I sign some forms (the contents of which now escape me). It's time to go into theatre, so I've got to put on a fetching NHS gown and remove my contact lenses.
The theatre is bright, white, and pretty much what you'd imagine a theatre to look like except there's not as much stainless steel around as I'd imagined. Someone switches some music on, and it's "These Words". "I am NOT giving birth to Natasha Bedingfield", I said, but no one was paying attention. There is lots of friendly, pleasant conversation; it's all so terribly civilised. Everyone is very easy to talk to and I suspect they are experienced at making small talk to help keep things calm. My hand is numbed with an injection of something and the alarmingly large intravenous needle follows (but thankfully, I don't feel a thing). I sit up on the table and bend over forward so that the spinal block can be injected. I feel a sharp sting for a moment, but it's not that bad. The anaesthetist takes a "final bump" photo of us, then they wait for the spinal block to take effect. It's strange, I feel as though I shouldn't be able to breathe properly, but my lungs are filling without any difficulty. The anaesthetist runs an ice cube along my abdomen asking me to tell her when I can and can't feel it. My left leg doesn't feel as numb, so the table is titled around slightly to help the anaesthetic to "even out". When I'm finally all numb, they begin. More pleasant chitchat ensues, and I'm told that it might feel like someone's doing the washing up inside me. Although I feel the occasional pull and prod here and there, on the most part, I feel nothing. The consultant says that we will hear a gush and suctioning noise when my waters are broken (I don't remember hearing either, but Paul does). We're talking away while Paul's holding my hand, then the surgeon tells us that the baby's about to be born. Since they have put up a "screen" (i.e. they raised my gown up and over a bar just below my chin so neither one of us can see much), all I can see is the baby's bum as they raise him up. He lets out an almighty cry, and what they say is true - it really is the best sound you'll ever hear. "You were right, it is a boy!" someone says, and he's whisked away to be cleaned up and have the Apgar test. I turn my head, but I can only see a flurry of green gowns, latex gloves, and brief glimpses of my little red screaming baby. "What's his name?" the midwife asked. Paul turned to me and we smiled, knowing we are finally going to reveal his name for the first time. "Jack William", I said. Layla brings Jack to me and holds him close to my face. I touch his tiny nose and I start crying. The tears are coming so fast and I cannot stop crying; my glasses are filling up and I can't even see Jack anymore. I ask the anaesthetist to take my glasses and we spend a few minutes stroking and staring at our little boy. I'm still having a hard time accepting that this tiny being has just come from my belly. Paul takes a few pictures and Jack is weighed. "10 lbs! Another one! The last lady has a 10lb baby as well" the midwife says. The surgeon looks up from her stitching and says "Are you sure? Has the scale been zeroed? He didn't feel like a 10lb baby" and the midwife confirms that the scale's been reset. God, no wonder he felt so heavy during the last few weeks and this must explain why his head wasn't engaged (n.b. in the following weeks, we learned that the scales were wrong and Jack was likely closer to 8lbs at birth).
I'm lifted off the table back into my bed (I've actually had the same bed the entire time I've been in hospital) and I'm wheeled back to the recovery area. It's lovely and quiet now, there is just one other family next to me. Layla helps me feed Jack for the first time, and Paul goes off to get some things and spread the news to our family and friends. It's so strange, I cannot move my toes or legs and if I touch my belly, it feels like I'm prodding someone else. My bump has completely deflated and it's odd to see a "flat" tummy when only moments ago it was still massive. I can hear a little girl's voice saying that she wants to see the little boy baby, so I shout over the curtain that it's no problem if she wants to come over and see Jack. Her dad explains that she's never seen a boy baby before (her mum just had another girl) and she wanted to see if they look any different. Paul returns, the little girl's mum is wheeled to the postnatal ward, and the ward we're in is now completely quiet. As soon as my tummy rumbles (indicating that my digestive system is back in business), I am allowed some tea and toast. It's lovely - I joke to the midwife that I don't want to leave, but in actual fact, I would give anything to stay there and avoid the overcrowded, overheated postnatal ward.
A couple of hours have passed since Jack was born and I can now wriggle my toes and bend my knees slightly, so it's time to go back to Hazel Ward with all the other new mums. Every bed is taken and during visiting hours, it's absolute chaos. During "quiet time" each afternoon, all visitors must leave but the midwives and assistants make so much noise, that there is no actual quiet during quiet time. The woman next to me has the screamiest baby in the world and has pushed her bed and chair over so much that it's taking up the majority of what little space I've got. Luckily there is no bed to my left, but there are three other beds across from me with just a thin sheet separating us all. My mother in law and sister in law came to visit later in the afternoon (my sister in law was so eager to come visit that she practically grabbed my mother in law and shoved her in the car while it was still moving), and I babbled away at them in a morphine-induced stupor. I don't remember much about the rest of the day (a few days later I asked Paul if I was in a different bay at that point because I remembered being elsewhere when we had our visitors), but I do remember being surprised that I wasn't in a lot of pain. I'm hooked up to a catheter for the night (which the midwives neglect to empty often enough, which was the reason for the severe pains in my abdomen in the middle of the night), but on the plus side, this means I don't have to stagger out of bed to pee every few hours. There's a thing dangling from my right leg so that they can inject pain killers and anti-nausea medications into me more easily. The IV is still in my hand because someone decides that I need more fluids. I’ve got so many things poking into me that it’s impossible to get comfortable.
I can't move very much, so I need to ring for a midwife whenever we need anything which includes having to deal with Jack’s dirty nappies. As strange and crazy as this may sound, I'm disappointed that I miss out on his first meconium poo. I know, I know - but it's just that you read about it and friends tell you about it, but my only experience is hearing the midwife making comments about it from the other side of a closed curtain. Breastfeeding is going okay, I think. He doesn't latch on for very long and he doesn't seem hungry most of the time, which I later learn is common during the first 24-48 hours (then the "feeding frenzy" kicks in as he gets the taste for it, as one midwife explained it to me). The afterpains are really uncomfortable whenever I feed Jack; they shoot across my abdomen every time he latches on and they last the duration of the feed. I'm grateful for my nursing pillow (not only good for feeding but it keeps me propped up comfortably in bed), I'm grateful for the midwives at my disposal at the push of a button, and I'm still amazed that my scar doesn't hurt. It must be the drugs.
Jack doesn't wake very much through the night, but of course I get no sleep at all because I can't stop looking at him (and making sure he's still breathing). He's so precious and beautiful. I'm so elated that I'm blubbing away again. I cannot believe that he came from me and that he's ours to keep! Amazing.
The next day, one of the midwives’ assistants informed the c-section mums that we would be getting up and taking a shower. I was cut open less than 24 hours ago, for goodness sake. I imagine that as soon as I stand up, I'll split in two and my insides will come pouring out of a gaping wound. Apparently this is good for us, and we need to start moving around to help us heal. Okey dokey. Very, very gingerly I put my feet on the floor and tentatively put some weight on them. I am hunched over like an old lady, too afraid to pick up my feet so I shuffle them one centimetre at a time. As soon as I'm upright, the world starts spinning. The assistant gets a chair for me and tells me that maybe I'm not ready to move around yet. The combination of morphine and codeine is too much for me, and it's making me dizzy. I shuffle back to bed wondering how on earth I'm ever going to get myself to the bathroom (my catheter had been removed that morning). The lady across from me did manage to make it to the shower, however she too got dizzy and collapsed and hit her head. This is supposed to be good for us, right? Right. I've requested that I am not given any more codeine because it's making me feel dreadful, so 24 hours after surgery I'm only on paracetamol and ibuprofen...and amazingly, my scar still feels okay. I did manage to hobble to the loo later that day, and was surprised at how well I was able to move around once I gained a bit of confidence. A midwife checked my scar and commented on how good it looked, and encouraged Paul to take a look at it. Horrified and thinking that the midwife probably thinks it looks good because she's used to seeing blood and gore, I was floored when Paul said you could barely see the scar. I imagined a gaping wound sewn up with Frankenstein-like stitches, but when I inspected it myself in the bathroom mirror, it really was almost invisible. I washed away the dried blood (now that I knew it wasn't from scabs that were holding everything together) and stared at disbelief at the pale white line carefully tucked into the crease of my skin. Why doesn't it hurt?
The first day after the operation was the worst, probably because of all the drugs and the hormonal weirdness your body goes through after the birth. The next few days I felt exhausted, but my scar didn't really hurt much. How fantastic, I thought. I must be a tough cookie because I'm coping so well (as the midwives keep telling me) on over the counter pain meds. On the other hand, I'm terrified that they will make me stay in the hospital beyond Friday if a problem comes up - and there seems to be a hell of a lot of things that can keep you in hospital. My blood pressure is still continually checked, I keep getting asked how often and how long Jack is feeding (will they make me stay if he doesn't meet some secret quota?), I'm told that we must be seen by the paediatrician and the hearing test lady before we can go, blood is taken and my iron levels must be checked before they'll discharge me (the lady with the screamy baby next to me had to hang around for hours waiting for her results to come back), and so on. A couple of times in the middle of the night, my heart feels like it skips a beat, but I'm too afraid to tell anyone because they might make me stay here longer. Every time a midwife checks in on me, I put on my best smiley face and claim that I'm doing really well, thank you very much. On the inside, I feel like I'm going to lose my mind if I spend one more night in this hospital.
One afternoon, a wave of nausea swept over me. Oh god, I cannot possibly throw up; I might split in two. I ask a midwife to give me an anti-nausea injection and by the time she returns, I'm in floods of tears because I'm so fed up with being in this hospital bed and feeling like shit. On the Thursday, I'm asked when I want to leave, and I say "NOW." and the midwife laughs, thinking I'm being facetious. On the Friday morning, I'm asked again when I want to leave and this time, I must have a scary look on my face because the midwife practically runs away to fetch my paperwork. That morning I put on my street clothes after my shower, did my hair and make up, packed my bags, and sat on my bed and waited. The woman across from me (who had her c-section just a couple of hours before me and whose daughter wanted to see my baby boy after the birth) had a good laugh at my determination, in total sympathy with my desperation to go home. Just after 10am, I was cleared to go.
Paul picked up some biscuits and chocolates to leave with the midwives to thank them. Although some were awful, most were really wonderful and I was grateful to have their help during the first few days with Jack. I don't know how long it took me to shuffle from my bed to the car outside the hospital door, but I felt like the world would drop out from under me if I wasn't careful. My in-laws were waiting for us at home, Jasper came bounding up to the car and I panicked slightly. I feel so bloody delicate, so wound up and unable to process the reality of being back home. I cannot physically hold a conversation with anyone, so I hobble my way upstairs and attempt to sleep. At first, I savour the comfort and space of being back in our big bed. Then, I start crying and I'm not really sure why. I tell Paul it's because I'm so happy to be home, but it's not quite that tangible. Sleep is impossible; I can still hear the bingbingbingbingbingbingbing sound of the call bell that would sound throughout the day and night whenever anyone pushed their buttons for a midwife. Scenes from the past week play through my head relentlessly like a film that I can't shut off. I cannot relax, and I'm exhausted but I cannot sleep. I simply cannot switch gears from hospital to home mode.
Things get worse in the following days. My scar starts to become very sore (no one told me that when the anaesthesia finally leaves your system and the nerve endings start to heal, it fecking well hurts). Breastfeeding is exhausting, difficult, I can't position him properly without putting pressure on my scar, and I wince in pain whenever Jack latches on. I didn't realise that when a baby feeds every 2-3 hours, it doesn't mean that you get to sleep for a couple of hours in between - Jack wakes, takes 45 minutes to feed, and takes another hour to settle, which means I can only sleep for 15 minutes to 1/2 hour at a time. I cannot do much for myself, and I absolutely hate being this dependent on Paul. I can't lift Jack, I can barely move off the sofa, and I can't even sit up in bed without a struggle. Breastfeeding is painful and tricky when my milk first comes in and I'm engorged. As one midwife put it, it's like trying to suck a boiled egg off a wet plate. I've started expressing my milk to give myself a break, but sometimes I can only express an ounce or two at a time - or worse, I kill myself pumping enough for a full feed and Jack only takes a few sips and falls back asleep (and the milk then has to get dumped down the drain). When I feed him directly from the breast at night, he only feeds for five minutes and I can't wake him for the life of me. My stomach churns because I know that this means he'll be awake again in an hour or less screaming for another feed. I keep reading that breastfeeding only hurts if the baby is latching on improperly, but I struggle with a million different positions and they all still hurt. I use Lansinoh, I read all sorts of articles and books and attempt to get Jack to latch on like the babies in the pictures but it's impossible. It's ridiculous; I'm supposed to make sure his mouth is a certain angle to my breast, that his belly is against mine, and my nipple is not only fully in his mouth, but Jack is sucking on it properly - all while he's wriggling and screaming, I'm exhausted and in pain, and in the dark of the night. How pathetic am I that I can't do something that's supposed to be "natural" and "easy"? (Of course later I learn that almost everyone goes through this and I'm not at all pathetic for "failing" at breastfeeding, but this isn't the case at the time.)
I can't watch any TV shows that are set in hospitals or show surgery. I can't bear to watch the episodes of ER and Nip/Tuck that were recorded while I was in hospital. I feel very tense, like I'm always on the verge of a panic attack. The suddenly, one day, I feel a lot better. I read that your hormones take a nosedive around 5-7 days after the birth, which coincided with my peak in stress levels. Although no longer feeling panicky, I'm still exhausted and in a lot of pain. If I ever hear or read anything about how a c-section is an "easy option" for childbirth, I shall scream.
There are a few more tearful episodes (during painful feeds, when I'm exhausted and Jack cries and cries, the first time I gave Jack formula, etc.) but things gradually get better. Around two months after the surgery, I finally start feeling able to go out and about with Jack and I start to simply enjoy spending time with him. There are still some difficult moments, but they are few and far between. I still harbour some anger about Jack's birth - I don't think I had to go through the induction and I should have held my ground and refused - and I am still saddened about missing out on going through labour and birth. I can't watch any of those birth programmes on TV because I feel like I've been deprived of the birth experience. When I finally got around to unpacking my labour bag, pangs of disappointment prodded me as I put away the things I never got to use. I don't feel as if I've given birth, I feel like I've had a baby-ectomy; a surgical removal rather than bringing Jack into the world myself. I still have a hard time believing that this baby came from me sometimes. I am more determined than ever to avoid intervention the next time. Yes, there will be a next time even though I was convinced that I would never again go through the experience of life with a newborn after Jack was born.
Motherhood is 1% instinct, 10% common sense, and 89% flying by the seat of your pants. It's a huge change that nothing can prepare you for, and no one can tell you how you'll react to it. What got me through all of this was the incredibly overwhelming feelings of love and absolute wonder for my little boy. He's amazing and my life is a million times more meaningful now. I love my life with him and wouldn't have it any other way.
And maybe, just maybe, I will get that hippydippy water birth one day.