I think I had better write this now before it all fades into that dreamlike obscurity of all labours. They say you forget the pain, and it's true: you do. I have a diary entry (I think it's the only entry I made) from when the Badeggs Daughter was born 14 years ago talking about how much it hurt. But by the time I got pregnant with my son, I had a sepia-tinted picture of her birth, in which the pain wasn't really that bad.
On Monday the 18th of December, I had a false labour. I had woken up with fairly regular, though painless, contractions. By 7.30 we called the midwife (how lucky are we; she lives literally a minute's walk from our door) who examined me and found that I had almost fully effaced but was only just starting to dilate. Nevertheless, the contractions were regular and strong enough that she felt confident that labour would establish later that day. Mr B was due to give a talk in London about how people use online resources to search for information. It was a real career boon, but he had to ring up and make his apologies. Far better, he said, to miss the speech that to miss the birth of his first (and almost certainly only) child. The contractions lasted all day, getting stronger though still remaining fairly painless. At 8pm the midwife suggested a warm, relaxing bath. By 8.30 the contractions has eased off and by 10.30 they were gone entirely. We were so disappointed!
I was supposed to have been at work until the 20th, but by the next morning, I was again having bouts of contractions, so we made the decision that I shouldn't go back. if I went into labour at work in Kidlington, I'd be a long way away from Wallingford Maternity Unit and if it coincided with rush hour, well... SO I stayed home and waited. And waited. And waited. Nothing. Your sister drove me nuts asking me when I thought labour might start, whether it would be before Christmas, etc. She even talked to you through my belly telling you to get your buns out here!
At 4 am on Saturday the 23rd, I woke thinking that my waters may have broken (actually, I hoped it was that because the alternative explanation was that I had wet the bed!). I waited an hour and felt mild contractions again. I told Mr B but urged him to go back to sleep as I figured it would take a while for things to get started. I went downstairs to make a cup of tea and noticed some premixed pastry out on the counter. (I had intended to make some mince pies the day before but had forgotten and left the pastry out.) Still assuming it would take hours for contractions to really get going, if indeed this was the real thing, I started cutting out pastry circles for the mince pies at 5.10. At 5.15, standing in the middle of the kitchen, my waters broke for certain in a massive gush. I dashed to the downstairs loo and hollered to Mr B. The look on his face when I told him what had happened...I wish I had had a camera.
Contractions started immediately, two to three minutes apart and they hurt! We called Wallingford and agreed with the duty midwife that I'd have a cup of tea at home, get dressed and then come straight in. When we arrived at around 6.30, they showed us into a delivery room and the midwife examined me to find that I was again mostly effaced but this time 2-3 cm dilated. I had a bath which helped to slow the contractions a bit but when I got out they became relentless. I was hardly getting a break. I used Entonox (gas and air, or nitrous oxide) which helped for a bit but the contractions soon overtook its effect. I then had a shot of Meptid, which took the edge off but not enough. A second examination at 10.30 showed I was now fully effaced but no more dilated. At that point, I asked to be transferred to the John Radcliffe Hospital in oxford where I could have an epidural. Turns out that was a very good decision.
An ambulance took me to the JR (the most uncomfortable ride of my life) and we arrived at around noon. By then I had moved to 5-6 cm dilated, but I still opted for an epidural. By then I was in so much pain that I didn't even feel the needle go in.
By 2.15 I was fully dilated and the midwife, Erika Kirk, had me start pushing. To me, the pushing bit lasted, oh 15, 20 minutes. In reality, I was pushing for 2 hours before she called in a consultant. It's all a bit hazy now, but I know that they let me rest for 30 minutes to see if the contractions would help the baby descend a bit more, then I pushed until 6.15. At that point I was told that I would need a ventouse extraction. The baby was fine, but he needed help coming out. The consultant, a rather rough woman, said she would be able to do the procedure in the delivery room, as opposed to theatre, and she left the room to prepare. A few minutes a later, a kind looking man in scrubs came in and I was told that he was the big boss. I'm not sure why the change was made, but he was so much nicer than the woman that I was glad whatever the reason.
Dr Chowdhry examined me and said that the baby was in fact in a back to back (posterior) position. He thought ventouse was still an option, but he would have to attempt to manually turn the baby first. They would do this in theatre as there was a chance that I would need a Cesarean section if he was unable to turn the baby. My epidural was topped up: great in that I felt absolutely nothing from the waist down, but awful as it made me shake uncontrollably. The theatre itself was cold (even the staff thought so), which made the shaking worse. All of which conspired to convince my brain that I was scared (OK, I probably was a little scared anyway). Poor Mr B was escorted into the OR after all the preparation was done and walked in to the sight of me hooked up to various machines and at least 15 people milling about. He says that the fact that all the staff looked relaxed and not worried was the only thing that kept him from panicking.
Dr Chowdhry did his turning bit (this apparently involved two hands up my hoo ha at one point and giant forceps at another) and got the baby turned into the right position. I was told to push and felt the faint, painless sensation of something moving inside. A quick snip later and the head was born, followed closely by the body. And suddenly my son was lifted up at 7.02 pm, silent but a healthy pink that let me know he was OK (I asked anyway just to make sure). He was cleaned up while I was stitched up, and given straight to Daddy (I'm still miffed abut that; neither of my children had skin to skin time with me before being given to their fathers, though in these circumstances I understood why). Mr B tried to show him to me, but it was hard to get the right angle. Eventually, though, I finally got to see and kiss Rory. He smelled like lavender, a smell I've never much cared for until now, and had two stork bites on his scrunched up little face.
We were taken to an observation area when I was able to put Rory to the breast (he took to it tolerably well). Mr B and the Badeggs Daughter hung around for a couple more hours, parents were notified, and eventually I was taken up to a private room where I actually managed a few hours of sleep. I was discharged on Christmas Eve and home in time for Carols from King's College (one of my favourite Christmas Eve traditions).
Two weeks later, my stitches are healed and I'm hardly sore at all any more. I'm within 7 lbs of my pre-pregnancy weight and can fit into my normal size jeans as long as they have some stretch to them. Rory is growing well. Although he has colic in the evenings, which wears us out, the rest of the time he is a pretty chilled out baby. I could look at him all day long, and some days I do.
