Somewhere I still can’t believe I have one to tell. I feel too lucky. I’m gradually allowing that heightened fear I’ve carried for 38 weeks, 34 weeks since RD passed away, ebb away. Because his brother is here, all Ray Harryhausen animatronic startles, peach fuzzy haired and pink skinned. Long fingers, legs and toes. The D cupid bow lip.
But before I gush hormonally about this bittersweet euphoria, I need to go back to last Tuesday. Last Tuesday when I erupted into tears on the maternity assessment unit, and they wouldn’t stop. The day I told them I couldn’t do this anymore. I couldn’t carry the responsibility of keeping another child alive on my own any longer. I needed to meet him. I was climbing the walls with anxiety. I had spent another sleepless night obsessing over movements.
My consultant the previous Friday, the Friday where we weren’t sure if a baby would arrive before Wolf would finish the marathon, was so sure I would go into labour naturally. Unfortunately this meant she hadn’t updated my notes thoroughly enough to say that if labour didn’t come, I was to be induced. And now she was on leave.
At first, I was kindly told that I had to think of the baby’s needs. That if he wasn’t coming yet, it wasn’t his time. I appreciate what they were trying to say, but that nail hammered in my heart was enough. That mere question that I could be putting my own needs above the health and wellbeing of my child. So I channelled my tears, and the billions of hospital hours I have clocked up since 2010, and calmly presented the facts. The core being that I was physically and mentally exhausted. That was more of a risk to labour and my unborn child.
At this point, I cannot praise the attitude of the hospital more. They listened, rechecked my notes, escalated the situation and we came together with a plan. Another stretch and sweep administered, and a plan to induce me on Thursday.
Wednesday was just Wednesday. I feel I need to tell you that for continuity.
So, Thursday. I had to call in the morning for them to allocate me a time to come in. I already knew that after a chat about the ‘condition’ of my cervix, favourable apparently, that the most likely plan would be to break my waters and see what transpired itself. I googled Artificial Breaking of Membranes (ABM), and when told to go in at 1pm, arrived armed with questions.
I’d been induced with DD in the days of Propess and consider that a successful labour. But you know how they tell you every labour is different? Probably REALLY should have considered that. But I had no fear of labour, and didn’t really care to plan for it- that was a little silly with hindsight- the fear was just getting to the other side of it.
We agreed that once the labour ward was ready, I’d move there and check again, but I’d allow to start with the ABM. I was moved over at around 3.30, settled in, and by 5pm the attempt to break my waters began.
Big crochet hook. Little crochet hook. A lot of ferreting around. Baby had his hand up by his head and actually plugged the hole with his finger. You couldn’t make that up. I felt quite violently assaulted by this point. But then the dam was released by the little Dutch boy and suddenly I was sitting atop a patchwork of conti sheets on my birthing ball in paper pants, expecting to endure this indignity probably at least overnight.
Now, I’d gone in planned for things to take some time. Books, magazines. Mid way through an article about an ex Big Brother contestants 50 sausage a day habit I had my first contraction. And then another 3 minutes later. I suspected at this point my plan was a little off.
By 7pm I’d texted my mum. In the half an hour she took to arrive I was chugging on gas and air and climbing the bed. From this point on any lucidity or control I had on the situation was gone. I’d had a brief chat about pethidine but it just seemed as though things were moving too quickly and in the blistering white heat of pain I couldn’t make the call. This was a mistake. The pain only intensified and I felt completely ripped apart.
This, combined with the fear I carried, meant that apart from the transition period where I felt my mind explode with the other world, I was mean and sweary. The air was blue. I called the midwife a f*cking c*nt (I’m not entirely sure why). I told them my baby was dying when the monitors fell off as I crawled round the bed, jackknifing. The monitors screaming through the fog.
“Get off my f*cking nightie!!!” As they attempted to salvage my dignity.
It was all too fast. Apart from the pushing. Being out of control of my pain meant ultimately I was resisting pushing effectively. That and he has quite a big head. An hour in, I needed to swear less and accept help. In the end that help was a catheter and a foot on each midwife apiece’s hip.
The bowling ball of fire quickly appeared at the foot of the bed, screaming. I’ve never really understood how a fast labour could be shocking, but now, I know. I was incredulous that in 5 hours I’d gone from ‘ooh is that a contraction?’ to watching this little fish at the foot of the bed flip and flounder.
As I lay back with him in my eyes, taking in his hot little form, the room came swimming back to me. I was being stitched and yet suddenly it was painless. I apologised to all, profusely. They were all remarkably lovely if not a little battle scarred.
Wolf and I had earlier known which name was coming up trumps in our shortlist, but decided to just take one last chance, see if it sat right whilst gazing at this baby. This baby we barely dared to believe would ever be a reality. And it was. Barnaby Summers had arrived in an untimely timely fashion.