My partner and I began the usual armoury of tests and were offered the enigmatic diagnosis of ‘unexplained infertility’. On the morning of our first hospital appointment to begin IVF proper – the injections in the bum, legs in the air stuff, I was in equal parts speechless and ecstatic to see the first ever blue line on my pregnancy test. Wee still fresh on the stick, I called the clinic in a fluster to ask whether we should still come in. No, of course not! Of course!? I genuinely couldn’t believe it. The much-longed-for bean was in there, taking root. But after such a stressful journey, month after month of gut-wrenching disappointment, staring a childless future in the face, I was convinced I would miscarry. Sadly, several of my friends had been through this devastating ordeal in the recent past, and it felt like an inevitable fate.
Not wanting to ‘jinx’ my pregnancy I tried not to acknowledge it at all, shoving my inner excitement back into its bottle and using all my will to avoid the lure of teeny baby clothes and ‘What to expect...’ books. I remained in denial until 24 weeks - the time when the bean is no longer a bean, it’s viable. As a consequence I didn’t take a single photo of my pregnant body until right at the very end - which in hindsight I sorely regret.
Despite my doom-mongering, it was a happy, healthy pregnancy, although towards the end I suffered ‘symphysis pubis dysfunction’, aka pelvic girdle pain, a temporary but severe pain associated with mobility in the hips. Even the short walk from the station to my house became an insurmountable marathon, my joints searingly painful under my bulging weight. I could only take ridiculous tiny steps, and even then, only a few metres. For the first time in my life I became genuinely dependent on the car.
For an active person, used to pacing it everywhere (I literally never took the bus) this was my first taste of life with a mobility impairment. The limitations of my pregnant body were unnerving and left me feeling vulnerable – like a sitting duck at the mercy of ‘the public’. My relationship with the city I loved shifted. No longer the independent femme flaneur, striding between metropolitan spectacle and shameless urban gratification, I was now cowed by the leash of my painful legs and restricted bladder. I succumbed to staying at home and putting my feet up, comforted by the knowledge that I’d soon be up and about again once the baby was out. I resigned to my fate of enforced relaxation at home, and finally gave myself permission to enjoy my pregnancy before the arrival of baby-geddon*. (We had nick-named the unborn baby ‘Chaos Nitro’, in anticipation of how our lives were about to be blown upside down.)
My waters broke in the middle of the night, when I was already 9 days overdue (overdue days are like bonus days – I submitted my tax return early, achieved inbox zero and the house was spotless – for the last time since). After some pleading to let nature take its course, I was persuaded that waiting for labour to kick off was not a safe option, and agreed to an induction. As is often the case, induced labour progressed rapidly and was unbearably painful. After several agonising hours of delay, I was eventually given the epidural I’d been begging for. An indescribable euphoria of pain-relief washed over me, and overwhelmed with exhaustion, I fell asleep. But when they tuned on the hormones to re-start contractions, each one caused the baby’s heart to almost-stop. In my drug-induced state, I was blissfully unaware of how serious things had got, but the panic on my partner’s face and the hasty arrival of the crash team told another story.
They whipped me into theatre, and I felt an odd yanking sensation in my abdomen, before my tiny baby was lifted over the sheet, looking for all the world like a slimy swamp monster. He was rushed off for obs, but he came straight back for his first cuddle – and so began the love affair. In the post-natal ward I remember feeling sorry for all the other mums, because my baby was so much cuter than others…(wince)
After a C-section, you can’t lift anything, and as the epidural wears off the pain sinks in. It meant feeding the baby was excruciating; my partner had to hoist me on pillows and help position the baby on the boob, avoiding my massive wound. Despite my protestations, they took my catheter out before I could stand up, so I kept wetting myself. An indignity (there are so many during pregnancy and birth, I’ve lost count) I could have done without.
After 3 more noisy nights on the ward, I hobbled home to my own bed where I resolved to stay put until I felt better (about a week, as it turned out). I had to inject myself every day, and wear these tight socks for 2 weeks to prevent DVT after the C-section. Showering was low on my list of PP priorities. It was not a glamorous time. But my new love affair kept me distracted, and at least I figured, no pelvic floor issues for me – my birth canal had mercifully been spared the strain of pushing and crowning. But no. I soon discovered that coughing or laughing now triggered yet another indignity. And those massive maternity pads served a useful secondary purpose.
I was also surprised how long it took me to walk properly again. After 2 weeks, I could leave the house, but only if I was driven. After 6 weeks, I made it round the block – as long as I had the buggy to lean on. After 3 months, up the hill and round the local park. At 5 months I attempted a run. What I had not realised is how much one relies on a strong pelvic floor for running, and mine was shot.
Panicked, I sought help from my GP, and was offered a (single) post-operative physio session. They gave me some invisible squeezing exercises (basically, holding in a fart) which I soon forgot to practise. Things got no better until at 8 months PP I enrolled in a mum and baby Pilates class where the kind teacher had a prod around and confirmed that I was suffering from the terrifying-sounding ‘diastasis recti’ (the partial or complete separation of the rectus abdominis, or ‘six-pack’ muscles, which meet at the midline of your stomach). My middle section was literally a jelly. No sit-ups for me, just more squeezing, but this time I stuck with it. Despite Pilates and weekly yoga, it took until lockdown almost 3 years later and daily Joe Wickes sessions before I regained enough core strength to do a sit-up. Had I lived in France, pelvic floor rehabilitation would have been part of the standard PP offer of care, but here there seems to be a reliance instead on TENA Lady (other urinary incontinence products are available), to manage the symptoms rather than treat the core (sorry) issue.
New mums seem hell bent on divulging all the gory details of their ‘delivery tales’ in a kind of masochistic bonding exercise, so I soon discovered that my birth story, with its narrow skirting of disaster and a sprinkling of mild trauma, was pretty standard. It seems that giving birth is rarely the natural or spiritual experience it’s promised by the earth mothers of Instagram. One friend’s birth was so traumatic she was even treated for post-partum PTSD, which I now know is not uncommon.
In some ways the greatest shock for me came with the sudden and almost complete loss of independence that being tied to a new baby encompasses; I felt like I’d completely lost my old identity. Who even was I anymore? With no family on hand to help, the realisation that my time would never again be my own, and simple pleasures like going out for a meal would need to be planned with military-level precision, hit me like a blow.
These feelings didn’t go away overnight, but they eased and morphed as I reclaimed my (new) identity (and that’s to say nothing of the sudden invisibility that you face as soon as you’re pushing a buggy). Overall I feel very lucky. 5 years on, my son’s at school, my body is stronger than ever, and despite the inevitable loss of freedom that comes with motherhood, I look back on the rollercoaster of pregnancy and the baby years with nostalgia. I can even go running without giving my pelvic floor a second thought.
* baby-geddon was pretty accurate, but he turned out not to be ‘Chaos Nitro’, but a cheerful little guy, a good sleeper blessed with good health and a perfect smile (but I would say that)
