I’m a scientist, my husband is an engineer. We like processes, numbers, checklists. So imagine my surprise when he leaned over during an NCT class and suggested we try a home birth. It seemed like a good idea: our soppy old dog could be part of the process, and we live a short walk from the hospital so could easily be transferred. And maybe the ability to control our environment was appealing.
Birthing pool inflated, computers shut down (yes, we both logged on to finish our projects when labour started), the long, mad night began. It was sort of ok until it became clear that the boy wasn’t coming out. Hospital transfer requested, although none of the midwives could actually get through and they ended up having to call 999 for me. Over an hour later (probably could have walked it in that time), we were transferred. Then, various miscommunications (‘just try pushing for another 10 min love’ repeated ad infinitum by different teams), missing staff, missing blood tests, finally relief: we’re giving you an epidural and pulling him out. Birth was no longer just my problem. To a soundtrack of cheesy pop, a small wriggly thing was born. Much hilarity in the theatre on hearing we will call him Albie: ‘have you seen Flight of the Conchords?’ A truly extraordinary day for us, on another ordinary day for the theatre team.
Off to the ward, surrounded by noisy people and staff, coming and going. Marvelling at the tiny being we have made, figuring out how he works, sending texts to family and friends, photos, toast, and wondering when I will stop bleeding. I politely ask for new sheets, don’t want to bother you but there is quite a lot of blood and it feels quite sticky. Husband notices the sheets being discretely weighed and numbers added to the chart. ‘Call us if it happens again love.’ It happens again. Would you mind awfully just getting me a clean sheet? More weighing, husband looks at the numbers and calculates how much I’ve got left inside, probably not really enough. Next time, press this bell immediately will you? It happens, I don’t want to bother them, they’re so busy, I can wait. Husband presses the bell for me. Curtains closed, bed undocked and suddenly we’re running down the corridors, Albie bundled alongside us.
We’re parked in a side room next to a theatre. Have some gas and air, I’m going to try and stop the bleeding, this might sting. I am literally fisted by a woman who has only just said hello. It is horrifying. Albie is crying, husband trying to calm him. I’m crying. Nothing has worked, so I need to go into theatre now. But the blood tests haven’t been done correctly, so now I have to choose between a general anaesthetic (safe, but recovery will be hard with newborn) or another epidural (might not be safe because we don’t know if the other one has worn off, shorter recovery though (if you ain’t dead)). There is a pink form. I need to choose which option and sign this consent form. Albie is still crying, I am still crying, I want time to talk it over. There is no time, I pick one and am whisked away. This is the point I lose control. I am utterly despairing: I don’t know where my baby is, I don’t know where husband is, I am so frightened that I will die when they need me. And I am no longer strong enough to bear it.
The doctors can’t help my head end, there is too much they need to deal with at the other end. The kind anaesthetist tries to talk me down, I ask them to make sure the curtain stays up – I don’t want to see three worried faces looking inside me. Then, in a great act of kindness, the registrar who delivered Albie stops by to check on me when her shift ends. She is able to talk to me, and promises to find Albie for me. She reports back, and I can pull myself together again. We chat, turns out we have some friends in common. With her small act of conversation, care and distraction, I am me again. The wailing creature has gone back inside. After this, the atmosphere lightens, they stuff me full of bandages, and it sounds like everything might be ok.
Wheeled out, eventually reunited (can’t remember when or where). I beg them to find husband a bed, he can’t leave us now (it’s somehow the next night).
We’re put in a small recovery room, husband on a terrible chair bed, me in inflating moon boots (for blood clots) and with multiple bags of other peoples’ blood going into each arm, Albie asleep in a cot between us. We stare at each other, desperate to sleep, but there is great trauma occurring in the adjacent bed, where another poor family is experiencing the miracle of birth. Please, let us sleep.
I am milked, Albie is fed, husband goes home to clean up the birth pool (and finds we had forgotten to cancel the cleaners, who have very discreetly folded up the blood-stained sheets and mopped around the pool full of body detritus). My best friend breaks in to the ward and tracks me down, bringing fruit and deodorant (what idiot packed my hospital bag? A book, seriously?). Moon boots are removed, and the long, long, long bandages pulled out of me like some kind of crappy magic trick. I eat, and they agree to release us from ICU. Upstairs, into a ward, but at least I get the window (FRESH AIR!). Then, the weird dance begins: feed baby expressed milk, write on chart, nappy, back to sleep, fetch breast pump from end of corridor, pump milk, return pump, pee (assuming I make it to the toilet, should have brought more PJs), try and sleep. Baby wakes, begin again. Periodically woken by various people demanding to view THE CHART, and woe betide me if I cannot immediately answer ‘how long since your baby last fed?’’. Secretly relieved when a ‘selfish’ lady moves in opposite and takes possession of the breast pump, because now I can save 10 minutes of shuffling down the corridor (and christ walking really hurts) and just wheel it between her cubicle and mine.
Utterly hate everyone else on the ward. The poorly baby in the bay next day (why is it crying so loudly), the lady opposite who snores, the lady next door whose baby breastfeeds instantly, the midwife who tells me off for keeping my milk out of the fridge, the lady opposite who already has three children and can just do it with her baby despite the others climbing all over her (why is she not crying in pain?), the doctor who insists we do some complex weighing/assessment process when I could be sleeping, the midwife who tells me something different to what the other one just said, the midwife who weighs him and finds we’re just below the weight threshold so cannot leave, the doctor who is worrying about jaundice, the midwife who brings the pills (but it still really hurts), the cooks who make the terrible food (this will not make people well). Husband is there as long as he can be (and so thankful this was pre-pandemic, with few visiting restrictions) and brings supplies daily. We get excited about my impending release and he gets the dog home, only for us to be banished back to the ward for failing another test. But it means that the feeding consultant is finally able to get to us (only three days late, poor overworked people) and instantly snips a tongue tie.
Finally, we are free. I curse our unsensible car with hard racing seats. First dog walk, on an exceptionally grey, dull January day, round the block, is the best walk I have ever been on.
From then, it gets easier. Feeding is still a challenge. I literally cry over spilled milk at midnight, worrying that there won’t be enough. But we drop in to a class and have a consultation with an amazing consultant who makes small amendments, and finally he can feed. I eventually stop bleeding, and soon I can walk again. Maternity leave is grey but ok, I meet nice people (and also some boring people), I walk the dog, I watch bad television. After 4 months, my friends are looking themselves again. One even runs a race (jealous).
I am still in immense pain every day, usually when I am alone, except for when I have to put a brave face on for the builder (yes, of course we’re having building work done with a small baby. We are a middle class cliché). Husband notices when we go away for a few days: how long has this been going on, why haven’t you told the doctor. I have: ‘childbirth is hard, I should know I’ve had three’. Thanks.
Husband breaks the no-googling-health-symptoms rule and finds others with my problem: sounds like a damaged coccyx. Ouch. I go back to the doctor (third time lucky) and finally have some sympathy (first male doctor: you remind me of my wife, she is also sporty and needs the outdoors for mental health too). I get industrial strength painkillers, and can now get through a day without crying.
I return to work part time, which is actually quite fun. It’s a hot summer, and I get to talk about things that interest me with people I like. I win a grant. I do my first solo trips. Albie and I fly to Seattle so I can give some science talks and we have a great family adventure, passing the baby between us as we go to different meetings. Albie charms the whole flight, and I only cry once when I can’t get a taxi. lo I go to Denmark solo, talk about science then have to milk myself in the conference hall sink. I head to the US alone, and Edinburgh with Albie (he poops in my colleague’s office).
Things are ok. I can run a bit, and am back on my bike and swimming. I decide to get a coil fitted. It might hurt, like a contraction. Albie comes with me, I smile and nod, mummy is fine. He naps, I double up in pain on the living room floor. But the builders are coming downstairs now, so I pull myself together. This was apparently the coil perforating my uterus and ripping its way through my insides. The coil strings are gone, so they prod me and scan me, then send me for an ultrasound. Your coil is lost, you need to do a pregnancy test. This sentence is really too absurd to take in. But I dutifully pee in the cup, and then return to the toilet floor to shake and cry. No one knows where the coil is, but the priority is alternative contraception right now (is it?). They give me the mini pill, and tell me they’ll book an MRI.
Work isn’t fun anymore. I’m locking myself in the toilets most days, small stresses tipping me over the edge, and suddenly I’m back in the ward with the pink paper, being asked to choose how not to die. The wailing beast is out again. Husband feels very, very far away, like the world is a bit foggy. I’m very tired. I wonder if I took all of those excellent painkillers the nice man doctor gave me, would everything just stop for a bit?
I didn’t. And I realised that that was not a normal thing to think. Help please. And so the administrative nightmare of getting mental health support began. Oh, would you like a support group for postnatal depression? It’s on Tuesdays, bring your baby. No, we don’t have any sessions outside working and nursery hours. No sorry, you’re not eligible for that support because it’s been over a year since your baby was born. A doctor friend tells us about a birth review. We try the hospital, no joy. Then remember the kind registrar: through our mutual friend, we track down her email address. Birth review happens, it is clear I’m a mess. They refer me to the mental health team.
They find the coil, I need surgery to extract the bastard. I get a letter, then cancel a field trip I am leading, rearrange all my work for three weeks. The day before, I phone to ask how long I will be in, what do I need; oh this is just an assessment love, we don’t know when the surgery will be. I meltdown again, they check my notes (crazy this one) and agree to put me to the top of the list. Holes are made, coil out, physical recovery starts all over again. Mental recovery continues: my therapist is a miracle worker. I am me again. And three (nearly four) years later, I can bike, I can run (badly, sometimes still piss myself), I can swim, and I understand me better. And Albie is a champ, husband is a great dad and partner. And the old dog lives on.
The moral of the long sorry tale? There were many parts that shocked me. A strange disconnect between wanting control but really wanting someone to tell me what to do. Relief when it wasn’t my problem any more. Anger that we had to use our middle class sciencey connections to get help when I needed it. Frustration that I ran out of steam to get more physical help (coccyx still not quite right). And bafflement that no one tells you the horror stories. There’s a sort of omerta: but actually, a few bad news stories might have helped prepare me for the decisions we had to make. But who knows, everyone is different.
