It was a cold and frosty night...that's how lots of stories start and its sort of how my child birth story starts.
My son was born on 30th November 2016 at 12:39pm. My "birth plan", although never really formalised, was a water birth. Following on from NCT classes, which talked about staying calm during labour, I thought a water birth would be great as I loved being in the water, especially in the later stage of pregnancy. I went into labour on 29th November at 12:00pm on the way home from the supermarket. I rang my husband and he came home from work. We had a quiet afternoon, timing contractions on one of those apps, we watched a film, had a lie down and had a big meal of pasta ready to tackle what was to come. As the contractions got stronger, I paced up and down the house, whilst my "upbeat labour" playlist went on in the background. Just after midnight, we went to the hospital on what was "a cold and frosty night".
We got to the hospital and I wasn't far along at all. (2cm!!) I accepted some pethidine (not in my birth plan) and a bed on the ward. Several hours later I was 7cm. Hurray for me! I was rocking this. Time to move to a delivery room and get in that bath. And so I did with the gentle sounds of my "relaxing labour" playlist in the background. I was calm, doing what came naturally, concentrating on one contraction then the next with the gas and air clutched in my hand. Soon, the midwife reminded me what it was all for. "You'll meet your baby soon". "Of course!" I thought. I was so busy concentrating I almost forgot what I would get at the end of this. An hour and a half later of pushing and nothing. No baby. It was mid-morning. There was nothing in the tank. My husband tried to encourage me to find something to keep going by offering me some Jaffa Cake (part of our "lets pack high energy snacks for labour - like there was time for that! Like I was hungry!). "I need some help" I said. I knew you could only push for 2 hours until there would be intervention and I clearly wasn't getting anywhere.
After a brief, blurry trip in a wheelchair from the birthing unit to the delivery suite of the hospital I was surrounded by people. Doctors, nurses, midwives and goodness knows who else. A doctor kept telling me "we're going to help you get the baby out" to which I would respond "so you're going to get the baby out?". I felt as though we had that conversation several times over whilst a midwife held my hand, another nurse put a drip in my other and the world (and his wife) seemed to examine me. Then the doctor administered some anaesthetic and a few seconds later I had a weird sensation. "What was that?", I said. "Your baby". And then there he was, a bundle of warmth on top of me. I was elated that he was here and he was okay, albeit with a nasty bruise on his head. He was a ventouse delivery but what I hadn't realised until then was that my son, in his eagerness to see the world for the first time, had delivered face up instead of face down. Babies are born face down for a reason. If face up, the circumference of their head is much wider and thus if they don't come out this way they do damage.
I was soon to hear the words "third degree tear" and would become very familiar with them over the next 9 months. After a few minutes holding my son, I was taken to surgery to remove the placenta which hadn't delivered and to repair the damage done during delivery. It was as I lay on the table in surgery that I realised that things were pretty serious. I was meant to be enjoying moments with my boys - my husband and son - my new family - the three of us. But here I was, legs akimbo, exhausted, thirsty with wet hair (a mixture of water from the pool and my own "waters" (them having broken in there too - eeegh!)) surrounded by medical staff. It was not what I had pictured. I felt angry. This wasn't how it was meant to be.
A few hours later and I was finally reunited with my son. I'd been worried. He would be hungry. Then there was skin-to-skin to think about. They lay him next to me and he cuddled in. It was okay. He knew me and the tiny feet that used to kick me from the inside were now kicking me on the outside.
Afterwards, it was explained to me the nature of what had happened and why. It was a third degree tear, I would need to be on a high fibre diet to avoid any straining down there as I had stitches, I'd lost lot of blood so would be on iron supplements, I would need antibiotics to prevent infection too. It would be painful and I would need painkillers. I'd need laxatives too. Wow. Who knew that could happen? What I didn't quite realise then was that it would be a long road to recovery. I would need to be patient but that's hard when you have a new baby and need to be a Mum. Internet research didn't seem to offer me much help or comfort and that's why I started this blog. I didn't know anyone who had been through this and I felt very much alone. I felt every other new Mum I knew was up and about, healthy and getting on with things whilst I could barely walk. And so I want people in a similar situation to know that you are not alone, others have been through this and it does get better. Welcome to "Love in the Third Degree".
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