So, there I was, twenty hours into labour and being
told the baby was breech. My first thought was “bloody hell”, my second thought
was “my sodding midwife”, and my third thought was “thank Christ for that, my
vagina is saved”, in that order. This meant that I promptly burst into tears
and then recovered myself in very quick succession. I was told that there was
no chance of manually turning the baby as my waters had broken (wouldn’t have
done that anyway, sounds awful) and my options were to have a C-section or
attempt delivery. I think I’d opted for a section before the doctor had even
finished her sentence.
After that everything sped up. I was taken to a
room on a different floor, where an earnest anaesthetist explained the risks of
the operation and the anaesthetic. I tried manfully (womanfully?) to listen
politely, but by this point my contractions were coming every two minutes and
it felt like my womb/pelvic floor was transforming into some kind of Iron
Maiden. Periodically I had to walk away from the conversation and pace around
with my face all scrunched up, before coming back to do some more Intent Listening.
I think I signed a form, and then I was asked when I last ate. The advice
before a planned section is to eat and drink nothing – i.e. precisely the
OPPOSITE of what you do to prepare for a natural delivery. So I had to tell
them I had eaten an entire take away pizza and drank two litres of Highland
Spring almost directly before coming to hospital (shout out to V.I.Pizza in
Brighton, it was very delicious). Then I had a minor freak out because, as well
as eating and drinking too much (the consequences of which were never explained
or, indeed, apparent) I also had to take out all my body jewellery. My belly
bar had not suffered from being attached to a pregnant tummy, but I suffered
when my nervous clammy hands couldn’t get the bugger out. In the end I had to
get C to do it, which he did with his usual brilliant efficiency. Though
obviously he wasn’t 21 hours into labour at the time. Just a side note.
I gowned myself in a toilet, with C’s help, and
came shuffling out with my bottom out, as you always do in hospitals. I was
worried I would continue to have my waters break all over the floor as we
walked to surgery, but I was reassured by a lovely nurse who was busy telling
me exactly what the anaesthetist already had about the operation and the risks.
We got to surgery which was full of smiling, efficient, and generally bloody
brilliant NHS people bustling about looking reliable. I sat on the bed and was
prepped for the local anaesthetic, which you have injected into your back in a
regular size needle. This paves the way for the bigger needle which goes into
some pocket near your spine somewhere and deadens you from the boobs down. This
was a real low point – I was sitting on the bed with no pants on, having a
contraction, trying to lean forward enough that my lower back would curve a bit
and give the anaesthetist a nice prominent bit to inject. And I Could. Not. Do.
It. I have known from yoga lessons of yore that I make a better table than a
cat, and I couldn’t get the requisite part of my back to curve at all.
Eventually he just ploughed on, and I squeezed C’s hand obscenely hard as the
local anaesthetic went in. It felt like a fizzy metallic bee sting and it was
really horrible, especially when it didn’t work and then I could feel the big
fat needle doing its business, before being given the local again. However, I
know anaesthesia is a miracle of the modern world, and I would of course deal
with a million bee stings / needles if it meant getting the baby out safely
(and protecting my vagina, of course).
After that I was tipped over into a lying position
and the bed was tilted (you can’t lie on your back when heavily pregnant). It
was a very strange and destabilising feeling – or lack of feeling, in the case
of my legs. The nice anaesthetist gave me a cannula and squirted my sides with
cold air to ascertain that the all sensation was gone. He told me the surgeon
was pinching my tummy hard with some big metal pincers and asked if I could
feel it. I said no, and remarked on how lucky we were not to be in medieval
times with no access to great medicine (I think the drugs sent me a bit funny).
He remarked that what was going on behind the curtain looked pretty medieval to
him, which I thought was very witty. It turns out that in an operation the
anaesthetist is your best friend because they stay by your head the whole time,
monitoring you, while everyone else is behind the curtain. This means that a
nice reassuring and friendly one, such as this guy, is a real blessing.
Brilliantly, it was now so close to midnight that
we were asked what birthday we’d like our daughter to have. Within five minutes
she was out, with a minute to spare, and I could hear her cry for the first
time. The surgeon asked if I was ok at that point, because I was doing some
very strange breathing, but I told her it was just very emotional. Immediately
after that M was being held above the curtain, Simba-style, for inspection. All
I really saw was a giant wailing mouth and scrunched up little eyes in a very
red face, but nevertheless it was the coolest thing I have ever witnessed. She
was taken off for her Vitamin K, and from across the room one of the nurses
cheerfully announced that she had done a wee and a poo (the baby, not the
nurse). C went to cut the cord with what he described as ‘children’s safety
scissors’ – apparently it requires more of a sawing action than you might
expect – and then tthe baby was wrapped in a towel and bought over to me.
I had my hands on my chest, wth a cannula on the back of one, and I didn’t feel
able to take her. Instead I stroked the top of her head and looked at her, and
at C, in wonderment. Apparently, it took 40 minutes to stitch me up, but it
felt like no time at all.
Unlike the recovery, but we will deal with that in
the next instalment…
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