It took
us 6 months to conceive Elsa, and by the time that little plus sign
had finally appeared on a pregnancy test, I had everything worked out in my
head. I knew what I would do differently and what worked for us the first time,
and I knew exactly how I wanted my birth experience to be.
I didn’t
want to be induced, I didn’t want to be medicated, I didn’t want to be hooked
up to a drip, I wanted to be free to walk around, I didn’t want an episiotomy,
I wanted to delay cord clamping and I wanted to hold her in my arms as soon as
she was born.
But as we all know, things don’t always work out as we plan.
On the
evening of May 18, 2012, my Braxton Hicks contractions started to intensify. I
had been having them on and off for weeks, so by this stage I was well and
truly over them, and I shrugged them off.
I was skyping with my dear friend Sarah at the time, and she started to monitor
my contractions for me. They became regular and so bad I had to stop what I was
doing and put my head on the desk - it felt like waves of a migraine.
“Call your
midwife!” she urged me. “Better to be safe than sorry!”
I
replied, “No, it’s just Braxton Hicks. I don’t want to be the lady that goes
into the hospital thinking she’s in labour and is laughed out of the maternity
ward. If it’s the real deal, I’ll know. Besides, my mum flies in tomorrow and I
have to pick her up from the airport!”
I said
goodnight to Sarah at about 10pm, popping some painkillers and hopping into
bed, figuring that if I was in fact going to have this baby soon, I may as well
be well rested for it.
I was
warm and snuggled up under the covers by the time the contractions started up
again. I resumed timing them and discovered they were fluctuating from 6 to 7
back to 6 minutes apart and still as painful as ever. Every time I started to
drift off I was woken by another powerful stab to the uterus. I was starting to
become frustrated. I was tired and cranky and I wanted to sleep, if only these
ridiculous Braxtons would disappear for a while!
My mantra
had always been “if you can sleep through them, they aren’t the
real thing”, and I definitely wasn’t getting any sleep. I decided to
call the birthing suite and speak to a midwife.
The conversation was brief, I contracted twice during it, and was told to come
in as soon as I could with all of my bags so they could monitor me and maybe
give me some painkillers so I could sleep.
Remembering
that my nail polish was chipped and horrible, I quickly tracked down the polish
remover and scrubbed them spotless. I knew at the time how ridiculous it was to
make that a priority but for some reason my stomach grossly bubbled at the
thought of giving birth with disgusting nails.
I put all
the bags in the car making sure I had my phone, iPod and two cameras, showered,
and went to wake Mick and Mally. At this point the contractions were so painful
I was in tears.
The ride
to the hospital was the longest of my life (and I’ve driven from Sydney to
Brisbane!). Every bump felt like the entire car was being smacked against the
seat of my pants and every little driving mistake Mick made frustrated me
(“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING YOU MORON THAT IS A SPEED BUMP SLOW
D-OOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWW I HURTS MAKE IT STOP I’M SORRY I LOVE YOU BUT OWWW!”).
We got to
the hospital at a quarter to 3 in the morning. They hooked me up to monitor my
contractions and checked my cervix.
“You’re not in labour yet,” the midwife concluded. “You’re only one to two
centimeters dilated. You and your partner can stay the night, we can give you
some painkillers so you can get some sleep, but this baby won’t be coming
today.”
Mick
decided to take Malorie home and pop her back in bed, as it was now almost 6 am
and she hadn’t slept since we woke her three hours prior. It was still days
before my EDD and we were counting on my mum being there when I went into labour
to watch Malorie, so we called upon Mick’s sister Kim to watch our little one
instead.
Not long
after Mick left the contractions again became unbearable. I still hadn’t
slept since 7am the previous morning, and I was groaning and moaning and curled
up on my side. One after the other again and again they came, each wave
punching me in the depths of by body harder than the last. I was so crippled
with pain that I couldn’t even reach the buzzer to call in a midwife, but my
moans alone made sure she heard me.
“Oh,”she
said. “It’s nothing. They just feel like they’re on top of each other because
you’re here alone and you’re worried your partner won’t make it back here to be
with you. It’s all in your head, sweetheart. Just breathe and try and sleep.”
“I’M T-T-T-TRYING
T-T-TO. I JUST W-W-WANT TO GO TO SLEEP,” I stuttered, trying to both regulate
my breathing, and stop myself from swiping at the smug woman standing before
me.
She told
me to calm down and left the room again.
All of a
sudden my bladder felt like it was bursting at the seams. I slowly sat up,
swung my legs over the side of the bed and stepped into the bathroom.
I stood in front of the toilet and started to sit, stopping a few centimeters
short before standing straight again. I repeated this a few times before coming
to a conclusion: I had to push.
I slowly
took out my phone and snapped one last bump photo (priorities: I have them) and
hobbled back to bed. I called the midwife again and, once more, was told it was
all in my head and to absolutely not push.
“I don’t
WANT to push!” I yelled at her, boiling with anger. “I want to wee and I want
to sleep, I absolutely don’t want to
push. You know what happens when you push? YOU HAVE A BABY. AND I AM TOO TIRED
FOR THAT SHIT.”
The
midwife wasn’t impressed, and was all too happy to swap over with another
midwife, Marie, who was much, much nicer than her.
Marie listened to me when I repeated over and over that I was tired and I
needed to wee and I JUST WANT TO WEE AND THEN SLEEP, and offered to insert a
catheter so I could empty my bladder. She got everything ready and when she
went to insert it, I had another contraction ending in the urge to push. I
fought the urge and she watched, deciding that I was right all along and I
should have definitely been pushing (duh).
I
gripped the mattress firmly as I pushed. It gets a little TMI here (but also
hilarious) so if you’re going to judge me you’d best stop reading now.
“AM I
SHITTING?!” I yelled at Maree, mid contraction.
“No,
Jess. You’re doing great.”
“But am I
shitting? I feel like I’m shitting!”
“No,
you’re not. Push!”
“MY
FRIEND WAS TOLD SHE DIDN’T SHIT BUT SHE DID.”
“Jess!
Listen to me, I promise you’re not, you’re about to bust your waters so that’s
how it feels, you’re doing so well!”
“I can
handle it you know. You can tell me if I’m shitting, because I know it’s
natural to shit during cildbirth. AM I SHITTING?!”
“JESS YOU ARE NOT SHITTING. I PROMISE. LOOK, I’LL CHECK. NOPE NO SHIT. YOU’RE
NOT SHITTING, JUST CONCENTRATE ON PUSHING!”
Then POP.
My waters broke all over me and the warmth was weirdly comforting. The urge to
wee went away, and I felt good. I was high.
I pushed
twice more and out came Elsa’s head. One last push sent Elsa out into the world
and onto my chest, and I laughed.
I laughed because my midwife and I had sworn back and forth at each other, I
laughed because I was almost that girl that didn’t know she was having her
baby, and I laughed because after all of that I was finally holding my smallest
girl in my arms. Then I cried.
“She looks
just like her sister!” I sobbed, even though she didn’t. Then: “I’m going to
kill him. I’m going to kill him!” followed by: “Oh but she looks just like her
sister! Oh my baby!” and “I am GOING TO KILL HIM HE SHOULD HAVE BEEN HERE!”
I passed
my placenta and waited as Elsa was cleaned up and handed back to me. It was at
that moment that Mick walked into the room, at first oblivious to the fact that
I had just birthed our second daughter. When he saw us there together his eyes
welled with tears.
“I did
it,” I sobbed. “She looks just like Mally and you weren’t here and it happened
so fast and I did it.”
I had
gotten my drug free, intervention free, complication free birth.
And I did
it almost all by myself.
The Deathly Hallows symbol was a given, but it took me a couple of sketches to decide where to place it. You can see the white eyeliner marks pointing out the failed placements in the instagram photo above. Protip: buy tailor's chalk or use a white pencil if you try this at home. I was ill-prepared and had to makedo with what I had and while it's easy to wipe off, the proper materials would have been easier.
