BUT HE WASN’T EVEN THERE! - The birth story of Elsa Charlie.

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.