Giving birth to a dinosaur - a belated birth story

If you were to make a Wordle (look it up) of my birth plan, I recon the word poo would come out the biggest. Before Elias, my major concern - trumping blood loss, sleepless nights and breast conundrums – related to spectacularly defecating whilst our little boy made his grand entrance (or exit depending how you want to look at it).  I was also concerned about how this poo would be fished from the birthing pool.  Would I be allowed to do it myself whilst no one looked and could everyone please pretend it hadn’t happened?

I didn’t make it to the birthing pool.  I certainly did poo myself.  I most certainly did not care. 

At forty-two weeks pregnant I resembled a whale.  A really fat whale.  Being induced involves something resembling a SIM card with a tampon-like string being shoved into close proximity with your cervix. I kid you not Reader, I remember the sharp pain from this pointy intrusion more vividly than the pain of my contractions.  It appears Mother Nature is a trickster; I have totally forgotten the pain me highly susceptible to RBS (repeat baby syndrome).

After wandering around Norwich hospital for a good seven hours with my loyal husband (the fittest plant scientist you’ll ever meet, also known as Zane), a distinct tightening began.  I waddled excitedly back to the ward and texted my mum: ‘contractions have started- what is all the fuss about?’  Ha.  I had no idea.

My first thought was to have a bath so that, at least if I did poo myself, my bum would be clean for the poor midwife who was landed with the job of wiping it.

The next six hours remain in my memory as a series of fragmented incidents.  Gas and air was A REVELATION.  I ate (read: inhaled) a fun-sized Mars bar in between early contractions and regretted it when it reappeared less than an hour in. Also, I kept dropping off in between contractions which was horrible because the evening felt like one long concord-sized period pain.

Once things really got going and I’d graduated to The Delivery -‘Oh Golly it’s really happening’-Suite a midwife broke my waters.  This was actually quite pleasant (think foot spa for your upper thighs).  After I’d been hosed off I went for a little walk and found I then needed to push.  I told everyone in earshot that it was just poo but was given a cardboard hat shaped pot to take to the bathroom just in case it was a baby.  Reader, I shat with the door open. 

Fast forward an hour or so and the push-desire became baby oriented.   This feeling is a bit like vomiting downwards with your womb rather than your stomach doing the squeezing. It is impossible to resist so, after several very satisfying pushes (I was totally coping, riding the contractions like a sexy surfer), I was devastated when my midwife checked my cervix and told me she had made a mistake: I wasn’t actually fully dilated. I must not push. Imagine telling the sea not to wave.

The next hour was the hardest of my life.  I was mentally moving around a monopoly board to give me something to focus on to resist this overwhelming urge to PUUUSSH.

After an hour, I was checked again and told it hadn’t worked (cue dramatic wailing). The remedy: they were going to put me on a drip to make my contractions more intense (did I mention that I was coping). Prior to labour, as an achievement oriented person (you give me a to-do list and it’s a ta-dah list before lunch), I had worried about asking for an epidural in a moment of weakness.  Reader, I do not regret screaming for drugs; I imagined I would die without it.

An hour of pain free contractions later, the golden ticket was issue: I was ready to push. In classic stirrups style I pushed everything out of me (except Elias) in full view of a student midwife sat at the foot of the bed watching my vagina like TV.  Unfortunately, Elias did not make an appearance; my little dinosaur had twisted around and needed assistance.

 A fleet of doctors gathered around me and I’ve never been more grateful for the NHS. As I was having my nail polish taken off to prep me for surgery (why do they not tell you to do this in NCT classes?) I realised I was in the hands of incredibly competent medical professionals who were also exceptionally kind and sensitive.  The anesthetist gave me three doses of drugs so I was entirely sure I wouldn’t feel the knife; she reassured me that, so long as I couldn’t feel the cold of the ice cube on a stick (yes, that is what they use), I wouldn’t feel the knife. 

Elias was born at one pm on Sunday the thirteenth of December (seventeen long hours after my first contraction).   He weighed eight pounds and six ounces, was purple and wrinkly and has since become significantly more attractive.

I fully take back what I said about contractions being easy. However, I will add that in comparison to those early months, labour is a walk in the park.