Issue #51: Time for something a little different - Grace's birth story
Putting pen to paper seven weeks in, having emerged from the postpartum fugue state.
A weekly dose of tidbits, spanning food, recipes, health, wellness, fitness, nutrition, destinations, books, advice, ideas and musings. Let’s spark conversation.
to watch
Sirens on Netflix is everything I need in a postpartum watch, except it’s about five episodes too short. Devon travels to an exclusive American island (it’s fictional, but gives Long Island vibes) to confront her sister, Simone, who is ghosting her when she needs her most. Simone is the personal assistant of Michaela/Kiki (played by Julianne Moore) who perfectly encapsulates ‘obscenely wealthy white woman’, being slightly away with the fairies, yet sinister and controlling. I found her character eerily similar to women I’ve worked for over the years (while I was a private chef on yachts and in private homes).
to cook
I asked Christian to make this vegan crispy rice dish practically every other day after the birth of our daughter. After five days of hospital food, my body was crying out for some vegetables. What makes it so great? Everything. The crispy rice, of course, the punchy satay sauce, creamy avocado, black beans, lime…it’s perfection, and takes about 15 minutes to put together (if you have pre-cooked rice and an air fryer).
to read
I’ve literally been devouring any and all books that explains what to expect week by week (loving this one and this one), but for the sake of a bit of escapism, I need something completely different to keep me company while I feed the baby all. Night. Long. Dungeon Crawler Carl has something of a cult following, that hasn’t quite made it to the UK just yet (possibly because we don’t have the paperbacks available here). The premise is wild - one random night, every single building or dwelling in the world collapses, killing everyone inside, and then sort of inverts underground to create a many levelled dungeon. Those who were outside at the time, survive. Aliens have done this, by the way, and they’re broadcasting what happens as a show across the galaxy. The survivors have to, well, survive, and find staircases to descend to the next level, before that level collapses. Carl is outside with his cat, Princess Donut, when the world collapses. It’s a riot, and it’s making the lonely nights a lot less lonely.
I’m recalling this as my seven week old is strapped to my chest in her carrier, catching flies, while I slowly amble along on my walking pad - one of the many recent panic buys I’ve made since becoming a parent. Nothing, and I mean nothing, could have prepared me for the sheer insanity that is, the newborn stage. Thank you mum, for not telling me too much, so it didn’t put me off.
I’ll write more about those trying times another day, but for now, I’d like to document my birth story, for posterity’s sake, and for anyone who’s interested in these sorts of things (pregnant me could not get enough birth stories!). For a bit of background, I had effectively downed the hypnobirthing koolaid during my pregnancy, convinced that I was so at one with mother nature and my unborn child, that I could push her out with merely my breath, positive affirmations, and cuddles from my husband. Well well well, how very wrong I was.
We knew at 40 weeks that baby wasn’t in the optimal position for labour. She was in the occiput posterior position/OP/sunny side up, which meant that instead of her tummy being against my spine, her spine was against my spine. She was effectively facing the wrong way, so in the lead up to my due date I was doing all sorts of inversions and ‘spinning babies’ techniques, to try and get her to turn. To no avail. But I wasn’t discouraged - contractions make a lot of OP babies gradually make that spiralling corkscrew turn during labour itself.
So, my contractions started early on a Friday evening. We were about to go to my parents for dinner, and we didn’t cancel. I knew this first stage for first time mothers could last a long, long time. At the very beginning, I just went a bit pale and quiet every few minutes, as a contraction came. We were all very excited. I took the advice of trying to sleep during early labour, but the pain ramped up fairly quickly. I could only manage the pain standing up, swaying and leaning on the spare bed. Timing them, they hit the marker of when you should go into hospital at 3am, so after phoning the maternity ward to confirm, we decided to go in.
The car journey was horrendous - we had a sports version of a BMW with bucket seats, which are hugely impractical for a pregnant lady, and sitting in it made my contractions a thousand times worse. Thankfully, Jersey is tiny, and it was only a ten minute journey, though it felt much longer. We were also in the midst of a torrential downpour. The car park is a fair walk from the hospital entrance, and I was painfully slow, stopping to lean on many a lamp post, so we were two drowned rats when we arrived.
There are three rooms in the Jersey maternity ward, with six beds in each. There was one woman in each ward, so instead of putting me in with them, the midwife very kindly put us in a private room. Jersey’s birth rate is falling, with about 750 births a year, so the ward never really gets that busy. Lucky us!
I said a big yes to a cervical examination, though past me wanted no invasive examinations, and said so on my birth plan. Prior to that day, I wanted my cervix to be left well alone. But faced with the chance to know ‘how far along’ I was, I was well up for it! I was 100% effaced, and about 1cm dilated. I think that means that the cervix was very thin, but it hadn’t opened much. So we were not in business. We could have gone home, but I didn’t want to do the cramped round trip again, so I pretty much begged to stay.
At this point, the registrar and head midwife came in to talk to me about my birth plan. I’d found these lovely graphics in a hypnobirthing book, from which you could pick and choose from to illustrate your birth plan however you saw fit. They said things like ‘Vitamin K injection’, ‘Dad to cut the cord’, and ‘please no student midwives’. I’d basically chosen every one that was in line with my earth mother vibe. Please don’t offer me pain relief - I’ll ask for it if I need it. If there are complications, I would prefer a C-section over instrumental delivery. That sort of thing. The registrar and head midwife had many an issue with the plan, and looking back, they were concerned that I would not give consent for intervention in the case of an emergency. Through contractions, I tried to explain that of course, if my baby’s or my life is at risk, I consent to any medical intervention necessary. I just didn’t want my birth to be ‘over-medicalised’ if it didn’t need to be. I had heard all sorts of stories about Jersey hospital - that their C-section rate is significantly higher than the UK average, as are their induction rates. I had a ‘low-risk’ pregnancy - I wanted to try my best to do it au natural, and I wanted their support.
This was the first stressful conversation during labour, and it was honestly, awful. It’s incredibly difficult to have a serious conversation when you’re trying not to scream. One reason why I originally wanted a home birth (before the service was axed a few months ago), was because I knew that oxytocin is a friend to labour, and cortisol the enemy. So my goal was to try and stay as relaxed as possible. My cortisol levels were through the roof after that questioning. My contractions slowed down, and I was definitely not in ‘labour land’ anymore.
Partners aren’t allowed to stay overnight unless you’re in active labour (which by their standards, is when you’re 4cm dilated). So, Christian went home to get some sleep. I was suffering through my contractions, categorically not coping like the earth mother I dreamed I would be. They seemed to get a thousand times worse with him not there, so I caved after a couple of hours, called him and asked him to come back. I think his head had just touched the pillow. I wanted him to get some sleep, but I also felt like I couldn’t do this alone?
The next midwife was not as sweet and loving as the first. I asked for painkillers, and she took about 45 minutes to bring them. This felt like a personal attack. She then tried to get Christian to leave. He was putting counter pressure on my lower back when the contractions came, which along with ramping the tens machine up to full whack, was semi helping me cope with the pain. I said to her that I couldn’t do this alone. She snapped at me, ‘You’re not even in labour!’ I was 3cm dilated by then. Hearing that made me so. Freaking. Fuming.
I said that he’s not going home just to come back in half an hour when I am 4cm dilated. She wasn’t happy at all - I’d made an enemy.
I got in the bath for a bit of water therapy, which felt amazing. I lay down and dozed between contractions. As the next one came, I’d flip my burger, and Christian would point the shower head on my lower back. This went on for hours. I dread to think what the hospital’s water bill was that day.
Eventually, at about 3am on Sunday morning, we were admitted to a birthing room. I was in active labour! We had another new midwife. I plopped into the birthing pool, and then time stood still. I hadn’t slept since waking up on Thursday morning. Christian said that at this point, he was getting seriously worried about me, and I looked like I’d aged ten years. I’d never felt sleep pressure like this. I would float on the surface of the pool and actually nod off, then a contraction would wake me up, but I wouldn’t have caught it early enough to use the gas and air to any real benefit, so it was agonising. So I sort of alternated between letting myself sleep during one gap, and keeping myself awake during the next, to take in the gas and air in time to help take the edge off the pain.
Every few hours, I had to get out of the pool for an examination. After a few checks, I told the midwife that I hadn’t peed in what felt like an unusually long time. I had tried to, but I just couldn’t. During my next check on the bed, my waters broke. My stomach looked bizarre. There was no plump round bump anymore. We could practically see the outline of the baby, plus another massive bulge. The midwife was pretty alarmed, and went to get the most senior midwife on duty. She confirmed, this second lump was my bladder. The baby’s head was in such a position that it was stopping my ability to pee. The midwife did an in and out catheter (something I’ve always dreaded having, but it wasn’t that bad). She then called the registrar, to discuss how best to proceed. The registrar told me that they couldn’t keep doing in and out catheters - the risk of infection was too high, and this could result in damage to my bladder, which is an organ you don’t want to damage. They put a dwelling catheter in, and that meant no more birth pool allowed.
Every time I’d gotten out of the pool, I was like a fish on dry land, writhing and contorting from the pain in my lower back when the contractions came. Christian’s counter pressure didn’t touch the sides anymore. When I was told I couldn’t go back in the pool, I immediately cracked and asked if I could have an epidural as quickly as possible. Oh, how humbled I was, asking the same registrar who I’d convinced I was ‘anti-intervention’ to please numb my entire body so I don’t feel anything. To try and hurry things along, I kept telling everyone, ‘I am not coping!’. I never thought I’d ask for an epidural - I had feared the increased risks of tearing, the increased chances of needing instrumental delivery, and the side effects. But oh my god, I would have done anything at this point for the pain to go away.
The anaesthetist was called, and the shifts changed again. I was handed over to a new, very youthful, midwife. She took us to another room, and set about putting a canula in my hand. Blood tests had to be done before the epidural could be given. I never watch when I’m having injections, so I looked to one side and she went for gold. She was rummaging around my hand for what felt like a long time, and it was uncomfortable, but obviously nothing compared to the continuing contractions. Christian was sat on a chair, with his coat on, because he’d been cold in the pool room. He stood up and came to stand next to me as the midwife carried on trying to get the canula in. Bless his heart, his knees crumpled and he slithered down, slumping onto me, as he fainted. I said something like, ‘Oh my god, Christian, are you fainting?’ and he sort of came to, lolled his head up to me and said, ‘No, no, I’m absolutely fine,’ on his way down again. He was as white as a sheet, almost grey in the face. The midwife abandoned my butchered hand to help him into a chair, and put his legs up on a table. I looked at my hand and saw an enormous bulge in it, with blood literally everywhere, all over the hand, the bed and the floor. He described afterwards what he’d seen, and to be quite honest, I would have fainted too if I had been watching.
The midwife called the registrar to have a go on my other hand, and she couldn’t get it in either. Something to do with the valves? So I had two purple bulging hands and it was down to the anaesthetist. By this point, I was a woman desperate, begging for the blood test to be expedited. I needed this flipping epidural. They gave me a laminated sheet detailing the risks involved with the procedure, including the chance of being paralysed, for life. ‘Rational me’ wouldn’t undergo anything that could potentially result in entire body paralysis, but ‘in-labour-me’ couldn’t fathom going on without it. (Side note: experiencing contractions with the dwelling catheter in place was like, nails on a chalkboard.) I signed the waiver. The anaesthetist came in, and she was the most amazingly straightforward woman with a real dry sense of humour. I loved her immediately. She told me what I needed to do. Curve my spine like a cat, and stay as still as humanly possible while she puts the needle in my spine. Sorry, what? I was experiencing the labour shakes - whenever a contraction came, my body would violently convulse, which was entirely out of my control. What if a contraction comes? Then tell us, she said.
She went for it during a gap. I held onto Christian for dear life, staring into his eyes, thinking, if I move an inch, I’m destined to be a paraplegic forever. My lovely anaesthetist couldn’t get the needle in between my vertebrae - she said my back was too bony. It took four tries to get it in, and all the while I’m thinking, I’m the statistic on the laminated sheet. I’m imagining my future life of paralysis, that I brought on myself. Thankfully, she got it in, and the relief was instant. Amazingly, I could top up the dose myself, so that I could still feel the contractions - just not feel any pain. I was ecstatic, and we both slept for about two hours, which was utter bliss.
The birth plan was in the bin. Interventions were now flying at me from all angles. I was given a hormonal drip to encourage labour along. Baby didn’t like the synthetic hormones - her heart rate was all over the place, so we were monitored. I dilated fast, and all of a sudden, I was told I could start to push. Our midwife checked if the surgical team were free - if anything went wrong at this stage, she wanted them to be available. They were in the middle of an emergency C-section (unbelievably, they were delivering the daughter of a friend of mine - neither of us knew the other was there). We were told to wait one more hour.
The hour went by excruciatingly slowly - we were ready to meet our baby. But we eventually got there, and started pushing. My legs went up in stirrups, and I went for it in rounds of three until I was red in the face. My eyes were bloodshot by the end, and I felt like I was going to pass out. Christian got to see a glimmer of dark hair, which made us all very excited, but with her being OP, I just couldn’t push her up and around the bend. The hour was up, her heart rate was still troubling, so my midwife called time and the surgeons came in.
They suggested first and foremost, an instrumental delivery. Forceps, or the kiwi suction cup. I was terrified of forceps - I hated the thought of a pair of metal tongs tugging on my baby’s soft head. They told me that the suction cup could only be attempted once, and it often slipped, leaving a big swelling on the head. Neither option sounded great to me, but they assured me that forceps deliveries were usually successful, and they’re more like spoons than metal tongs. I agreed - let’s try and get her out via the birth canal first and foremost. If that was unsuccessful, I would already be in theatre, and they could do a C-section straight away.
I was utterly terrified by this point. Christian was taken to another room to get gowned up. As I was wheeled into theatre, and saw about fifteen surgical staff assembled, I just started bawling. With every escalating intervention, I was becoming more and more convinced that my baby was going to be a tragic statistic. The anaesthetist (a different one, a South African man) was the sweetest person ever, and started stroking my head and telling me everything would be fine. The surgeon came up to my head to have a chat, while my lower half was getting prepped. My legs felt like they were strapped straight up in the air at a right angle, and a sheet hid everything from view. He said they’d have to do an episiotomy to get the forceps in, which they’d sew up immediately after (yikes). He said we had to do this together - he was going to pull just as much as I needed to push. I was even more terrified, worrying about what damage this push/pull would do to my poor baby’s head and neck. But I was on this bus, and I couldn’t get off.
Christian came in, and the procedure began. I was allowed one set of three pushes during my next contraction. There was so much rummaging, pulling and shouts of encouragement. Hearing the surgeons talk to each other, again, I was convinced it was all going horribly wrong. All of a sudden, some little limbs thrashed their way through the sheet, and my baby emerged, hot and wriggly and screaming on my chest. I couldn’t believe it - after the whole three day ordeal, I was weirdly shocked and surprised to see an actual baby (I was obviously completely de-lu-lu by this point).
The cord was immediately cut (no delayed cord clamping for us), the placenta was delivered, and the surgeons began sewing me up. I ignored everything going on around us, and just focused on Christian, and our beautiful baby girl.
Such a brilliantly written, raw account - absolutely loved reading this and so so happy you're all doing well!