The Ratbag's First Photo. We told everyone we named him Norbert.
Actually, I was always fascinated by stories of my own birth, is everyone, or is it just me? Maybe I'm really posting this so that my kids know what really happened before it grows any more foggy in my already scatty mind.
So, the Ratbag was due, conveniently, on Mother's Day, 8th May 2005. I waited for him patiently all day, talking to him, very excited and feeling quite good. Being an amateur, I actually thought he would arrive on the due date. I should have know better of course, as he was male and not to be scheduled. I don't remember being nervous about the birth itself, only about how I would do as a Mum. I had gotten myself into a state of sure confidence about the birth, following my dear friend recently giving completely natural breech birth to her first child (what a legend!). I knew I could do it, my friends had done it, it would be natural. Being 'a pregnant' was great too, only a very short period of all-day sickness and an inconveniently placed varicose vein dampened the experience over that whole 40 weeks. Oh, that, and feet swollen roughly to the size of watermelons. Oh, that and a REALLY LARGE BABY who was apparently trying to get out by kicking a hole through my ribcage. In short, I loved being a pregnant.
Happy, carefree, very pregnant, all good, super duper all-natural birth coming up, tra la la
We waited all that day, and the next day, and the next, until the Doctors appointment on Wednesday. Doctor says: baby engaged (had been told this for about 4 weeks by several different midwives on the team), heart strong, all good. Will be induced next Sunday if nothing happens in the meantime, as they would not let me go past 41 weeks. So, at this point, I would like to testify that sex, hot curries and walking a lot does not really bring a birth on. And if it does, I was doing it wrong, wrong, wrong.
So, on Sunday evening, 15th May, we reported to the hospital for an induction. By then, I really was a bit anxious, because my perfectly natural birth experience was about to be interfered with. Oh, that and the fact that come hell or high bloody water, I was going to have a baby tomorrow. I remember talking to Mr Mangroves about this in the car. He seemed remarkably calm for a dad-to-be. It was odd really, all the surprise-ending was taken out of it. There really would be a baby tomorrow, and apparently, I would be giving birth to it. In fact, I was willingly going to the hospital right now, to have my cervix stimulated. My naive, pretty birth dreams were evaporating with the snap of a latex glove.
Still happy, just a bit more pregnant, if that is at all possible, tra la la
And so, cervix duly (painfully, stingingly) gelled-up, we went home again, to wait. A telling start to events that followed, because this was my first 'internal' of any kind. I had been palpated by lots of different people on the outside of my enormous guts, but no one ever did an internal. I spent pretty much the whole night in contractions, watching shit TV (didn't have the capacity to actually watch it, but I think I may in fact have watched a whole episode of This Is Your Life with Benny Hinn - NOT PROUD) and doing a crossword. I sent Mr M to bed, as I didn't want him watching me squirm all night, and to be honest, I wanted at least one of us to have had some sleep before The Baby came, just in case he needed to be look after or something. So, with Benny Hinn and The Age crossword as companions, and having contractions every 5 minutes (I noted them down on the edge of the crossword) to make sure I stayed awake, I waited out the night. Then, at about 4am I noticed that the contractions were slowing down. Bummer.
By the time I got into hospital at 9am, and got more gelled-up (excruciating just about covers it - I was told that 3cms dilation had occurred through the night following the first gelling), they had slowed right down to about 7-8 minutes apart. As I was going through the public system, my gyno-trained GP came in to have a look at me around 10am. Again a popping of latex after the most cursory hello (he was always an arsehole, but the hospital-based team of lovely midwives would be delivering this baby anyway, so I let him get away with it) followed by an announcement that he wasn't thrilled with my progress. He decided that he would liven up the action with a nice syntocin and heart-rate monitor cocktail. Oh, and a coat-hanger. Err, I mean the hook for breaking your water membrane.
And here is the thing, I somehow expected for there to be a neat gush that would be caught by whatever towel was neatly placed under me. What actually happened was that after an initial not-so-neat gush, I leaked steadily for the next couple of hours. All over my specially-bought birth pyjamas, which in my planned dream birth were going to somehow stay clean throughout the whole ordeal, several towels, many a maternity pad, and finally, me and anyone who came close to me. Why doesn't anyone tell you that? Well, if you've not yet had the pleasure, I'm telling you. Giving birth is a messy, bloody, mucousy, wet, undignified business.
Happy friggin' days, when's that kid coming?
And here is the thing, I somehow expected for there to be a neat gush that would be caught by whatever towel was neatly placed under me. What actually happened was that after an initial not-so-neat gush, I leaked steadily for the next couple of hours. All over my specially-bought birth pyjamas, which in my planned dream birth were going to somehow stay clean throughout the whole ordeal, several towels, many a maternity pad, and finally, me and anyone who came close to me. Why doesn't anyone tell you that? Well, if you've not yet had the pleasure, I'm telling you. Giving birth is a messy, bloody, mucousy, wet, undignified business.
Once the synto kicked in, those contractions went up faster than a speeding meth-head. Seriously, from 8 minutes apart, I went to 2 minute intervals that just about gave me concussion. It was absolutely intense, and not at all like the gradual build-up I expected. Mr M commented on the change in my demeanor, from 'Me In Pain' to 'Banshee from Hell'. My sister arrived at about this time, all rosy-cheeked and armed with a deck of cards (who else thought that there would be fun and games while waiting for The Baby to gently plop out onto a waiting blanket? Damn you Cosmopolitan Pregnancy Issue). This was shortly followed up by a midwife calmly informing us that as they were short staffed and as a couple of women were in more advanced labour than myself, the synto would now be turned down, and my labour would be postponed until a more convenient time, or until the midwives were available again to monitor me properly.
Well BUGGER ME, I though, I wish someone had told me we could do that! I would have asked to go back next week to give me more time to prepare and perhaps wash a few more floors. And maybe hold off the mucous for a few more hours, I could definitely have done without THAT.
And so, we listened to a woman next door giving birth for the next couple of hours, while going back to pain every 5-6 minutes or so.
We eventually heard the labouring woman next door get down to the business end, and listened fascinated as her baby was born, healthy strong lungs announcing his arrival. The tensions eased for a while, and strangely, for a few seconds, I thought it was me. The relief was indescribable. And then, a contraction came on and I was back to reality. At least the midwives were off high alert now, and back with us. The synto went back up, and off I went into shock again, with how fast and strong the contractions were all of a sudden. I went from the bed to the floor, from the floor to the giant ball, from the ball to the shower, and back to the bed again, starting to feel like things were really out of control now, and completely different to what I had imagine, and hoped for. And where the fuck were my lovely midwives, who were supposed to be gently but firmly coaching me into giving birth? I felt alone and getting desperate for someone to tell me what the hell was going on. They were pretty casually walking in and out of the room, checking the monitor, telling me everything was fine, and then leaving again. What the hell did that mean? Nothing was fine, and I wasn't fine, but I didn't even know it.
It was probably about 3pm (approx 5 hours since I first got jabbed with the synto, and remembering that I'd been contracting since 7pm the previous night ) that the Doc popped in again, casually asked how things were going, and an equally casual midwife answered that everything was on track. He then announced that he would be back in another hour or so to check on me. I really had hoped that someone would ask ME how things were going, and I could then tell them that I WAS NOT HAPPY with the proceedings. But instead of telling them, I burst into tears. I was so emotional, in pain, uncomfortable and TIRED, that I just wanted to cry. I remember that Mr Mangroves stood up, and firmly announced that something was wrong, and that another internal exam should be done to find out what was happening. Begrudgingly (or was that my overtired imagination?), the Doc snapped on another glove, and with a dissatisfied look, calmly announced that I had not progressed past the previously announced 3 cms. And he wasn't even looking at me, it was like a private chat with the midwives. I was completely horrified. The past few hours of pain had produced nothing, and my Doctor was an arsehole. I wondered how much longer they would have let me go without checking the dilation if Mr M hadn't stepped in.
But alas, that wasn't even the worst news. He was suddenly very attentive and to describe it quite frankly, having a really good feel-around. He was very quiet, and everyone stopped talking and looked at him expectantly. Seriously, there wasn't anything he could have said that went down like a lead balloon quite so much as "I hope that's not a bum I'm feeling..." Except perhaps if he had said that there were three of the little buggers in there. Anyhoo... there was Stunned Silence.
All of a sudden, there was a flurry of movement, I've never seen anything like it- midwives running around, people snapping at each other and my sister and Mr Mangroves both suddenly at my side. I thought I hadn't heard properly. "Did he say bum?? I thought it was engaged!"
I was quite sure that this massive baby hadn't performed a sneaky back flip while I was asleep, since I was also pretty sure that I hadn't slept for the last 2 months. Everyone had been assuring me that they could feel the baby was engaged, they could feel his body and knew where he was. And suddenly he was breech. Perhaps 'stunned' isn't the right word.. perhaps 'Fucked Over' describes it better.
The next couple of hours are a bit of a blur. I was whisked off in a wheelchair to have an ultrasound and make sure that it was true, and yep, he was definitely breech. What I thought was kicking on the ribcage was actually headbutting. I was promptly fitted (a loose term to describe shoving in forcefully) with a catheter at which point my poor Sis passed out for a minute - it was quite funny watching all the nurses administering to her while the labouring woman looked on. Then a visit from the emergency anesthetist to have the dreaded epidural fitted (there's that term again), and the most memorable words yet from my arsehole Doctor: "Don't worry, it's OK now, your labour is over".
Really? Thanks.
The mystery taken out of the epidural
We waited in that room until 6pm for surgery theater to become available. I'm pretty sure that my body was still responding to the baby at that point, and I can distinctly remember that I was pushing down involuntarily.. is that even possible? I don't know what was going on, but I think that despite the epidural, my body was trying to birth that baby. I wasn't in pain as such, even though I was definitely still feeling the contractions. I remember that I was shaking and shivering, from the epidural I think. I remember that I desperately wanted to sleep. We spent another hour in the corridor outside the theater, waiting, all robed up, Mr M and I with our hair caps on, the theater midwife with us, rubbing my hand. The shivering was completely uncontrollable now, I was cold, depressed, crying, wanting it all to be over. You could say that this was the furthest from my birth expectations that I could have plunged.
Finally, just before 7, in we went, leaving my poor sister behind to look after our things, and move them from the luxurious double-bed birthing room to the communal Cesarean-recovery room. The surgeon and his team were ready for us, and the culmination of all this drama took a remarkably short time. There was a scary moment where I could suddenly feel the pain of the Cesarean as it was being performed, and my anaesthetic was hastily increased. At first they didn't really believe me, and insisted that it was just 'pressure' I was feeling, but Mr M stepped in once again and they reconsidered and upped the dose. What would I have done without him that day? I don't want to imagine it. He was a hero.
After all this, I could literally feel them pulling the baby out, it was all quite surreal. A leg, then another leg, and a huge release as they got his little head out. At 7.04, finally, out came the Ratbag.
All the blue and mucousy 9.1 and a half pounds of him. He exacted revenge on my observing Schloctor by immediately pissing all over him, which could not have been better timed. Everything fell away as we watched him being checked over, heard him cry out, knew he was OK. He was big, healthy and strong, He was beautiful. The feeling of touching his head for the first time will stay with me forever. He was just the most wonderful thing I had ever seen. He was my son.
Fresh out of the bag
All the blue and mucousy 9.1 and a half pounds of him. He exacted revenge on my observing Schloctor by immediately pissing all over him, which could not have been better timed. Everything fell away as we watched him being checked over, heard him cry out, knew he was OK. He was big, healthy and strong, He was beautiful. The feeling of touching his head for the first time will stay with me forever. He was just the most wonderful thing I had ever seen. He was my son.
My own baby, my child. There aren't words to describe that euphoria. I was in love with him, and it was immediate. It hit me like a brick. And then, suddenly, my boys were gone, ushered out of the theater. I later found out that they had an incredible, intense time without me, getting to know each other. I think it's an hour that my man will never forget. Not every new daddy gets to spend this magical time with their newborn son.
Our first meeting.. now we were a family
Afterwards, the waiting in recovery was torture. I just wanted to be with my new family, but I had to wait, alone, for an hour. The nurses watched me for any signs of shock, but talked over my head about their affairs. I don't remember what they were saying, only that one of them liked my toe polish. I had a pedicure that week as a treat, and had my toes painted blood red. Quite fitting really. I'm pretty sure that I was blood red everywhere, not just my feet. One thing they can never prepare you for is the mess, don't you think? The mess is incredibly.. messy. I was dry-retching from all the drugs, and shivering, despite all the blankets they piled on me, feeling very vulnerable and alone. And still they talked amongst themselves like I wasn't there. It was horrible. I don't remember the trip back to my room, and I don't remember that first night. My sister said I was talking to her, and gagging, and falling asleep mid-sentence. I never got to do that magical skin-to-skin contact thing, until the next day. I think they tried to put him in bed with me but I was in so much pain and couldn't get it right. It was all so surreal.
My two favourite men, mind-melding
I couldn't breastfeed properly, my boobs had swollen to roughly the size of a large-ish bag of hot coals, and endured all the midwives on shift hoicking a hot and rock-hard boob in one hand and the baby's head in the other, and bringing them together like clashing cymbals, hoping to somehow meld the two into each other. Obviously I had not endured enough, and had not felt quite enough pain. It wasn't until a male midwife suggested nipple shields that we finally got it right. The other (female) midwives tried to discourage me using them, but I was learning to stand up to them by then. There was one who came in to see us that I remember was in my birthing suite before all the drama erupted. She actually said 'You know, I though he was breech!' and was quite shocked and upset when I answered 'THEN WHY DIDN'T YOU BLOODY SAY SO', and promptly left the room, never to be seen in these here parts again.
Finally together, over an hour after his birth
I was a bit of a celebrity at the hospital for the next few days though, an undiagnosed breech is not an every-day occurrence, and there was much whispering and pointing. And for the next few months, I slowly got over it all. It was a bit of an ordeal emotionally, I never wanted to go back again, that's for sure. I was completely positive that we wouldn't be having any more babies, it was all too traumatic and I couldn't think about it without breaking into a cold sweat. The pain of recovery was much greater than I expected, and I fed the Ratbag holding him under my arm in the football hold, to keep his (quite bloody heavy) weight off my belly. He was a dream baby though, and there was minimal effort in loving him and tending to him.. I loved being his mummy. I will always love it.
1 Month Old, my magical child
Enough? Yeah.. I'm all hoarse and need a cuppa. Next time, the (entirely different experience of) the birth of the Peanut.
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