So, when we realised that I was pregnant for the second time (and let me just say that Mr M is a dead shot, as we didn't get to have any 'fun trying') I was in a bit of a quandary. To VBAC or not to VBAC? To go Public or to fork out for Private? In the end, we went Private, with the surgeon who chopped his way in during the emergency to retrieve the Ratbag. I figured if anyone knew his way around my bits, he certainly did.
There were a few dramas in the beginning, when I suddenly stopped feeling sick. Basically, I went to bed nauseous, and woke up fine, which was kind of odd. My GP did a blood test to make sure I was actually pregnant, and this came back positive, so she thought it was a good idea for an ultrasound to be performed straight away to determine how pregnant I actually was, and whether or not the 'foetus was viable'. What cold words to mean ' to see if your baby is alive'. The ultrasound showed that I was actually about 9.5 weeks pregnant (see what I mean? I thought we tried a few times, but in fact, I'd been knocked up at first go), but that this couldn't be said with certainty, and that a heartbeat could not be detected. Basically, I was told to wait and see, and if I had miscarried, then my body would act out the last part of the drama itself. And if it didn't, then I would be off for a curette. I realised at this point that I actually REALLY WANTED to be pregnant, and the thought of carrying around a dead baby made me very emotional and easily upset. My vocabulary decreased and consisted mostly of 4-letter words, there was road-rage, I almost got fired for being a complete bitch, and we still couldn't tell anyone what the hell was going on. We had a strange couple of weeks, waiting for a miscarriage, or for the 12 week ultrasound, whichever came first.
Point Cook Beach, November 2007
In the absence of a miscarriage, I fronted for the 12 week ultrasound. The baby was alive, and a heartbeat was detectable. Immense relief was followed by anxiety when the sonographer announced that the baby was uncooperative and an exact age couldn't be determined, nor the nuchal test. It was apparently refusing to budge from it's comfy burrow in order to be properly measured. Again, I should have seen this as a sign of things to come, because as everyone knows, Peanut is a complete wench.
Anyhoo, I digress. Another ultrasound had to be scheduled, so that a more experienced sonographer could have a go at working out what the hell was going on in there. She also had problems getting a good reading, and I alternated between drinking gallons of water to peeing half of it out (this didn't hurt AT ALL), walking briskly up and down the corridors and generally behaving in an unstable manner in order to get that little bugger to move around a little bit. But finally I was told the definite story; the baby was fine, it was about 11.5 weeks old. All results were good. The pregnancy could proceed.
Everything was much easier after we could tell people, including my boss, what had been making us (I mean me) so irritable and distant. I enjoyed pregnancy, and again, I had few problems, except that the inconveniently placed varicose vein (hereby to be known as Vince for short) returned much earlier than expected. Last time, it appeared when I was about 7.5 months, but this time, at about 4 months. Overstaying it's welcome, like most unwanted guests.
The 18 week ultrasound was amazing, and this time, the technology at the hospital had improved, because we got a CD to take home. The sonographer told us that the sex was clearly discernible. We already agreed that we had to know - we are planners, Mr M and I. There were 8 kids on his side of the family, his sister and brothers have all procreated, and produced a total of 7 boys, plus the Ratbag, so 8 little boys on his side. My side hasn't had any other kids, so we just had to know if we were on the way to the family footy team or if we would be mavericks. And apparently, amazingly, we were about to have a baby girl. I was at a bit of a loss. Mr M claimed that he just knew it was a girl, and to be honest, he had been saying it all along. I wasn't so sure, and almost wished for another boy that I would know what to do with. Perhaps there were girl-nappy-changing classes that one could take.
At about this time, I decided that I would chicken out of the VBAC, and booked myself in for an elective C-section. Mostly, I figured that this way I knew what I was in for, and it couldn't be any worse than last time, but also, I just didn't want to bother Vince.
As the months went on, I almost regretted that decision, there was a bit of guilt associated with ripping a baby out of it's hidey-hole prematurely (if you elect, they try to do it at about 38 weeks to lessen chances of going into labour spontaneously). I was healthy and strong, there was no reason why I couldn't do it, and I should try - that was the general consensus. At about 30 weeks, I was wavering between the choices, and still couldn't make up my mind. Delivery at 38 weeks put me smack-bang on New Years' Eve, and although this could be done, I didn't want the baby to take a back-seat to an annual celebration for her Birthday. Superficial much? Hm.
So we (yes alright, me) decided to meet nature half-way. I would go longer, until the 4th of January. If I went into labour beforehand, then I would go the VBAC. If not, then the C was scheduled for 9am. And to be perfectly honest, I didn't care for the VBAC, because I'M A GREAT BIG COWARD. There you go Peanut, Mummy chose not to Force You Out through her lady bits, in favour of Chopping a new hole in her guts to bring you into the world. Because that would be less painful.
Werribee Mercy Hospital, my lovely room. 8.30am, 4th January 2008,
waiting to have a baby removed.
waiting to have a baby removed.
But in the end, I had a lovely Xmas and NY because I didn't worry about it anymore. I was too heavily pregnant to care. I had a 2.5 year old toddler toddling around my feet, and I worked almost until Christmas, so relaxing was high on my priority list, and pretty high on the Buckley's Chance list too. We took the Ratbag off to his Family Day Care Lady's house (he knew there was a baby sister coming, and he kept asking when we would get her, like we just had to pick her up from the shop), and we duly fronted up to the hospital on the 4th of Jan at 8am, took occupancy of our room (things had changed in the hospital - I now had a room to myself to recover in, and didn't have to put up with the other patients inconsiderate and noisy visitors - there was one lady who had her entire extended family in our room, kids running around, old men stinking of cigarettes, the works - surely she didn't really like this either??) and waited until we got a baby to take home.
There wasn't even a queue.
I recognised some of the midwives from last time, and surprised myself by realising that I didn't hold anything against them, and that in fact, I was apologising to them for the way events unfolded. I was apologising for the crying, and the swearing, and all the other bad behaviour, and just for holding them all responsible for the way events unfolded last time. And they were all lovely and kind, and the Ward Supervisor held us up on the way into surgery so that she could give me a kiss on the forehead and wish me luck. I loved her for that. Her name is Jenny. Thank you Jenny.
It really was completely different, although just as surreal. The epidural was quick and didn't hurt much, and because I wasn't in labour pain or contracting, it just felt like my legs had gone to sleep. It was very quiet in the surgery and very relaxed, and no-one was running around in a panic like in ER. The only thing that made me uncomfortable was that everyone around me just talked among themselves like I wasn't there. AGAIN. Is there a common thread here? I really think that this should be Surgery 1.0; Let's not talk about our own affairs over the head of the patient like she is not there. It is rude and unnerving, and makes her feel like a production-line car being assembled. Seriously. I think they were discussing their Golf day or something, the unfeeling bastards.
Our Family made larger at 10.02am.
I asked them to let me know when they were about to start, Mr M and I looking at each other, smiling nervously. "We're half-way there already!" Was the answer. So, after a relatively short time on the chopping block, there was that same sensation of limbs being born, and the body, and the head.. very surreal. No pain, just the pulling and lifting out. Everything was quiet, and calm, and we waited to find out if she was okay, this little baby, another child to add to our family.
We couldn't decide on her name for a week, ergo; Peanut
She made little sounds as she came out, not like the lusty scream that erupted out of the Ratbag. It was like a little kitten mewling. We were desperate to have a look at her, and after Mr M deftly cut the cord, they lay her across my chest, and we had a lovely, quiet cuddle. I was desperate for this, because I didn't really get to do it with the Ratbag, and spoke to the midwives about how I could achieve the least time away from her after the C. I knew it would still be recovery time away from them, but I just wanted more time with her before they took her away. I think the surgeon actually paused for a minute, and I thought it was to let me have this special time. I noticed how tiny she was - so much smaller than her brother. She was 6 pounds 4 ounces, compared to his 9. I noticed that she didn't have any eyebrows or eyelashes, and I was so disappointed for her, because I remembered that her brother had lovely, girly long eyelashes, and here was my girl, and she missed out on them. She had the finest, downy hair on her little head, and it was blond. I compared their looks, and they were completely different - he was just a big, robust boy, and she was so tiny and fragile and slim, it made me feel even more guilt over ripping her out of my body too soon. I thought she could have done with more time in the oven, and I said this to the theater midwife, but she just smiled, and stroked my hair, and reminded me that we had a few days in hospital with all the help around me to make sure she was fattened up.
And then, after a brief few minutes together, Mr M and Peanut left the surgery, to wait while I was returned to one piece. I expected the same as last time - a quick stitch-up, and about an hour before I could see my baby girl again. But in a very calm and quiet voice, the Surgeon said; "I'm going to be as quick and neat as possible, but I need to let you know that I'm about to remove two lumps from your ovary. This could take a little while."
You what now? That's not on the menu is it? It's not something you really consider - when you think to yourself "I hope they don't find anything strange in there" usually means that you hope they don't find another baby hiding behind the uterus.
He elaborated by saying that he thought the lumps were not cancerous. He thought they looked like harmless lumps, but they would be going off to biopsy anyway, and it would not take long to find out. He was really quite good and very fast, because a few short minutes later he announced that the lumps had been removed, and he was well on the way to stitching me closed. I asked how big they were, wondering how he had found two little lumps on my ovaries through the surrounding blood and guts. "About 5 centimetres across." He said. Oh well - no wonder he had no trouble finding them. Maybe they were my secret testicles.
So, in fact, it wasn't just a short hour before I saw my new baby again, it was 2.5 hours, and Mr M hadn't been told about any of this, so they had a very anxious time waiting for me back in our room. Apparently Peanut cried at first, and then fell asleep in her Daddy's arms. But he was worried sick, because I was gone for a long time. We deliberated the lumps together, but forgot about them as the hour-to-hour care began. Peanut was a great feeder, and although I still had trouble with her latching on (the same as her brother), I brought my trusty nipple shields with me, and then we got off to a good start.
I didn't have the same anxiety and attitude as the first time, and I think that this reflected in my behaviour as well, and the midwives could see that Peanut was feeding well, putting on weight and getting stronger, and by the time I left, I was feeding her on demand and expressing copious amounts of milk as well. This was boding quite well, I thought. The midwives were all fantastic, and I had a bit more confidence about me as well, so we all got along. I was healing really well too, and unlike the first time which took forever and was very painful. This time, I was up and about in no time, and didn't have any of the pain and trouble I had with the first. I suppose it's because of the stress your body is under when you are in labour, and the bruising, etc. It all takes so much longer to heal.
I loved being in hospital this time, and made the most of it. Mr M and the Ratbag came in every day, but the big brother wasn't very happy with me, and behaved badly. He liked the baby, and held and cuddled her, but didn't speak to me, and didn't want to spend time with me at all.
When I came home, it took a couple of weeks before I could worm my way into his affections again, and was allowed to read his bedtime story. He didn't want a bar of me for a while, but loved his little sister, isn't that strange?
And so, this really was a completely different experience; calm and happy and completely planned, as opposed to hysterical and awkward. But, in the end, the boy whose arrival was heralded by so much friggin' drama is a loving and affectionate clever boy, and the quiet, unassuming girl has since turned into a headstrong, wilful, evil genius, capable of destructive Godzilla-like tantrums. Go figure.
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