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Taking a romantic four-mile country walk straight after having a prostin gel pessary inserted was hardly what I expected to be doing on the day my son was born. But that’s the thing with being induced, it gives a different sort of unpredictability to the whole birth experience.
Rewind to 37 weeks when my carefully crafted birth-plan with its active labour, waterbirth and private room in the midwife-led unit, was unceremoniously dumped. I had tested positive for Group B Strep (GBS), an asymptomatic infection carried vaginally by 30% of pregnant women. Trouble is, GBS can be dangerous for babies during labour. Cue the need for IV antibiotics for a minimum of 4 hours before birth and forget the cosy natural labour unit.
I was gutted at the time but in the end it was academic – going 12 days overdue meant a medical induction and monitored labour were essential.
So at 8.30am on Monday October 11th I was lying spread-eagled in the Day Assessment Unit with a tutting midwife explaining that I was no nearer to giving birth now than I was 9 months earlier. ‘Your cervix is posterior and long, slightly soft with zero dilation and zero contractions. So you’ll have another pessary later, tomorrow we can break your waters and put you on a syntocin drip. Then Wednesday will be a c-section if you stay like this.’ It looked like we were in for the long haul. Good job I’d packed cheese and marmite sandwiches, some sausage rolls and a pack of cards.
Fortunately they let us out ‘for a stroll’ and we found a footpath meandering away from the hospital through farmland, over railway tracks and fields to a golf course. It was one of those perfect brisk autumn days with bright blue skies, the leaves just turning and the sun shining. It was beautifully surreal – especially as I still wasn’t feeling anything.
As we headed back up the track my first pain came. But it was more of a general dull ache than a contraction so I ignored it. Walking became a little trickier as we hit the main road and I had to stop in a bus shelter much to the bemusement of passing traffic.
By the time we arrived back at the ward at midday I was uncomfortable and my husband ran me a bath. We spent the next hour or so with him pouring water over my bump as the pain increased. ‘Are these contractions or prostin pains?’ he asked. ‘How should I know, I’ve never had them before!’ was all I could reply.
At 3.45pm it was time for my next pessary but my waters broke. Shame about those trousers! A stroppy midwife examined me and it was the same story – zero dilation, cervix posterior and long. I knew I had to get the antibiotics in quickly but she was in no mood to be co-operative ‘as you aren’t in labour yet love’. But as those waters kept oozing so we realised there was meconium – the baby had had a bowel movement and needed immediate monitoring.
So there I was, attempting to walk downstairs to L&D. You try hurrying up when your cervix is trying to stretch to fit a baby’s head. Believe me, it isn’t easy. At 4.50pm I was lying flat on my back, strapped up to heart monitors and antibiotics and in some serious pain. At 5.20pm my husband was still trying to work out how to use the TENS machine. I was working out how to punch him. Ten minutes later and the doctor delights in informing us that I have progressed to a very exciting 1cm. I couldn’t see straight because it hurt too much to open my eyes. 1cm seemed a very long way from 10cm. I am told to lie on my left side for the monitoring and to try gas and air.
Bliiiiiiissssssss. I remembered one thing from those antenatal classes – breathe long and deeply from that canister. I was supposed to stop between contractions but there weren’t any gaps – I seemed to be stuck in an ultra-fast spin-cycle of continuous contractions. How on earth did I think I would be standing or squatting or gently swaying at this point? The only thing I could do was squeeze Enzo’s hand. Hard. Very hard. Not hard enough… I am already gasping for an epidural and feeling pathetic.
A few minutes later and the doctor returns to say the baby’s heart trace isn’t good and they may need to do an emergency c-section. I manage to yelp that I feel pressure which I vaguely remember could be significant. ‘As you were only 1cm 15 minutes ago, this could be interesting,’ said the doctor as he shoved his hand up to check. I don’t know who was more surprised when he declared I was at 6cm already. Ha, not so pathetic after all.
6 minutes later and I am fully dilated and ready to push. My fabulous new midwife worked my perineum like it’s never been worked before and after 25 minutes of holding my breath and using stomach muscles I’d never previously discovered I managed to push out my baby’s head. We both touched his hair in awe. She declared that the worst was over. Really? I’m sure shoulders are bigger than heads, said I crossly.
But she was right, and when my baby slithered out, Enzo shouted ‘it’s a boy’ and everybody cheered. Somehow he grabbed the camera to capture this beautiful screaming baby covered in poo, blood and gunk still attached to his Mum. Me. I am his Mum. I have a son! His Daddy cut the cord and my 8lb 10oz bruiser of a baby boy was whisked off to be checked over before latching on for the first of many feeds. We were both sobbing and the team were in shock – less than an hour from 1cm to birth is a hospital record.
Despite having the syntromycin injection, my placenta didn’t come out. So having had a drug-free and stitch-free birth, I had a syntocin drip then a spinal anaesthetic and had to go to theatre to have the placenta manually removed. Oh well, Enzo got to spend an hour alone with our son, which is time he will never forget.
As for next time… well I think I should move into hospital at about 35 weeks, just in case.