(Written 30th July)
So I’ll start by saying that this post is being written at 12.20am on the back of a sanitary towel disposal bag in hospital, where I have been for the last week. Needless to say it might not, therefore be the most compos mentis post I have ever penned. Also this is a birth story, guts and all in my usual style so go ahead and have a big, fat TMI warning.
My story starts on July 22nd, my due date and also my next midwives appointment. Despite cleaning, ironing, fast walking, muttering ‘Get out! Get out! Get out!’, spicy curries and other techniques Squirt was defiantly clinging on. At the midwife appointment my belly measured small again and worryingly unchanged from the last measurement, 2 weeks ago. She also felt a drop in fluid around the baby. Her concern led to another scan in hospital and an induction booked for 9.30pm that evening. Swings and roundabouts, thought I. Not what I was hoping for but at least it would mean no more waiting, which was slowly driving me, and everyone I live with insane.
So that night I checked into hospital, nervous and bummed to be spending the first night in 3 years without WW. I had a not very nice digital examination (not the nice, technological kind of digital but the fingers-up-the-mole-hole kind. Fingers, plural) and a pessary was deployed. I was declared 1cm dilated with a thick posterior cervix and left to sleep, an absolute impossibility due to the racket made by people coming and going, groaning, moaning and vomiting all around me. Then the cramping started.
By morning I was tired but positive. I used the hypnobirthing techniques to breathe through the pain, was skewered by another set of fingers and was informed I would be heading up to the labour suite to have my waters broken. I was a heady mix of excited and have-I-just-pooped-in-my-pants terrified.
Upstairs in the labour suite WW and I discussed all my crunchy granola requests with the midwife who seemed happy to accommodate me. I was especially excited to be told I could drag my stretching vajayjay into the pool almost straight away. Then more fingers, a lot of extraordinary guddling about, my third membrane sweep… to be informed actually they weren’t able to break my waters yet and I was kicked, unceremoniously back downstairs.
Then followed two more torturous days, 2 more pessaries, 4 more digital examinations (the worst of which was delivered by a male doctor using his enormous, hairy fingers to make a motion similar to that which you’d make if you were trying to quickly bung something in a hole and stop a leak, while muttering ‘gently, gently’…..and I was informed I was still thick cervixed and 1cm dialated.
My crunchy, granola plans were dropping by the hour. By the second day of no sleep and constant useless contractions the drugs cabinet was starting to look good. I escalated quickly from paracetamol to codeine to diamorphine as tiredness robbed me of my ability to do the bullshit breathing techniques and visualisations. Diamorphine was AWESOME and I was finally able to get a little, guilt-ridden rest.
By Saturday morning I was tearfully considering asking the next person with their hands in my vagina to yank the bugger out or get slice and dice happy with a scalpel and my tummy. The Docs were a step ahead and a ‘Ah, fuck it. Let’s get this show on the road’ consensus was reached. Back up to labour suite we went, amidst some parental tension as to whether then was an appropriate time for my dad to squeeze in a quick round of golf. Apparently, despite maternal disapproval, it was :-).
To be continued….