(The one I didn’t enjoy much)
The morning sickness was a billion times worse than it had been with Connie, I had horrible PVG so I had to finish work early, and I was in and out of hospital with reduced fetal movement and high blood pressure when I was pregnant with Angus.
The whole pregnancy made me feel like a whale with a water allergy.
The third time I ended up in the hospital with reduced movement they decided to induce me. I had 10 days before my due date so it wasn’t particularly early and the doctor felt it would be safe enough.
In my head they’d induce me Sunday night and I’d be snuggling my cute little newborn on Monday morning.
I went in on Sunday night, they gave me my first pessary (If you’re not aware what that is, they stick a tablet up your hoo ha and leave it there for six hours. How pleasant.) at eleven o’clock. Nothing happened. Except them waking me up every few hours to check my temperature, blood pressure and hook me up the the monitor for half an hour to check on the baby and see if I was having any contractions. I wasn’t. Not even a little.
Six am came around and nothing had happened so we started the process again. It is really not comfortable to have someone poking around down there to put a tablet in the right place. I spent the day marching up and down the stairs, sometimes sideways because I heard that helps and I was open to anything, I had Daniel buy a pack of cards so I could best him at rummy and I stuffed my face with a Harry Gow dream ring or two, if you’ve never had one, you’re missing out.
Still nothing was moving, I was having very small contractions by about one in the afternoon but nothing much. I couldn’t even feel them, they were just showing up slightly on the monitor. So I got another pessary in. Yay.
I started getting regular contractions a couple of hours after that but they were’nt very strong or very close together. Daniel was sent home at eleven and I spent a sleepless night on the ward again. They had gotten a bit stronger by the morning and at eleven I was sent up to the labour suite four centimetres dilated! Yay! I’d meet baby soon!
I started off bouncing on an excersise ball. I was hoping for a similar labour to the one I had with Connie, nice and easy with as little drugs as possible.
The contractions were getting more and more painful. The midwives were checking me regularly but nothing much was happening and I had to get a drip to get the contractions more frequent and stronger.
It was awful. The contractions were about a billion times worse than I remembered with Connie and the gas and air was doing nothing. The midwife checked me again at half past four and I was only seven centimetres. SEVEN CENTIMETRES! I had been in the labour suite since eleven am, five and a half hours, and I’d only dilated three bloody centimetres?!
If I’d been nine or ten and nearly ready to push I would’ve carried on but I just couldn’t. The pain was really intense and I couldn’t carry on like that much longer. I asked for Diamorphine (which I’ve just googled, it’s also known as heroin. Fucking heroin. I did heroin in labour! Holy crow!) however, it did absolutely nothing and I ended up crying for my Mum. Doesn’t matter how old you are, you sometimes just need your Mum. Oh and an epidural, you sometimes need an epidural too. I was lucky, I got both within an hour.
So with the epidural, which was really lovely, even the actual part where they stick it in the small of your back while trying not to paralyse you was softened by the rather handsome Irish anaesthetist administering it, I felt a hell of a lot better.
I was told it was time to start pushing at about half past eleven. I pushed and pushed and pushed. Nothing. Baby was coming slightly forward when I pushed and then going back when I stopped. The midwife decided to speak to the surgeon who came to examine me.
Well, if I thought the midwives had been a bit rough with my hoo ha it was nothing compared to the surgeon. Holy fuuuuuck.
I had to go to theatre where they’d work out if baby could be delivered using forceps or if I’d need a caesarian section. Panic. I felt panic. This was the exact opposite of what I wanted from labour. Daniel was rushed off to get into scrubs while my Mum and the poor midwife tried to reassure me.
I don’t remember much of that, I cried, a lot. He was super rough and I think I ended up screaming at him “Get your fucking fingers out of there!” It was probably at that point he decided I needed a section. They had to top up my epidural. It wasn’t working, they were getting worried they’d have to put me to sleep. It thankfully started to work and there was constant flurry of activity. Daniel wasn’t allowed in until the last minute, so a poor nurse had to try and comfort me while I wailed that I wanted to go home.
Angus eventually made his way into the world at 02:18 on the Wednesday morning weighing a healthy eight pound ten ounces.
To the midwives, surgeons, nurses and anesthetists who helped bring my baby into the world, thank you. And sorry again for being a crying, yelling mess. I find comfort in the idea that it’s not the worst thing you’ve seen. Even if that isn’t true.