I began to write this when my son was 11 weeks old and finished it when he was about 6 months. It's kind of jerky in parts but as a tribute to where I was then I feel the need to leave it as is. A great deal has happened in the last year and I've been to hell and back. I became seriously depressed and suicidal from my PTSD and had to work very hard to come back which I did with lots of counselling, herbs, and starting a group for other survivors of birth trauma which has grown amazingly. I'm in much much better shape now and mostly just feel deep sadness about how my son was born and how I was treated. I hope that this story will be helpful to those of us planning any kind of birth or who've had any kind of birth. I often find women start to blame themselves for poor hospital experiences, having trusted the hospital to help them have a good birth and yet ended up with the whole cascade etc. Well I was a really informed consumer, and when I went to the hospital I had my DP, best friend and my MW with me and it all still went pearshaped. While being assertive can be helpful in hospitals, once you walk in they have the power and you are no longer in control. So don't beat yourself up about it.
I'll post another story at some point about coming back from the PTSD-induced hell and hopefully another brith story too, since we're currently ttc
J
I'll post another story at some point about coming back from the PTSD-induced hell and hopefully another brith story too, since we're currently ttc
J
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| I can’t start with labour because I think so much happens before a birth that is an integral part of it. Partly, this is a record for my son to have when he’s older. Perhaps he’ll have children of his own and then he and his partner may like to know details about my pregnancy and his birth. I also want to record my experiences for my midwife, Annie, and offer information to women who will read this on her web site. If you’re trying to decide where to give birth, I can give you the story of how I decided and why. I feel doubly qualified to assert the strengths of home birth this as I feel like I had a homebirth and a hospital birth in the one experience. I have wanted a homebirth since I was very young. I bought and read a lot of Sheila Kitzinger’s work in my first feminist flush in my early 20s. I only knew one woman who planned a homebirth and I remember what a revelation it was to me as a child, that such things were possible. I felt then, and still do, that birth is an intimate event and not a pathological one, which women need to occur on their own terms. Our son was conceived at home, without bright lights, people we don’t know, without invasive technology. So I thought that was how he should be born. Once I was pregnant, I also found from research that statistically, women who give birth are much happier about their experience, and much safer – as are babies. I wanted a pregnancy with a known care giver, who would know me well by the time I was in labour. I wanted to know I would be able to put all my faith in my carers when the time came that I really needed them. And so it was! We tried for two years to conceive our son. They were two very stressful years in some ways as I had two miscarriages and had to deal with my mother’s terminal cancer. Then in July 2002, we bought our house in Melbourne and moved down here to be near my work at La Trobe University. Mum died in September, which was sad by not unexpected after four difficult, complex and demanding years of her illness. I have polycystic ovarian syndrome which complicated our attempts at pregnancy significantly but after I completely devoted myself to nothing but conceiving for the whole of January 2003, we finally achieved a successful pregnancy in February 2003. So I feel like I was pregnant for a year, really, as Conor was born in November. With that wonderful intuition that nature gives us sometimes, I just knew that this pregnancy was different from the other two. I was hugely excited and a bit overwhelmed. We’d waited so long and it finally happened. Now what? I was fine for the first few weeks apart from a major sneezing attack. Go figure. I began to feel nauseous about 8 weeks and it lasted until 16 weeks. Ugh. Morning sickness??? Who the hell called it that? I wasn’t particularly ill in the mornings, I was ill by lunchtime and then crook all bloody night. Not nauseous enough to vomit, sadly, although I did have one spectacular puking session after which I rang Annie to get some sympathy. That’s one of the benefits of having your own midwife! We went to Annie for the first time, mostly to meet her and check out how we felt about her, when I was about 12 weeks. We heard Conor’s heart beat for the first time that day and I can still remember the thrill of it. Intellectually I knew there was someone in there but there was always a tiny part of my brain that couldn’t quite grasp it and thought maybe I was kidding myself. It rapidly became physically obvious that someone was on board as well! I was growing at a somewhat alarming rate at first and since twins run in Trevor’s family we thought we’d make sure we weren’t carrying on the tradition. After a lot of research, we had decided not to have an ultrasound with my pregnancy. I felt like there was no doubt that I was pregnant, I was well under the so-called dangerous age for issues like Down Syndrome, and I didn’t want unnecessary interventions, particularly machine driven ones for which there is little evidence of need. I also felt a strong sense that I was invading my baby’s privacy. I thought it was a funny feeling to have but I went with it anyway. In the end, we decided to have it done to make sure how many babies we were expecting – I had a big tummy quite fast! I also had my blood tests done the same day and it was an excellent reminder of why I had chosen to avoid hospitals throughout my pregnancy and birth. Not that the staff were nasty, they were just patronising and not very helpful. When the nurse asked me ‘put a sample in this, sweetie’ I asked him what it was for. Standard hospital response from him: “Everyone does it!” That’s not a scientifically based reason so I persisted and got the information I wanted. It also seemed to me that the process was humiliating and part of the training women get in the obstetric system so as to be used to being treated poorly before they even get to birth. You are given a clear plastic specimen jar and sent across a public corridor to a (filthy) public toilet. There is no cover for the jar so your wee is on display for the world to see. While I was there, a Muslim woman was trying to explain to staff that she couldn’t see a male doctor and the staff were patronisingly telling her it’s all there was. And that the male doctors were ‘more qualified than the women and we can’t let people have a preference.’ That set me thinking! We got through the ultrasound which was conducted by a pleasant enough woman who didn’t introduce herself – another par for the course hospital move. She also pressed so hard into my abdomen that it was really painful. I protested and she apologised saying that operators often do that because they think they can get a better result by pressing down more firmly. Aha. Well Conor behaved like he did for Annie. Any time she tried to listen to him he would swim off and make her chase him. He was the same for the ultrasound which made me feel that my instinct about not spying on him was correct. We had also discussed quite a lot whether or not we wanted to know what brand we were having. We were both somewhat ambivalent. In the end, we asked the technician to write it on a piece of paper so we could decide later what to do. Once we got home, we had to look. It said ‘the fetus is male’. I was very surprised. I knew from when we were trying that the odds were on that we would have a girl. There are very scientific ways you can do this. It’s not about what you eat, or the phase of the moon – a taxi driver told me that one… If you have sex before ovulation, the male sperm sprint up to the cervix and then cark it for lack of an egg. Then you ovulate, and the endurance runner female sperm are there to fertilise your egg. Voila! We had sex on the actual day that I ovulated as well as before it so the sprinters had made it there. And predicting ovulation is also an exact science. With the correct information, training and help, you can pinpoint ovulation with cervical mucus. People who try to conceive this was have a nearly 70% chance of being successful unlike those who bonk indiscriminately, and have only about a 25% chance. We had learned all this! Well I took a moment to absorb this new information. After my initial shock that it was a boy, there was a greater shock of ‘It has a sex at all!’ This made it a realler person again and was rather overwhelming for me. I needed to name him as soon as possible to help me with the bonding process. It was a strange sensation to know that I had a fella in my guts. I was also sad that all my feminist principles and knowledge and celebration around being a woman was not to be shared with my child. It was like a little grieving time for this. So we hopped on the internet – very modern, we are – and named him Conor. It was, oddly enough, the first name we saw, and also the one that resonated with us both. I felt like it vibrated in my uterus. It also means Hound Lover and as we have loads of pets, it seemed too perfect! I also wanted him to have a middle name and chose Cormac. Trev thinks middle names are a wank but his is George so he was perhaps somewhat coloured by that. I really like my middle name! We had already decided that he would have my surname too which rather shocks some people. People scare so easily! Basically it was important to me that he have my name and Trev didn’t care either way. So Conor Cormac Stokes Fraser it became! And no hyphen because we both thought that was wanky. What do two hyphens do when they have their own kids??? But I digress. My pregnancy was as normal as they seem to be in books. I am a small woman and there’s no where for a tummy to go but way out in front. Annie kept telling me it was beautiful, and Trev kept saying “What a fine figure of a woman!” I loved it. It’s the only time in my life I’ve been able to wear body hugging clothes and feel acceptable. I wore a short skirt and high heels to a party about 24 weeks and it felt great! Being with a midwife like Annie means you get lots and lots of info. Homebirthing is about making choices and taking responsibility for yourself. When we first started looking for a midwife we were aware that they are uninsured. A couple of things struck me about this. Firstly, hospitals are insured up to the wazoo but it’s not actually for the consumer’s benefit and it is no guarantee of safety. In some ways, the way in which obstetricians and hospitals work mean that you are in more danger not less as they interfere in the natural processes in birth so as to be seen to be doing something and hopefully thus avoiding possible litigation in future. Secondly, sometimes things go wrong in a birth. No amount of compensation can help you with the loss of a child. I figured that I needed to be at peace with these ideas. The lack of insurance never bothered me once. If a midwife goes into practice knowing that a decision she makes can result in her losing her house and livelihood, she’s pretty bloody dedicated to what she does. I bet there aren’t many obstetricians who would practice with that kind of devotion. The responsibility is far greater, then, in a homebirth but so are the rewards. In the aftermath of my ultimately terrible experience, Annie once said to me that she was so sorry that she couldn’t do anything to make it different. I said, “Annie, when I booked you for a homebirth I was aware of the responsibility it entailed on my part. You were not responsible for that decision and you were not responsible for the decisions that we made after that.” A midwife bonds with you in a way that hospital doctors very rarely care to. It’s a funny relationship in some ways. You’re a client but more. But not quite a friend although you are treated warmly and affectionately. It is a relationship that you need to build and trust as you will need that woman more than you ever need anyone in your life. I’ve heard from other women that as soon as Annie walks in the door in their labour they feel better. It was like that for me too. I had my partner and a very close friend but the reassurance Annie gives in just her presence is so great. I invested my trust in her so if she had told me that leaping off the roof was called for, I’d have asked for a ladder. This was why the decision to go to hospital was made so quickly. Annie presented the information that I wasn’t dilated much more than 5cms and his head was in a position where he couldn’t come out past my internal bony parts. I asked her what she would do and she said if it was her, she would go for a caesar. I know that this was very upsetting for her, although she didn’t show it to me. I cried and cried as we gathered everything up to go to the car. And I’m crying as I type this. It was so terrible. I felt like a failure and a laughingstock. All the negativity that people come out with when you choose a homebirth was all there in my head. All the people who had frowned or pursed their lips. I felt like they had won and I was being punished for my pride in thinking I could birth at home. I felt so ashamed and such a failure. I went into labour at 1.30am. I was just heading to bed and as I walked across the bedroom floor to our bathroom I felt a little pop and splish! I thought, “Oh, that was a waters popping thing!” I went to the loo, confirmed it and said to my soundly sleeping partner, “Looks like you’re not going to work tomorrow.” He was pretty pleased, on a few counts. We had been waiting a long time to meet this baby! Being sensible, and well drilled by my midwife, I said I was going to bed with a wheaty heaty and going to sleep. I got into bed, had some Rescue Remedy and wrapped the wheaty heaty across my lower tummy. Three contractions close together put paid to the notion of sleeping. I pretty much flew out of the bed – as much as any hugely pregnant woman flies out of a waterbed. I went into the loungeroom and tried another possie, draped over the bean bag leaning on the wheaty heaty. Trev covered me over with a duvet and got his own duvet and we tried lying there. Early labour means very little in the way of endorphins flowing just yet so it was still more painful than I could sleep through. I was also feeling a little nervous, trying to feel out these new sensations, a little excited. I kept shifting around and trying to get comfy but gave up and got in the bath. About 3.30am I decided that things really were going to keep going and that my best friend, Yvette, needed to be called. She lives in Wagga so it was a bit of a trip for her. I lazed in the bath breathing slowly through the low down tightenings and jokingly saying to Trev, “Remind me again why natural birth is such a great idea?” I continued in this state for the next few hours. I felt very tired! About 6am Trev called our midwives who needed to know that we would need them later in the day. Annie suggested I get in the birth pool if I felt like I wanted to – I did! I flopped into the filling pool and kept breathing through the tightenings and moaning a little now and then. I was fairly conscious at this point, not being in strong labour yet, but not able to ignore the contractions either. Trev took some video of me with the early morning sunlight on me in our lovely loungeroom with its view of trees and the backyard. About the only thing I really didn’t find pleasant at this time was being very tired. I really wanted to sleep but I didn’t know how to go about it. Time had no meaning already and I was aware that it was light but the time seemed to have gone very quickly. At some point, Yvette arrived. Normally it takes about 5 hours to come from Wagga but her car had malfunctioned all the way causing her considerable stress. It coughed and died at the end of my street, so she ran down in neutral and parked out the front of our house. Instead of being able to recover and breathe deeply for a while, she felt driven to come to my side so she bustled through the door and straight over to the pool. I was so happy to see her! We settled down with her watching me and holding my hand and stroking me now and then. Not too long after this (time has no meaning…) Annie turned up to have a preliminary look at me. I asked for a VE and she said I was at about 3 cms. Apparently this is quite good for all that time in very early labour. Who knew these things could take so long? I told her how tired I was and she said bed and sleep were the only things for me. I had no desire to lie down, and very little confidence that I could sleep. Annie and Yvette tucked me up in the spare room bed. Trev went off for a kip too. Annie left and Yvette and I lay in the bed. I squeezed a comb to press pressure points on my hand to help with the contractions. I actually did sleep! And labour progressed pretty well. In between contractions, Yvette said I snored my head off. Yep, pregnancy is a glamorous and romantic business! After about 2 hours, (yes, guessing again) the contractions became fiercer and moved into the tops of my legs. I would wake up from sleep and say “Leeeeeeeeggggggsss” in a really pathetic way and Yvette would massage my thighs. I ordered her about like a slave at this point, so labour really was kicking in nicely. “Too hard!” or “More!” I barked at her. She also talked me through trying to visualise each contraction as a mountain to climb up and then slide down the other side. I was trying to relax, let go and go back to sleep as soon as I possibly could as the contractions subsided. Trev woke up and came back in during this and could see how things had changed since he’d gone to bed. I was being fed through this time too, having bites of mango and sips of Gatorade. Just as well too since The Puking set in at this time. At the height of almost every contractions, I hurled mightily and Goddess, it was good! The force of the contractions meant that I was projectile vomiting so Trev was holding the bucket at some distance from me. He had a 2 bucket system going so he could leave one with us and go rinse the used one, come back and swap them over. The relief of vomiting was marvellous and I could Annie saying in my head that she liked to hear a woman had been vomiting when she was in labour. It felt very freeing and purging as well. When I first got out of the pool I squatted in my kitchen holding the bench and Annie held my sit bones apart in case that was the problem. She held on while I pushed through another contraction. This not making a difference we walked slowly to Conor’s bedroom where the bed had been prepared with plastic sheeting in case my membranes ruptured and she examined me. I was so scared something was wrong by now. Carey stood at the head of the bed with me, holding my hand, and spoke softly to me telling me to look into her eyes and breathe slowly through any contractions. Annie examined me slowly and carefully with me telling her when I was relaxed enough for her to proceed. I couldn’t get in the car and I was still crying and holding onto Carey. There were pillows for me and I decided to lie on my side. I lay on my left side so I could hold Yvette’s hand while we whizzed through the night. Trev said later he was pretty impressed with some of Annie’s cornering. When we got there, we went in through a side door where the staff looked at me with sympathy while they put the number tag on me. Annie held onto me all the time which I really needed. I was offered a wheelchair but it didn’t seem like a good idea so we went up in the lift with me walking. It took me a distinct mental adjustment and decision to separate Conor from his birth. At first, sometimes when I looked at him or held him, I instinctively went back to the pain and fear and distress. It’s not that the gift of him made me forget. God knows! For the first fortnight I cried a lot. I still want to cry quite often. I couldn’t bear to see pictures of myself pregnant as I wanted to rush back and comfort the poor woman in the photos who was smiling in happy innocence and ignorance of her intended fate. I have lots of pre and post photos in an album with captions except for the ones of his birth and the hospital. I can hardly look at those. They make me feel sick with distress. I have framed some lovely photos of myself pregnant and will hang them in the house in the next few days. I have needed to revisit and reclaim my entire pregnancy as it was so shattered by the brutality of the hospital staff. That process is still continuing. When I was labouring at home I thought (in brief lucid moments) that this was a doddle and I could happily do it again and have another child. If I had thought about it in the hospital, and I can’t remember if I did, I would have been quite sure that another pregnancy was crazy. In the weeks after his birth I felt like I would rather be run over by earth moving equipment than face another labour. Trev said that during the birth as he watched me in such unrelenting pain with no one helping, that the idea of us having another child after this one had gone right out the door. He never wanted me to go through this kind of stuff again. I have mixed feelings now. On the one hand, I know that vbac after c-sec is safer than a repeat c-sec. I have no doubts that vbac is good, right and possible. What I don’t know, is am I strong enough to labour at home to the end? Was I really in strong labour? [I was actually!] Was I kidding myself and duping everyone? I know that to achieve another pregnancy I must be at peace with this one and mostly over the fear of a repeat performance. And my experience of c-sec is to feel that I haven’t given birth at all. At best, I have made the decisions that led to a healthy baby. But I did not push him out and scoop him up to my breast as I imagined doing so many times. I felt completely divorced from his birth in the end. I had no idea how long it took or what happened during most of it. The first hour or so in the hospital involved urine and blood tests, constant foetal and contraction monitoring with 2 belts fastened around me. Conor was stuck in a weird position so the only place his heartbeat could be found was mostly in the low right hand corner of my pelvis. The pressure of his head, my moving pelvis and the monitor was excruciating. It didn’t seem to work very well and had to be pushed into my body by someone to pick up his heart. His heartbeat was perfectly fine. I had been labouring a long time but he had been fine throughout. He’d had no drugs so he was not distressed due to adverse reactions. I sucked on the nitrous oxide to help dull some of the terrible pain. The midwife was patronising and keen to talk about her own pregnancy. She wanted my second midwife as her own midwife for her next birth – an irony not lost on those of us watching her substandard care. The first ob that came in was quite pleasant. She introduced herself (this is noteworthy) and said she needed to give me a VE – note how staff in hospitals don’t ask permission, they announce. While she had her hand inside me, she also announced that she would give Conor a foetal scalp monitor. We all said “No!” so she didn’t. Why didn’t she seek to discuss this beforehand? Why would I be in a position to make a decision with a hand in my vagina? Not that she was asking for my permission. I am so thankful we stopped her from doing it. They are useless and traumatic for babies and cause foetal distress. She could not seem to understand that I had not gone into labour at 1.30am that day – ie 1 ½ hours before arriving at the hospital. We said over and over, that I had been in labour for 24 hours. This could have been avoided if Annie’s notes were treated with the respect due to them as the notes of another experienced, trained professional. Then we were left alone except for intermittent visits from the midwife who strapped the monitor on me without my consent several times despite my partner asking why this was so. She kept saying, in a very patronising manner, I had to give them X number of minutes of uninterrupted heartbeat. Since I had been asking for an epidural and a caesarean since arrival and nothing was forthcoming, I gave in. I was concerned, and so were my support team, that the atmosphere was so difficult that I would not get the help I needed if I were perceived to be a noncompliant patient. I hate being called a patient, by the way. In my notes I am constantly called “the Pt” and it merely emphasises the impersonal treatment I received. It was like being in a factory on a line where things happened in a particular order regardless of the presenting evidence. The contractions were still strong and painful for me although weaker than they would be in an effective labour – this should have been another clue that something was wrong not just that my labour needing restarting. My endorphins were shot to pieces by the fear, distress, bright lights and staff treatment. Yvette kept turning the lights down again after staff left as they insisted without any consultation on having overhead lights on for even menial tasks. And the door cracked more loudly than a door in a horror movie. Over and over and over and over and over as people marched in and out. My partner and I were both asking when the anaesthetist was going to arrive. He asked repeatedly as he was being given evasive, patronising responses which did not provide any information at all. At one point, a security guard arrived, apparently called by staff who were bothered by Trev’s assertive questioning. I must say, that at no point were I or my companions rude, threatening or aggressive. I made an especial effort to be polite and engage with the staff in a helpful manner. This would, I hoped, facilitate better and more appropriate communication from them, as well as ease my path through the hospital. It did not. Despite other labouring women and their partners having their names on the door to their room, this was never done for us. As a result staff wandered in without really knowing who we were. I asked a number of staff who they were and why they were in the room since people did not introduce themselves or behave respectfully in the space of a labouring woman. Yvette tried repeatedly to ascertain information about how long it would be until I had an epidural. After she had tried asking the question several times in different ways, she gave up and asked about hospital protocols. Given that I had been in labour for 24 hours, how long would I have to wait for a caesarean? And if I had been labouring in the hospital, how long would they have waited before allowing me the operation? This information was also not given and she became offended by the constant rudeness, evasion and patronising so she stated that she was tired of it. The midwife Sue became cross and flounced away saying she didn’t have time for this as she had real work to do. The main ob did not introduce herself. She scanned the room ignoring me and asking my support people if she could give me a VE. Annie suggested that I try to relax for it by leaning one leg outwards onto her lap. I let go and tried to give in to the procedure as I know it’s more painful when you’re tense. Once the ob touched me I felt like she had split me in half. I lifted off the bed in agony and cried “Get out!” to try and stop the pain she was causing. She ignored this completely. She wanted to perform ARM and vaguely appeared to be seeking my consent. I looked to Annie for guidance but she had been blocked from my view. I looked to Yvette to see what she could read from Annie and I had to accept. This was not consent. The ob reached for the hook and I felt a pop and tear and liquor flooding from me. It was clear which was yet another indication that Conor was not in distress. If only the same were true for me. I also sustained a labial graze which I discovered the next day. I can only imagine that this was part of the terrible pain the ob caused me. I had a couple of VEs from Annie over the previous hours and because she was slow, gentle and I trusted her, while it wasn’t pleasant, it didn’t cause me to scream. After the VE she made some attempt at a bedside chat involving patting me on my belly. This made me cringe. Not only had she caused me terrible pain, I had no idea who she was and she was patronising and rude. She said, “You can’t come in here demanding a caesarean with the first niggling pains of labour.” I was so shocked I could not reply and I needed all my capabilities to get through the pain and fear which had grown with her appearance. And obviously the staff still weren’t taking any notice of Annie’s notes on me. My impression, in retrospect, is that she did not believe I had been in strong labour despite this being carefully documented and despite us saying it was so. She implied that because my membranes had not ruptured (I’d only had a hindwater leak at this point) that I wasn’t really in labour. So if there was some kind of management plan, I suspect what she was thinking was that rupturing my membrane would put me into labour and then that was why she thought she should come back and check me four hours later. The fact that his head was stuck doesn’t seem to have rated on the radar. Maybe she also thought that because his head wasn’t applied to my cervix that the position of it was unimportant and would just naturally move, especially if there was no cushion of fluid in front of it. I don’t know how far I dilated, or if I did at all, after the membranes were ruptured but I do know that the pain was horrific for quite some time before the anaesthetist showed up the second time. So although I was not asked and therefore did not consent to an augmentation of my labour, by rupturing my membranes this was achieved anyway. I was not offered appropriate pain relief to deal with an increase in pain at this point. This ob also insisted on asking my partner questions about my labour which he kept referring to Annie. Why ask him when there was a professional with me for my labour who had extensive notes? This could have saved the staff a great deal of work. The ob left and then a while later the anaesthetist arrived. He was gentle and friendly. He began to talk to me about what was involved in epidurals and then a code green was called and he had to leave. There was, apparently, no other anaesthetist available. So I went back into the mist of pain that had increased dramatically with the unnecessary rupture of my membranes. My contractions had woken up again and were increasingly painful. I had piggyback contractions of 2 and 3 in a row with no break. All I could do was close my eyes, suck on the gas and survive. I was tethered like a goat for slaughter by the drip and the monitors. I was on my back and when I opened my eyes I saw Trev there holding my hand. I have little memory of what was going on or how much time passed from this point. About 2 hours later, at 4.40am the anaesthetist showed up again. This time he got down to brass tacks asap. I was still having big contractions but I had to park my arse on the very edge of the ludicrous bed contraption and lean on Annie with all my weight. Poor Annie. He inserted the catheter into my spine and apparently I bled a lot. The hospital midwife went all faint and had to leave the room so I’m lucky I wasn’t depending on her for physical support! It felt like pressure and weird but not really painful. Mind you, if a car had run over me at that point it probably would have felt like a walk in the park compared with the contractions. I asked several times how long it would take to work. I was so desperate for pain relief after being in the hospital nearly 5 hours at this point without anything but gas and my pain steadily increasing. I simply could not accept the repeatedly offered pethidine because, not only is it frequently ineffective, it crosses the placenta. I had chosen home birth so as to avoid any chance of my baby sustaining injuries from the kind of common interventions in hospital, including drug overdose and I wasn’t going to give in and allow it to happen to him just because it was all the hospital was prepared to offer me. Why was there no other anaesthetist available? The epidural took a little while to work and I was still in pain and using the gas for the first half hour or so. I had been left a little pump to use to ‘top up’ the dose as I needed it but it did nothing. The worst pain was in the area where the monitor had been forced into my pelvis. Not until I got into theatre did I get enough pain relief to take that away. About 40 minutes after the epidural was given to me, the second ob arrived back in to tell me to be a good girl. She patted me on the belly – again – and said that I would now be monitored and she would come back in 4 hours and see how I was. She said that syntocin would be ordered to get my labour going again like the massive contractions hadn’t existed, and she didn’t offer to check to see if I had dilated anyway. This was not ok with me and I became assertive. She was still behaving like I was just a naughty panicked girl who wasn’t prepared to go through labour and this really offended me. I said to her that I did not want a caesarean for any reason other than my baby was stuck. I said that I had planned a home birth to avoid these kinds of procedures and now I found myself needing more help. I told her that her offer of syntocin would most likely put my baby into distress as he was stuck and would not come out vaginally. Then we would both be in greater distress, and he would have to be c-sec anyway but with us in a more exhausted state than I already was. I explained the notion of the cascade of interventions that would lead to c-sec anyway and said I still wanted it done before my baby became distressed. She was very unhappy with my assertions and said she would have to discuss it with her colleague. I said, “Why don’t you bring your colleague in here and I’ll discuss it with them too?” as I was tired of being talked about and manoeuvred around with no respect or control. She angrily left the room and then came back fairly soon after with a clipboard from which she angrily read a list of possible (and largely unproveable and inaccurate) complications – I would never birth vaginally again, I would have placenta previa, I would suffer uterine rupture etc. I was so relieved that I was going to get what I needed that I smiled graciously and allowed her to patronise me further. I signed the consent form, so did Trevor, she left the room and we never spoke again. I never saw her again at all since she did not speak to or acknowledge me in the theatre. A few more things happened after this involving me being prepped for theatre. I was changed out of my nightie and into a hospital gown and moved onto a trolley. People I’d never seen or met came into the room and saw me naked. Trev and I signed more forms in which he promised that he wouldn’t misbehave in theatre. I had a few minutes alone with Trev and Yvette and she videoed me looking exhausted by relieved and cracking jokes about still having a honeymoon fresh vagina after childbirth. We were all so shellshocked by the trauma of the hours without pain relief and the attitude of the staff but pleased that something was going to happen. I was so flat that I did not think to ask for more exact information about the procedure, believing as I did, that it involved an abdominal incision, the removal of the baby and then being sewn up again. How naïve! I was wheeled down to theatre and it was all rather hazy as I hadn’t slept for about 48 hours by this point and I was in shock from the pain of the last hours. I told the anaesthetist about the pain I was still having on my side and he topped it up so I felt absolutely nothing. It was a horrible unnatural feeling. I was spreadeagled on the table with one hand available for holding. Annie was next to me and I said I wanted to pat my belly goodbye before anything happened. There is little room for letting go of the pregnant self in a medicalised scene. She said that was fine. There was a curtain up over me but I could reach with my free left hand to pat it. Annie took a photo for me. Then a voice shouted from across the room, “Get your hand off that!” I did not, at first, realise that it was meant for me. Then the voice went on saying stuff about how they couldn’t have people just wandering around in the theatre. This must have meant Annie who then responded by introducing herself and trying to smooth the waters – as she had tried all night to do. The voice was not interested in calm or respectful communication and said, “Well my name’s _____, if you want it for the complaint form.” There was then a difficult time as Annie tried to get permission for me to have Conor in recovery. The answer was a flat no. Annie tried negotiating given the hospital policy permits it and she has had other clients who’ve enjoyed it. “I don’t care what happens during the day,” said the voice, “It won’t happen on my watch.” I was so out of it that I didn’t realise the significance of this at the time. Annie explained to me about the noise of the suction device which would suck the liquor out in case it startled me. The staff never told me what was happening or communicated with me in any way. At some point I heard a little squawk and a tiny bundle was lifted out of the curtained area and taken to a brightly lit table where staff stood around. Conor had arrived. I felt a catch of excitement and relief that my job of protecting him from the hospital was done. He was checked and given a Vitamin K injection to which we had consented as he was having a c-sec. Had he been born at home he would not have had it. Trev was lurking near the little table trying to see Conor and Annie took some photos of my little boy. I called out repeatedly “Don’t wash him!” as I was scared they would clean all the good smells and liquids off him and I wouldn’t have the chance to meet him as he was. I also tried to ask if he had a caput (the staff had apparently discussed his caput outside my room in the labour ward) but a nurse by the table just kept smiling inanely at me without replying. Next thing, a little wrapped bundle appeared in front of me. Annie said, “Suck on his fingers.” Which I did, and thank God for it since they took him away. It didn’t occur to me, in my addled state, that he would now be gone and that was it. I was feeling a little nauseous and asked from some Maxalon which the anaesthetist gave me through the drip. I began to doze off as I didn’t have to guard my baby any more. I assume I was stitched up and given the suppositories to which I had not consented after this. I woke up shortly after in recovery feeling warm, comfortable and disoriented. I was the only person in the room with the nurse and I was attached to all sorts of monitors and the like so I could see my own blood pressure and heart rate. I seemed to be fine to me. I asked straight away to be taken to my baby. It was a little before 7am. The nurse said that the wards were too busy to send someone to get me and I would have to wait. Time ticked by. When shift change occurred, I was asked if I had any pain. I said, “Yes I have some slight pain in a part of my pelvis where my baby was stuck. It was the last part to be affected by the epidural and I believe it’s wearing off there now. “No,” said one nurse to the other, “She hasn’t any pain.” I was a little startled by this. I then asked again to be taken to Conor and the nurse made a phone call. I said, “My baby hasn’t been fed and he was born over an hour ago.” She called again a little later and finally a midwife showed up to take me to the ward. As I was leaving the recovery nurse said, “See you next year.” I said, “You’ve got to be joking. Go through this again?!” She said, “Oh you’ll forget, they all do.” Then she said to the midwife, “Oh this one has all sorts of plans; she wants to feed her baby.” I was offended by being patronised yet again but I couldn’t be bothered saying anything. I had had enough of them all. While I was in recovery, Conor had been put in a plastic box to be observed. Despite having Apgars of 9 at 5 minutes, he was deemed needing the care of a plastic box for 30 mins instead of skin on skin contact with his mother. The registrar’s report shows that he was perfectly healthy. Trev and Yvette went with him and he was never out of their sight. They were both bone weary as well. Trev had a cup of tea and changed out of theatre drag and then sped back to pick Conor up and give him skin contact. Yvette stayed with him talking to him the whole time and taking footage to show me as she knew how devastated I would be by this unnecessary separation. They left the nursery with him and went up to the ward to wait for me. Yvette asked several times when I was coming as the baby had not met his mother yet and time was passing. Staff were, again, rude and unhelpful. When they finally consented to tell her which room would be mine, they also added that she was not welcome in it until they had “settled” me. She ignored them utterly and went straight to the room and tried to put my baby bundle and belongings out in such a way that it might take the edge of the unfamiliarity and coldness of traditional hospital design. Finally I arrived. Trev came in and he had Conor in his arms for me. I took him straight away and tried to drink him in. I have video of it and it shows a woman with chronic fluid retention who can hardly speak. I thought that I was just tired and that was why when I blinked I had to force my eyes open. Now I know that I was given morphine so I met my baby in a very drugged state. I remember very little about it as a consequence. I have an overriding memory of his tiny little moon-shaped round face and I joked about him being Bert Newton’s love child. Yvette says that he was comforted by being with me straight away and that he knew me. I remember him crying a very little and just knowing that he was releasing his fear and surprise at where he had suddenly landed after his lovely warm dark snug burrow – he is still scared by sucking, or slurping type noises. Trev went home a little while later to ring family and get some rest. Yvette took Conor and had a little rest so I could close my misbehaving eyes. I began to eat and drink as soon as it arrived. The midwife tried to tell me to eat lightly but I wasn’t having any of it. I was fine. I drank 3 litres of water and ate almost all the 2 meals provided. As soon as the epidural wore off I began working out how to get out of bed. Yvette suggested that I go home that day and I was so exhausted and tired of fighting with the hospital that I said I didn’t care. I am so glad she fired me up and helped me do it! We told the afternoon midwife that I wanted to go and he began helping me mobilise, taking out the catheter, and telling me what I ought to achieve to help my plan. Much later that night, the doctor finally arrived who had to sign all the forms. He asked to examine Conor and I refused saying that he’d been monitored all day and was perfectly fine, as well as which he’d just had a feed and was asleep. He said I was leaving against advice and was fairly pleasant, especially compared with staff the night before. He told me I would need drugs to take for the pain so I asked him very clearly, “Will this pass into my breastmilk?” “No.” he said. What crap! Once I did my own research I saw that breastfeeding is a clear contraindication for the 2 drugs he’d prescribed. I assume that these are routinely given so babies are being exposed to major narcotic-type drugs every day in Australia unless their parents find out for themselves. I didn’t need them anyway as I didn’t find the scar particularly painful. Eventually we got out of there and home to our own environment. The pool was still in the corner and the house in chaos which had developed during my labour, but it was to stay that way for quite some time. With a choice between recovering and being with a newborn baby, what household would choose housework??? As a postscript to all this, my milk was slow to come in and Conor was comp fed via a tube attached to my breast for 24 hours. And I developed a major ear infection which is apparently found in water. The infection was so extreme that it dislocated my jaw and I did have to take the drugs the hospital gave me. But since my milk was shy that this point Conor didn’t get any in his system. Yvette stayed a little over a week and was a huge and wonderful support that we couldn’t have coped without especially when I got so incredibly ill a few days after coming home. I was deeply distressed by the hospital’s treatment of us and cried quite a lot for the first 2 weeks. I developed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder involving flashbacks, distress, inability to look at pregnant or labouring women, I couldn’t even look at photos of myself pregnant and many other indications as well; a clear text book case, in fact. It also drifted into depression and suicidal thoughts for a couple of weeks. But the story of afterwards in another story and too long to be told here. I love my son with a passion that sometimes surprises me and I am putting my life back together with professional help and support. My recovery was slowed by the number of people who would not believe that the experience was as bad as it was. I have been treated as if I’m somehow deliberately being distressed although to what end I don’t know. Given a choice between PTSD and health, no sane person would choose PTSD. A great deal of invalidation both from friends, acquaintances and family ensued. The hoary old chestnut of “You got a healthy baby so why don’t you concentrate on that and be thankful?!” has come up a lot. If the best thing to be said about my experience in the hospital is that they didn’t actually kill either of us, there’s something very wrong! |
I'm sorry you were treated so poorly. I do have a question - hard to believe since you expressed your feelings in such through detail (which was wonderful, BTW) - why do you think Annie told you to suck your baby's fingers? I think I read this in another birth story too a long time ago and I can't figure out why. Do you happen to know?
