The story of Lucy's birth

Very long! Go make a cup of tea :)

Well, this is a hard one for me to write. I have had to do a lot of processing of events to get to the point where I can write it down. In fact, the only reason I am writing it down now is that I did birth stories for both my other girls and I think my third child deserves the same ‘voice’.

We had been umming and aahing about a third child since Charlotte was about 12 months old. Up until then I had been absolutely positive that she was our last. I just couldn’t do it again – the pregnancy, the birth, the newborn thing. I had always had ‘3 kids’ in my head; it is just a pity that to have three kids, you kind of have to go through the pregnancies!

There is almost exactly two and a half years between our first two, and I was always happy with that gap, so as Charlotte edged towards 21 months I felt like we had to make a decision. Two weeks later with about that much forethought the positive test came up. Charlotte was asleep and Ella was at kindy. I lost it. I couldn’t get hold of Raff, and I just panicked. I reckon I had a full on anxiety attack. I just couldn’t comprehend that I would have to go through childbirth again.

I finally got hold of Raff and his comment? ‘Did we even have sex this month?’ I spent the majority of my pregnancy in a fair amount of denial. I really couldn’t bring myself to think about it. I was absolutely petrified. I was totally convinced that ‘something’ was going to go wrong. I had some bleeding at 8 weeks, not much, barely anything, but enough to make me think that it was over. During this time no one knew we were pregnant. My parents were overseas and we were waiting until they got back to tell anyone. Very soon I was 12 weeks and then everyone knew!

The pregnancy zoomed past, with me still in denial. Every time I thought about the birth, I had a yukky feeling inside and couldn’t go ‘there’. I talked at length with Raff about it, and all the conversations ended with ‘I am scared!!’ and me crying... I knew it wasn’t helpful to be stuck thinking like that but I couldn’t help it. Whoever said that as soon as the baby is out you forget all the pain was just wrong. Sitting here now, I can still feel the pain of three labours.

At about 34 weeks I was at the library and on a whim borrowed a whole heap of positive birthing books. I devoured them. There was nothing in them that was new to me, but I was ready to be ready to birth. I printed out positive affirmations, I recited positive messages, I had Ella and Raff reminding me every day that my body was made to birth babies and that I had done it twice before, and that my body knows what to do etc. I felt good. I really did. I had started speaking more positively to the general public in passing conversations. I was ready.

Both my girls were born the day before their due dates, so I was all prepped to go. My due date though, was the day of Ella’s first full day of transition visits to school. She was starting school in three short weeks and I had a parent induction to go to that day. I managed to get through that afternoon, but sat through the meeting counting contractions on the clock. They were pretty regular at 10 minutes.

Something was happening! I felt confident and ready and I was certain that it was going to happen fast once it started. I got a reasonable amount of sleep that night, but I was contracting every time that I awoke. The next morning we had a man here to put a built in robe in our laundry. I’m sure he loved the sound effects he heard from my gazillion toilet visits. I talked Raff in to staying home, as I was certain it was all of a sudden going to roll.

Raff was on the phone or at the computer (or both!) for the whole day really. I don’t have a real conscious memory of where the other girls were. Ella would have had afternoon kindy, I presume Rachel took her there and back. I spent the day with strengthening contractions folding linen back in to our new laundry cupboard. It was very good busy work. I was very focused on my body, but was glad to be physically distracted with something to do. I am finding that a lot of details are a blur. I don’t remember eating. I don’t remember who came and went. I do remember having a shower with both the girls as they were getting ready for bed. Ella was reciting my affirmations at me during contractions. Once the kids were in bed, mum had some catering (?) work to do. Dad stayed here, but he and Raff just sat at the computer. I wandered aimlessly around wondering how much housework to worry about doing. I then retreated to my bedroom and was happy in my positive place there, just being.

Mum came over and then we started talking hospital. I think I had another shower while Raff packed up some last minute things. I all of a sudden said ‘That’s it. Let’s go.’ and went out to the car. Mum went up with us in her own car. It was only as we were waiting at the hospital entrance for them to let us in, that we realised that we hadn’t let the hospital know we were on our way. It is a smallish country hospital and they do like to have the warning. Oh well. It was about 8:30pm by now and I got Raff to call our student midwife, Kylie, and she was on her way. I was fairly certain that this baby was close. I was contracting every three minutes pretty hard, yet coping on my own really.

I had a moment where I realised that my panic and anxiety was actually a lot closer to the surface than I realised. I thought I was under control and had surrendered to the birthing process, but I had a glimpse of it as we walked around the corner to the birthing suites and the midwife asked which room I would prefer. I saw the room that both my girls were born in and I nearly turned around and ran out. I had such bittersweet memories of that room and I wasn’t ready to go there again. I really wasn’t. I fought the feeling and didn’t let on.

After a lot of small talk and observing, the midwives got me up on the bed for an internal. I was 4cm. That surprised me, but I also thought that all of a sudden it would happen, you know? My contractions were regular and close and painful. Our baby was on its way.

There was a whole lot of banter between everyone. It was a lovely environment. My sister came up for a while and everyone sat around eating lollies and making jokes. The midwife pretty much left us alone. She said to mum at some stage that she felt superfluous as Raff and I made such a good team. He always knew exactly what I needed at each contraction. That man never ceases to amaze me.

We would have had change of shift at 11pm and this is when Julie came on. She was just the right mix for a midwife – firm and calm and pleasant and knowledgeable. One of the things that the hospital had all but insisted on was that I had a cannula inserted in the back of my hand at the beginning of my labour so that they could get the syntocin in to me quick smart if I looked like haemorrhaging as I did with Charlotte. Julie was lovely enough to listen to me and my fears and said that it wasn’t necessary at this stage, but that I had to listen to her when she said it was time. Fair enough.

So I laboured. I showered. I guzzled litres of water. I sweated litres. I contracted. I moaned. I complained. I was doing it. And then it began to really hurt. I was in that yucky place and the midwife thought things were close to happening. I jumped up on the bed and the internal saw me at ..... 4cm :( It was midnight by now and I was so certain that the baby was going to be born on the Thursday. Oh well, up and at ‘em.

So I laboured. I showered. I guzzled litres of water. I sweated litres. I contracted. I moaned. I complained. I was doing it. And then it began to really, really, really hurt. It was 2am and I was wiped. The midwife checked me again. Oh, flip. 4cm. I lost it. I really did. I insisted on a caesarean. I carried on like a stereotypical labouring woman. I yelled at everyone. I cried. I freaked out. I really wanted to punch the midwife because she wouldn’t let me have a caesarean. I wanted everyone to just go away. I went in to the shower and regrouped. I wanted to be by myself. I had lost my groove. I had lost my mindset and I had lost my belief.
I stood in that shower for two hours and I found myself again. I talked to my body. I talked to the baby. I envisioned it happening. I strived for my belief. I nearly got there, too. It was just a tiny niggle of ... worry? Fear? Something I can’t put my finger on. More than fear or worry...

Raff was with me in the bathroom and I was rolling. I was ready. The baby was coming. I swear I was feeling ‘pushy’. I decided that the time was right; I was going to jump up on that bed and push that baby out. So I gear up for another internal. What the .... ? Still 4 cms. The show was over. That baby was coming out via a scalpel. I was going to trust my body. Yep, trust that it knows something I don’t know. That baby was not coming out naturally. I could not go on. It was not even exhaustion; it was just a simple knowledge that it wasn’t going to happen. Now to convince everyone else in the room.

All of a sudden the vibe had changed. It was no longer a happy positive place. It was me against them. Everyone was the enemy. I cannot believe that everyone was still insisting that I can do it. I can’t. I won’t. I hated the midwife. I hated the registrar that came in to talk me around. I hated her condescending way. I hated being spoken to while I was lying naked on my back with my legs spread. The whole situation was awful. I ranted and raved. I yelled and said intelligent things like “I’m the patient and you have to do what I tell you to” and “It’s my body, you can’t tell me what to do” Yep, crazy. They wanted to just try breaking my waters, as then it could all just happen, but I was freaked. I will never forget that feeling when I had my waters broken in labour with Charlotte and seeing the meconium stained waters. I thought she was going to die and I couldn’t let it happen to my third. There was absolutely no rational thought behind my ravings. It was pure and utter fear for my baby.

They ran through the risks to me and the baby if a caesarean was performed. I yelled at the registrar “I know all that. I have read everything I can about birthing babies. I know so much” It is so hard to put in to words, but I was doing it to save my baby. By now my labour had basically stopped. They were monitoring baby’s heart rate a lot, but the baby was fine. At some stage they agreed, though they told me it would take over an hour because it was 4am and there was no doctor at the hospital to perform the surgery. There was no anaesthetist and no theatre team. I didn’t believe them. I honestly thought they were lying to me. I remember hearing her on the phone and I said to Raff that I don’t reckon there is anyone on the other end. She is just a big faker.

So now I had to stay flat on my back with the CTG monitor on. I had to have a catheter inserted, my pubic hair shaved and I had to stop drinking water. I had to take all my hair clips out and wait. I was still contracting, but nothing like I was before. All of a sudden I felt calm. It was going to happen. My baby was going to be okay.

I remember the very rude anaesthetist coming in and saying ‘Why is she still here? Everyone is waiting for her in theatre.’ I was then wheeled in to theatre. At that stage mum could come no further. She had to wait. She was on the phone to my sister, my dad and my brother and sister-in-law in Scotland. I remember the mean anaesthetist making me shuffle over from my bed to the surgical table while attached to all kinds of tubes and wires. The OB arrived and did another internal. Still 4cm and baby still very high. This seemed to confirm to everyone that it was okay to go ahead. Though the anaesthetist did have a few choice words to say, but I won’t go in to the actual words and reasons. The CTG was on non-stop and the heart rate never faltered.

I then had to sit up on the edge of the bed, bent over my massive belly, still contracting, while this cranky anaesthetist attempted to insert a gigantic needle into my spine. He jabbed me with a local anaesthetic a few times and began. He tried once and failed. He tried again and failed. He then told me that his third try would be his last, as he would then be putting me under a general. Just as he was getting the needle in, I felt Raff’s hand slacken, he was muttering something and then down he went. The student midwife managed to break his fall a little bit, but he still hit the ground very hard. Dr L (so sick of writing anaesthetist!) cursed him and yelled at me not to move. I didn’t.

He told Raff he had to lay flat for five full minutes or else he would just go over again. Thank goodness for the student midwife, as at least I still had someone holding my hand. Dr L was a bit brusque, verging on rude, for most of the procedure, but he did say something lovely. As I was making vague excuses for Raff fainting (hadn’t eaten all night, hadn’t drunk enough water, had been standing with me all night) he said that ‘No, he fainted from caring’ which was true. The whole thing must be horrendous as an onlooker.

Okay. Spinal block in, husband upright. I was lying on my back and Dr L wanted to make sure the spinal took well, so he rotated the table so that I was head down on a slant. I could feel the baby shift upwards and unengage. Then he started with the ice. Oh my God, by the end of this I was ready to shove that ice up his jaxy, I tell ya! He kept touching the ice on my feet, thigh, tummy, boob, face, over and over again. ‘Cold?’ ‘Cold?’ Cold?’ over and over and over. I was so confused and felt so stupid, because I just couldn’t define between pressure and cold. Feeling pressure was fine; feeling cold was not. If I could feel cold, then the block wasn’t working fully. He needed it to be numb all the way up to my nipples. ‘Cold?’ ‘Cold?’ ‘Frikkin cold?’

I kept saying ‘Yes, no, I’m not sure’. Finally, after repeated threats of a general he was happy that I couldn’t feel the cold anymore. The operation was on. I had to wear an oxygen mask and keep my arms straight out to the side. He attempted to put a drip in my left hand and massacred my hand up, so then went over to my right hand, and thank goodness got it in first shot. I kept telling him to take the mask of my face, but he wouldn’t. I think I was on the verge of panicking and really had to concentrate on the babies heart beat to get myself through it. My whole body felt all pins and needles and not pleasant at all. They put the blue screen up and then it was GO. I had no idea that it had started, but gosh, it seemed to take a long time. So many serious faces had me worried, but then at 5:29am I heard it. Oh my, two previous births, but this cry really got me. I was so worried about this baby.

“It’s a girl!!!!” and far out, she was huge. She was fat roll upon fat roll, and absolutely perfect. I couldn’t get enough of her. Of course they had to whisk her away to the warming table. I said to Raff ‘Stay with her no matter what’
I could see her the whole time, but I could also hear the doctors at the other end suctioning and muttering about ‘too much blood’. Turns out I ended up losing just under a litre of blood. From then on it just got weird. I could feel everything they were doing, not pain just a god awful pressure. It felt like they jumping up and down on my tummy, up really high, too. I felt really nauseous with that and really wanted it to just be over. It was starting to freak me out, and yet again, I was on the verge of panicking and was barely holding myself together. I couldn’t hold the baby as I had the shakes. I was quivering nonstop and didn’t trust my arms to hold her. (I must say here, that I thank goodness for all the birth stories that I have read over the years, as I knew that this was a very normal Caesar reaction, so it didn’t upset me)

I kept asking Dr L if everything was okay as they sure were taking their sweet time. He constantly reassured me that all was good, they had 7 (?) layers to sew up and we didn’t want to rush these things. He was a changed man, now that everything was over and done with, and happily took himself out to talk to mum and tell her that the baby was fine.

We had decided on names only a few days previously, so Lucy Anne she was (Anne is my mum’s middle name). I was busting for them to weigh her as I could hear mutterings between the paed and the midwife of upper 9 pounds. She just looked so fat! She was glorious. Raff cut her cord closer to her body, as they had already done the main cut when she was born. Soon they took her out of theatre so that they could work on warming her up, Raff went with her and not long after that I was all stitched up and could join them. Raff called out her weight 9lb 13oz and 54cm. Lovely :) He then got her dressed in her little tiny cloth nappy and her 000 Bonds suit, both of which only just fit her. My clever man managed to do that with his arms through the holes of the humidicrib. We could all hear and see her trying to latch on everything near her and I was busting to get her to the breast.

I still had the shakes and the midwives put a warming blanket on me, but it wasn’t noticed until later that it was blowing freezing air on me instead of hot air. I still had tubes and stuff all over the place, but the midwife brought Lucy to me and laying down we had our first breastfeed. My nipples were still numb from the spinal, so I got Raff to get the nipple shields, as I really didn’t want any trauma to my nipples straight away. She latched on like a pro. Mum was in recovery with us. I feel so blessed that she got to be with us throughout this journey.

I just said to Raff, that I don’t recall leaving recovery, nor arriving in the hospital room, but I obviously did! There were people everywhere, setting up my bed unpacking stuff, moving stuff closer for me etc etc. All I wanted was a drink of water, my mobile phone and my baby. All of a sudden the room was empty. Everyone had gone. Mum had to go to work; Raff had to go home to relieve Dad, so that he could go to work. My student midwife had to rush home to score some sleep before she had to be back for another ladies appointments. I rang home around 7am to talk to Ella. I really wanted to be the one that told her. She had been desperate for a brother and I could sense her disappointment when I said that ‘Sprout’ was a girl. She just kind of went ‘Oh’ and then handed the phone to my dad.

I was busting for my girls to come in and meet their sister, but was also hanging for a sleep, as it turned out, so was Raff. He got home, put the TV on for the girls and crashed out on the couch. By the time he awoke and got everyone dressed it was about 10am. It was so good to see them all, unbrushed hair and mismatched clothes. Gosh, I’m clever – look at all these people I made!

My Caesar recovery was pretty text book; I showered the next morning but was very sore for a few days. I stayed in hospital for 4 nights and was glad to be back home. It was a slow but continual improvement that saw me driving at 3 weeks and resuming most normal duties by 6 weeks. Lucy was a dream baby, easily going 4 hours or more in a stretch at night. In fact at 4 weeks old she did a 7 hour stretch. She really is delightful, and after nearly stopping at one child, we keep tossing up about #4!!
Emotionally my recovery has been the best of my three births. I keep wondering if I will be hit with any ‘blues’ but nearly 4 months out, I think I am safe. I feel really comfortable with how it all panned out. I never would have thought that I would have been a candidate for a caesarean, in fact we had leaned towards a home birth before I fell pregnant with Lucy. I guess we will never know what would have been.

In hindsight, I probably should have allowed my waters to be broken, but at the time I just couldn’t. I really couldn’t. I was in such a state of anxiety; I doubt much would have eventuated from there anyway. My mind really did overtake my body.

I was lucky, in that on Lucy’s most unsettled night in hospital, the midwife that I laboured with was on night shift and it was a quiet night on the ward. We managed a lovely debrief, as I sobbed about Charlotte’s labour and birth and the trouble I had bonding with her. I feel like birthing Lucy has healed so much of that. A caesarean certainly didn’t take away from my feeling of powerful-ness. I still feel like superwoman.


Raff after fainting.


Fat baby!