Tales of a fast labour and birth are often met with ‘good job’, sometimes even ‘well that’s good, isn’t it?’. Hmmmm. Whilst I am proud of my speedy, get-the-job-done effort, my body complains. Allow me to enlighten you.
The uterus is supposed to keep contracting after the delivery, to help get rid of the big meat patty (placenta) that has been sustaining life in the womb, and to clean itself out. Mine did for a while, but then got lazy, deciding that it had really outdone itself with the efficiency of the birth. So I bled and bled and had innards exiting with a plop until a doctor (I had been managed by midwives all the way through and didn’t intend to ever liaise with a doctor) declared that she had to get a clot out here and now or I would be taken upstairs to have it done under general anaesthetic. She then demanded that the midwife give me gas because ‘this is going to hurt’. Now I was in no state to either think clearly or assert myself, and hearing ‘general anaesthetic’ was enough to make me agree to anything else. So I sucked on this gas. Never again.
If the process of labour and birth itself is not sufficient to induce crazy emotional states, then the gas will do it. As I inhaled deeply, at the instruction of those who know better, I began to feel completely out of control and unable to control anything going on around me. Then the tears began. Floods of tears and howling that belonged to the grief associated with the loss of a loved one. On and on it went and the worst of it was that the gas didn’t even touch the pain. Amidst the chaos I heard the doctor reassure my husband that I hadn’t lost my mind – it was an effect of the gas. I hate to think about the look on his face that invited that explanation.
To add insult to injury, I then had tubes inserted – one to replace lost fluids and the other to drain fluid (I think you know what I’m talking about…). It must have been decided that I had not endured quite enough discomfort, because on insertion of the drip in my wrist, the doctor literally struck a nerve, and still, more than two weeks down the track I have a slightly numb and painful index finger.
Another downfall of rapid delivery is the effect on a certain set of muscles that I, before getting pregnant and giving birth, took for granted. They play the most important role in maintaining dignity during such tasks as laughing, coughing, sneezing, lifting and sometimes simply standing up. ‘I think those muscles are in shock,’ one midwife suggested when I told her my tale of ‘escapes’ and ‘floods’. In shock because of how quickly a 3.6kg person had emerged through the tunnel. ‘Obliterated’ is the phrase I would use. But I refuse to believe that this is life now, in my late 20’s with a fear of spontaneous and reflexive activities, and I was furious at a suggestion from my younger sister that she buy me some Poise – ‘Don’t you dare.’
So, was it good to have it over and done with, in three hours? I’ll leave that up to you to decide.
