Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

There are some words and phrases that should never have to appear on anyone’s blog, in the one post. Here are some of them:

• anal
• probe
• rotating
• balloon
• electric shocks
• gloved, lubricated fingers of a stranger

I should say that the main reason for the above was my aforementioned flatal incontinence. Now, there’s dignity!

There can’t be a worse job in the world than that of a…actually, I’m not entirely sure what his title was…but someone who sticks objects and fingers in the back passage of others. There can be nothing enjoyable or rewarding about that, for either party. But that was his job and, unfortunately, I was the subject, I mean patient, beamed up for an examination, some probing and NO memory erasing! The least they could have done was to knock me out!

My preparation for this ‘experience’ was both good and bad. The anxiety around having someone poke things in that area on a background of constipation was enough to convince my lazy digestive system to fire on all cylinders this morning. Phew. But my psychological preparation left a little to be desired. I was kindly invited into the room before I had even had a chance to sit down in the waiting area, and to feed my baby (I had planned it all perfectly…arrive early, feed the baby and then leave him with his daddy, happy and satisfied..they were running early and my plan vanished, leaving me with full breasts and my husband with a hungry baby). To be honest, I’m not sure how one would mentally prepare for such an experience…

The ins and outs of it, I shall spare you (the list above should give you some idea of what went on, and leave you begging for a mind eraser). Plus, I may be punished by the little green men if I give away the secrets of my alien encounter. Let’s just add a list of thoughts and feelings, in chronological order:

• awkward
• embarrassed
• uncomfortable
• are you serious?
• surely not…
• oh, for god’s sake!
• quick, find a happy place!
• wrong, so wrong
• please let me go now
• resignation
• realisation
• violated
• upset
• embarrassed
• awkward

Birthing has been described as empowering, beautiful, miraculous. But the post-birth consequences? Oh, the indignities.

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This post comes with a warning for people with any of the following conditions: pregnancy or those considering it, a weak stomach, nightmares or insomnia or ‘prim and proper’-ness.

This is a two-part post, based on two recent events in my undignified post-birth existence. Two-part because there’s just so much to cram in and I didn’t think it fair to condense the content so heavily that you miss out on the details… upon reading, you may disagree, and scrub your eyeballs so hard that your vision goes all scratchy. But it’ll be too late. The words will have imprinted in your brain. Hence the warning.

But with parenting comes such topics and issues, and so, in writing as honestly as I can, it would be remiss of me to exclude them. We’re all here for truths, yes? And perhaps a little entertainment along the way. So here goes (navigate away from this page NOW if you meet any of the above criteria).

Okay, a little game that involves some imagination. Below is a list of words and phrases. Your job is to ‘Name That Scenario’ !!

• gloves
• blue paper towel
• swab
• cold gel
• speculum
• cervix

Pretty straight forward, yes? Now let’s add few more phrases to cement the scenario for you and really drive home the indignity:

• stress incontinence (urinary)
• ‘have a little cough’
• flatal incontinence (gas that won’t stay in…)
• ‘open your legs and relax’
• fermented apple

All true, I’m afraid.  There can be no good outcome when the above words and phrases are combined in a pokey office with poor ventilation, bar a grate in the door for dignity to escape through. It turns out that giving birth – sharing your privates in a not so private way with people who hardly know you – is not the end of it. And it seems that being in your twenties is no ticket out of the sufferance of indignities that you may believe you’re entitled to with your youthful body. No, no, no…

Enough said for now. More in Part 2. Sweet dreams.

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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.

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