Penni Drysdale - P Plate Parenting

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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People say that a woman forgets what labour and birth is really like as a mechanism of self-preservation, a trick of the mind to ensure that our species continues to populate. It’s not true – I remember. It was excruciating and no sane woman would honestly wish that time upon her again.

There were rumblings for a few days prior. Niggles and small leakages (that I now recognise as trickles of amniotic fluid, rather than incontinence – yep, I know the difference now, but let’s save that sad tale for later). Signs, perhaps, that my body was preparing itself for round two in the battle of birth. But despite getting desperate to ‘pop’, to bend over again, cuddle my husband close and run after my little man, there lingered denial that the time would ever actually come.

In the darkness of night I awoke to period pains and wet undies. I grunted out of bed and waddled onto the cold tiles towards the bathroom, clean knickers in hand, feeling more put out about having to leave the warmth of my bed, than the wet undies situation. The plan was simple – empty my bladder and the pain would go away. It didn’t. I tried to maintain a sleepy state of oblivion as I peeled back the doona and crawled back  into bed – the cramping would go away, it did last time.  I’d just try to go back to sleep until  our 4 year old alarm clock thumped into the room with declarations about the arrival of morning. Turns out it wasn’t that easy to simply roll over and resume slumber and so I wriggled and moaned quietly until my husband grumbled, “What are you doing?” “It hurts,” I offered as an explanation. We checked the clock, because maybe that held the answer to a) what was really going on and b) what we should do about it. It was 1:30 and although it makes no sense now, the fact that it was the middle of the night was confirmation for me that this was it, game on.

At this stage, being a List person had its advantages. Needing some distraction and purpose I plucked the ‘Hospital Bag’ list from the fridge and set about collecting the items, gently (of course) guiding my husband to the ‘Callum Hospital Bag’ list. It didn’t take as long as I’d hoped and I was left pacing between the bathroom and the bedroom, back and forth, not sure what to do with my contracting self. I finally found my rhythm and The Zone (a special place that I found during my first experience of labour; an intense, focused, don’t-mess-with-me  state) doing a circuit of the house, gripping a cooling wheat bag to my tummy.  From The Zone, all things must be in place. Things that would usually irritate me become Big Issues, and so seeing my husband stand still, not actively doing anything, made my eyes widen and my respiration rate double. God dammit, this was no time for idling! ‘Call Mum’, I growled. At this point he did something that no partner of a labouring woman should do – complain. Apparently I had sounded snappy and rude and he had taken offense. Fortunately for him I was deeply enough within The Zone that starting an argument was not on the agenda. ‘Just do it.’ I heard bits and pieces of this conversation as I passed him in the corridor, and was convinced by the lack urgency that they would start discussing the weather next. I picked up the pace and gripped the wheat bag with white knuckles.

The wait for her knock on the door took an eternity, as I did laps of the house like a person with dementia who paces the corridors of a facility, not really understanding why, but knowing that stopping was simply not an option. I cursed as silently as I could, trying to remain aware of the young ears in the bedroom next to ours and the fact that there was plenty of time for blasphemy once we reached the hospital. Meanwhile my husband called the hospital and, based on his estimates of the timing and strength of my contractions, was encouraged to stay at home a bit longer. But as soon as the front door clicked shut and our son was whisked into the dark night, I asserted that we must go, now! The car trip was awkwardly quiet as the contractions slowed and we both sat wondering if this was indeed a false alarm (because that would just be so inconvenient and embarrassing, and what worse time to be exposed as a drama queen?). Turns out it was no false alarm and within an hour of buzzing ourselves through the doors of the maternity unit, our son was born. “Gee, I’m glad you didn’t listen to me when I told you to stay at home a bit longer,” our midwife offered when all was done.   Me too!

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