Birth can forever play an important role in a woman’s life
From time to time I suffer with low confidence in my ability to succeed. The common thought that can cloud my mindset is, ‘Hmmm I don’t think I’m good enough to…’
It’s a yucky feeling to hold onto but I’ve worked out a way to smother it’s sting.
How? A conscious reminder that, ‘You grew a baby and you birthed a baby – twice. You can do anything.’
This strategy of self-assurance only very recently occurred to me, almost 5 years after my eldest son was born. I think the timing of the revelation comes from the many women in my life right now, who are either pregnant or caring for their first newborn.
I’ve been asked a lot about my birth experiences. The process. The pain. The good bits and the uncomfortable ones. I haven’t really thought about either in such detail for so long but a few weeks ago, mid-reflection, I realised something I’ve never given oxygen to. While I recount to those who ask, ‘Both of my experiences were great!’ – this is not quite the case.
Perhaps I tell people that because I know how lucky I am to have two healthy kids, and therefore how dare I feel or focus on anything other than gratitude.
I’d say I’m one of so many women who has let a painful birth pain go unacknowledged because the moment they became a mother, they hid their own bruises. It wasn’t about them (us) anymore. It was and will always be about the child.
Let’s start by saying this – birth is wild. Even if the outcome is positive, women are allowed to carry scars from a process that shook them.
This does not and will not ever minimise the deep gratitude they feel in the present moment.
As I said, I had one beautiful birth and one exceptionally hard birth. The more I focused on the latter and allowed myself to relive it, the more I thought to myself – if you got through that, you can do anything.
Birth – regardless of how the baby came into the world – is a woman’s ultimate gold medal. And she should wear that gold medal every single day of her life, to remind herself that it’s an achievement nobody can rob her of.
Even 30, 50, or 70 years down the track, women should use their birth experiences as an internal reminder that their capabilities are stratospheric.
It’s been quite awakening strolling down memory lane to relive my births.
My first birth was a traumatic blur. My second birth however, was completely healing.
With a cathartic intention, I thought to share my birth stories in case the comfort of relatability offers readers a sense of acknowledgement, understanding or relief.
The birth story of my youngest
I’ll start with my second birth, because it’s a far easier story to recount without tears.
On the 29th of May, 2022, I went into spontaneous labour at home at 37.5 weeks.
Between about 4.00pm and 11.15pm, I endured the crippling ache of contractions which, I won’t lie, were brutal. Like we all do, I thought for sure I’d die from the pain. But I did not (yay). The magical part of labouring at home for so long was being able to put my toddler to bed and kiss him goodnight.
This alone opened the floodgates. While I was excited to meet whoever was occupying my uterus, I was deeply upset to be saying goodbye to the days where it was ‘just us’. I felt I was losing him.
When he was blissfully snoozing, the hours ticked by until the pain got so intense, it was time to go into the hospital (wearing a mask, thank you COVID).
The baby’s head was down and ready but his position was posterior – ouch.
To help with the pain, the anaesthetist (a.k.a my hero) suggested both a spinal block and an epidural. I agreed.
From that point, I could breathe again and it all ran so smoothly. My waters broke in the bed, the baby’s heart rate was steady, I was dilating at a steady pace and eventually it was time to push and meet our new arrival.
Music played and morning light streamed through the windows. I felt safe, in control, and totally able to birth this baby.
After about 45 minutes of pushing, there he was, my beautiful baby boy George. He had an absolutely gorgeous little face, a chubby frame and an innate ability to feed. Bliss.
Having barely slept over the last 24 hours, I was slow and woozy all day – yet in a deep haze of love and gratitude.
I remember the midwife removing my catheter and walking me to the shower. This is always a surreal experience after going through a vaginal delivery with an epidural. It’s almost as if you walk … but you don’t know how? So you just do it anyway?
As soon as I hit the shower, without a moment’s notice I was sick. So sick. I was naked, bloody, bruised and barely conscious … but I knew I was OK.
My body was just desperate to expel the built up adrenaline and it’d finally found a release. I remember turning to my worried husband and saying, “I know this looks scary, but it’s okay. I’m okay.”
I spent the day with just my husband and baby George. Daytime TV, hospital sandwiches and lukewarm milky tea. By 5.30pm, George had passed his initial ‘tests’ and we were discharged … so off we went thinking that classic thought ‘Is everyone aware we are taking this baby home?” The imposter syndrome in these moments is real.
That birth though, what a joy. What an honour.
Due to this experience, I was able to reconsider my first birth and thought – shit. That was a lot.
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The birth story of my eldest
While my first born son (Hamish) was healthy, he’d measured on the small side for most of the pregnancy.
At a routine check up with my midwife at week 39, we were told that he’d moved into a higher risk category as his growth had become significantly restricted. His belly had shrunk into the 20th percentile while his clever little body was redirecting every ounce of nutrients to his vital organs.
We were closely monitored that day in the hospital and eventually advised that an induction would be the safest approach. “Tomorrow. At 3pm.”
I crumbled at these words. Despite almost being full term, I was not ready to be told so precisely, your birth will begin now.
Truth be told, I didn’t want my pregnancy to end. I didn’t want to be separated from the baby inside. I was petrified of what was to come. The fears just spilled out and I sobbed for hours. I knew however it was the right thing to do for the baby – so 3pm was locked in.
Virtually as soon as I arrived in the suite, the balloon catheter was inserted into my cervix to encourage dilation (I was only around 3 cm at this point). It worked but so goddamn slowly. They told me 8 hours – it ended up being 16, and the pain overnight brought me to my knees.
At that time, I didn’t have my husband Will with me. I just cried in the bed worrying my body was going to break. I kept telling the baby, ‘please hold on tight’. I called Will in a blubbery state, “This hurts so much. I can’t do it anymore.” He calmly suggested I call the nurse and ask for some kind of relief.
Hello phenergan and morphine. I was asleep within minutes and woke to my husband’s friendly face at 7am with coffee and muffins. But still, no sign of a 10cm announcement.
Another day went past … just waiting, waiting, waiting. Eventually my midwife suggested Pitocin – a synthetic oxytocin used to stimulate contractions for women experiencing prolonged labour. We went ahead and, success! The contractions rumbled in and suddenly – I knew it was go time.
The pain. I will never forget the indescribable punctuations of pain. I always wondered with deep curiosity – what does childbirth feel like? Now I knew.
The urgency of where to put my limbs every time I contracted is something that sticks to my memory like glue. I would look around thinking, ‘Where?! Where can I put it to make it go away?’
Epidural time. Exhale.
I waited and waited for the pain to subside … but nothing.
I begged for something more. The anaesthetist held ice to my calf and I sobbed. “I can feel it. The epi isn’t working.”
I knew what he was going to say before the words came out of his mouth.
“We will have to re-administer the injection.” No one had told me how horrible this process (the epidural) was. But off we went for the 2nd time.
It worked. Another exhale. I was able to talk, to laugh. To look at my husband with tearless eyes.
But again, we waited.
My husband slept on the floor as midwife after midwife came in to monitor me. Shift after shift – we were still waiting.
Eventually around midnight, I dozed off. My body wanted to sleep. No chance. I woke to a midwife calming whispering. “Tori I’m sorry to wake you but the baby is not happy. I’m going to have to move you to see if it’ll help.”
Will woke up. They rolled me over. It didn’t work.
“Okay darling’ she said, still calm. “In a moment I’m going to press this button and you will hear an alarm sound quite loudly. After that, there will be a rush of people into the room – doctors and midwives. I need you to know this is normal. It’s okay. But they are coming in as we need to get your baby out – very soon. His heart rate is dropping.”
F*ck.
I couldn’t think. The world went into a slow blur. The alarm sounded and within what felt like 2 seconds the room was full of people dressed in scrubs.
Despite the urgent tone in the air, like my midwife, they were all so kind and so calm. They smiled at me, introduced themselves and told me everything was going to be okay.
It was time to push. I looked at my husband, I looked at the obstetrician standing between my legs and suddenly remembered something.
One of the doctors had introduced themselves as a paediatrician. Why was a paediatrician present? Is my baby ok? But there was no time to think or ask questions. There was only time to push.
So I did. I pushed. Nothing.
I pushed again. Nothing.
I pushed again. Still nothing.
After 40 or so minutes, there was movement. “Okay Tori, baby is coming but he’s showing more signs of distress. He’s stuck on his side, so we’re going to have to turn him – manually.”
I didn’t ask what that meant. I didn’t want to know. Deep breaths. “Okay.”
The obstetrician tried and tried again. But nothing.
I didn’t really feel anything at this point. No pain, no fear, no emotion. Just shock. What was happening? I thought a midwife would deliver my baby, in a calm room with no alarms or loud beeping. And no scrubbed up paediatrician ready and waiting to scoop up my baby.
As this thought came into my mind, someone entered the room. The big guns. The head of obstetrics was paged to assist. Like everyone else, she smiled, introduced herself and rolled up her sleeves. I knew this was going to be a short process but it was going to be hardcore. This woman didn’t look like one to faff around.
With her experience and exceptionally determined grip, she successfully turned the baby with her hand and forearm.
Following this, she quickly made me aware that more room was needed and both an episiotomy and forceps were required. I consented and then just followed her every instruction until finally a little person was held up and taken straight over to the paediatrician. “It’s a boy,” I heard my husband say. “It’s our Hamish.” I saw his delighted face and all I could think was, “This is weird.”
He soon came back to me all clean and pink. We cuddled, took photos and placed him on the breast. I know this because I have photos, but I can’t remember any of it.
But then he was gone again. As was my husband. As was everyone in the room apart from a midwife I was yet to meet. I looked around and saw mess – and blood. I looked down at my body and saw cords and tubes connecting me to the bed.
WTF was happening. This was all just so weird.
I found my phone next to me and called my mum. “I just had the baby,” I cried. “I don’t know where he is. He’s not here with me.”
Joyful words responded. “I know darling! Hamish! We spoke earlier and I’m so proud of you!”
I was confused. We spoke? When? What time was it? What day was it?
I hung up and called the midwife over. I was in a black hole. I told her I had pushed too hard and damaged my brain. Will was going to have to raise the baby alone and someone had to tell him ASAP. I was gone.
With the kindest eyes she said, “ know you’re scared right now. You’ve had a lot of drugs and you haemorrhaged during birth. Your body has been through a lot and is coming down from the adrenaline. Time will help … but you’re safe.”
I then begged her to let me shower despite the epidural not having worn off. She finally agreed and walked me over holding my catheter. I couldn’t feel anything. It was like I floated to the shower but I also felt so heavy. I saw myself in the mirror and looked to the midwife, ’What’s happened?’
“Your baby was born at 4.44am. It’s now just after 9am and the baby is in NICU getting some help with his body temperature and oxygen. He’s with your husband, he’s okay.”
All of a sudden Will appeared in the room with a cheese sandwich and a syringe. I grabbed the sandwich and engulfed it. My body was hungry.
Will had been sent down to collect colostrum – meaning he’d have to extract liquid from my boobs to feed our baby.
Again, so weird.
“Okay,” I said, moving on to tell him I needed to see a doctor ASAP because my brain was damaged during birth. Unaware of the bleak, dark hole I was in, he kindly chuckled and told me not to worry. Hamish was doing really well.
From that point on I listened to John Mayer (out of all things) and watched the midwife clean and tidy the room. On the bed, I tried hard to find a connection point to bring me back into the world.
Soon after, I was moved into a different ward and greeted by my mum and my brother.
I was so happy to see them both. The elation was pure. “It’s time to go and meet Hamish darling’. Shall we all go and see him together?” Mum suggested.
I guess?
“Ok, let’s go.” Let’s go and find the baby I can barely remember birthing.
Weird, weird, weird.
When we arrived at NICU, the women on the desk smiled so generously and allowed me to go and properly meet my son. Will had ducked home to grab a few things for me, so he wasn’t there to show us around. We slowly walked into the room of tiny babies. “Mum, I don’t know which one he is.”
My mum, bless her, laughed in a blissful state of excitement. What an absurd situation she was in, watching her daughter try and guess which baby belonged to her.
But wait … there he was.
I saw him and knew instantly, “Hello my boy, I am your mum.”
Even though I still felt a million miles away, I knew that seeing my child was the connection point I needed. I just had to patiently wait for my mind and body to move back into the world.
Tears are rolling as I write this. The love for my first born baby was real but so was the fear. The love was so close, but also such a long distance from my reach – and for quite a few days following the birth.
As I reflect on this however, I remember what I got through. I remember the pain, the overwhelm, the nerves … and wow. Surely if I can do that, I can do so many other things?
Yes I can.
Good enough and able enough
I felt compelled to write this piece to remind women that even though we have a tendency to doubt ourselves (too often of the time), mining our own memories and find examples of such human strength is a freeing way to feel good enough and able enough.
In times of doubt or when you’re spiralling downwards at a speed you can’t slow, if there is one thing available to you to help rebuild your sense of place in this world – let it be your birth story. Think back to the day you created life.
I want to wholeheartedly acknowledge here that I am aware birth memories are not always safe places for many women. Sending love to those x
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