I’ve been very absent from this blog for the past couple of months. I’ll readily admit that I’ve been struggling to come to terms with my life as a new mum and definitely haven’t mastered the time management involved yet. In fact I still spend most of my time in my dressing gown on the sofa. I’ll share more about that over the next few weeks but for now I wanted to share my birth story with you, or as I like to call it “all of my worst fears come true”.

Warning- This post is not going to be that entertaining or interesting or insightful. In fact it’s quite boring but I wanted to write it all out for posterity. So in years to come I can look back at this post when I’m feeling broody and think… fuck no.

…..

I was due on 22nd December. A Christmas baby… or so we thought.

I started having very bad Braxton Hicks in early December before my maternity leave started so I had myself convinced that he would be early – oh how wrong I was! The 22nd rolled around and there was no sign of our little man. I’d been losing mucus plug for a couple of weeks (TMI I know!) and was feeling fairly frustrated when I arrived at the birthing centre for my 40week check.

They informed me that his head was down and it was just a matter of time. I was also offered a sweep and through a combination of massive fear (I had heard horror stories about how painful they could be) and a desire to eat my Christmas dinner (who would want to miss out on a large helping of sprouts?) and watch Dr Who I politely declined and booked myself in for one on the 28th December.

As Christmas came and went so too did my desire to be pregnant any longer and I jumped at the chanced of a sweep at my next midwife visit… I now wish I hadn’t – shit me was that painful! It was at that moment I realised quite how bad labour was going to be! Not only was it bloody awful but it was also a fruitless task. Despite severe cramping there was still no sign and I was back at the birthing centre a few days later for sweep number 2! (What was I thinking?)

This time there were definite movings (I’ll spare you the gory details) but I was booked in for an induction on day 10 “just in case”.

It was to happen at 10,30 on the Saturday morning. I had really not wanted an induction. I so wanted it to be natural in a lovely birthing pool at the midwife-led centre near us. People told me that they had all gone into labour the night before their induction was to happen. So I crossed my fingers and went to bed.

Needless to say the air was fairly blue when I was woken by my alarm the next morning! And so off to hospital we went.

The induction was as bad as the sweeps – I do wonder why they have to be so violent with it! It was like being repeatedly punched in the vag! Just the way to get your weekend off to a good start!

Because I had the pessary I was allowed to sit out the next 24 hours at home so after a quick stop off at McDonalds (don’t judge!) I planted myself on the sofa for a nap. Or at least I hoped for nap – about an hour later the pains I’d been having for nearly a month started to intensify. A midwife had told me that I should always take 2 paracetamol and jump in a bath – if the pain subsided then it wasn’t labour and if it didn’t then it was. I lasted about 15 minutes in the bath before I became too uncomfortable.

I started to time my pains – this actually proved fairly tricky. One thing nobody tells you is how hard it actually is to time from start to finish!

We ordered a pizza for dinner and I munched it between winces, planning to try to have a nap before kick off. Unfortunately I never did get that final snooze as within an hour the pain had become too intense and I was frantically trying to attach my TENS machine whilst swearing under my breath.

We rung the hospital and they told us to hang tight at home until the contractions were closer together (seriously, I couldn’t get the hang of timing them properly so I didn’t actually know how far apart they really were!) but by 11.30 that night I was screaming the place down. I’m not sure if I have a really low pain threshold or if the induction made it seem more intense but I was in total agony and so we grabbed my bag and headed for the hospital with me screaming “Please don’t make me do this” at my  poor other half every couple of minutes.

When we reached the labour ward they told me I was 3 centimeters… ONLY THREE??

THREE? FFS!

It was at this moment that my plan for a natural birth completely disappeared and I begged for drugs! Any drugs would do.

I was offered pethadine which I readily accepted. The thing that surprised me about it is that it didn’t take the pain away – it just made me super drowsy in between contractions which made the time pass quicker. It’s a bloody good job too because the triage area was in the same ward as maternity and with every contraction, and my subsequent screams, I woke up new babies and poor recovering mums who were trying to get some much needed rest!

The hours passed in a painful haze and at about 5am the midwife told me I was now 7cm and could make my way to the delivery suite where I was offered an epidural. At this point there was no doubt. Despite needles (and massive spiney needles especially) being one of greatest fears, I begged for it… and it was lovely! I wasn’t completely numb to begin with but a few pushes of the boost button and I was well away! The most terrifying part was trying to stay perfectly still so they could put the needle in – all whilst having very severe contractions!

A short while later and my delivery midwife checked me again only to find that I was only 5cm. Either the first midwife had much smaller hands or my little man had retracted back inside my womb where he felt safe. At the same time as she was checking me my waters ruptured and a doctor was called. After a few tense minutes she announced that there was meconium in my waters and the babies heart rate had dropped indicating that he was distressed. Unless it came back up within the following minute I would need an emergency cesarean. Longest. Minute. Ever. And obviously things didn’t improve. Gulp.

I had been dreading this. I’ve never had surgery more major than a tooth extraction and was adamant that I would never want a c-section. The thought of being awake whilst they cut me open was more than my brain could handle. I was absolutely petrified and Mr Sussex had already been whisked away to get scrubbed up.

I needn’t have worried – the doctors were amazing and because I’d had the epidural I couldn’t feel a thing. The sensation was one that I wouldn’t particularly like to re-live – tugging and slicing whilst numb but aware was incredibly surreal and not particularly pleasant but it was far easier than I had built it up to be in my head.

A few tugs and he was out – a big and very unhappy face loomed over the screen in front of me. I held my breath whilst I waited to hear him scream, the longest 90 seconds of my life. I vaguely remember shouting “is he OK?” over and over again in that time. I didn’t think I could ever feel as relieved as I did when I finally heard him.

And as quick as I’d seen him, he was gone. Sent off with my other half for a cuddle whilst they stitched me up. The vomiting began then and lasted for  about 20 minutes. A mixture of epidural and a cocktail of other drugs and antibiotics swished around my body and was then violently released from my mouth – fairly tricky and very messy when lying incapacitated in bed!

Soon I was in the recovery room being brought tea and toast – those couple of hours lying next to my new tiny human as he slept were the most surreal of my life. I should have slept but the adrenaline was coursing and all I could do was call our family to let them know he was finally here.

The following day, in intense pain I began to feel incredibly dizzy. It turned out that I had lost too much blood and needed a transfusion – my worst nightmare! It actually wasn’t as bad as I thought and a couple of days later I was sent home to recover in comfort and attempt to get some sleep (HA!). In hindsight I should have stayed in hospital but a maternity ward is really no place to be if you want some rest.

And so we were home. Our little family – plus one.