I sat on the bed in my pyjamas, frowning at my husband. For
the last hour I’d had mild cramps down below and something felt different today.
I was 39 weeks pregnant and was more tired than usual. “I don’t think I can
drive you to the station today,” I told him. There was too much cramping and I
wanted to sleep it off. I mean, I always wanted to sleep in my final trimester,
but more so today.
Women aren’t always sure when they go into labour, but I was
almost positive when I did because it felt like more than Braxton Hicks. But I
went into denial.
“It can’t be labour,” I told hubby, seeing his slightly
anxious face. “It’ll wear off in a little while, like it has done all week.”
But it didn’t.
I called my midwife at 8 o’clock to describe my symptoms who
said it was likely I was in labour and that I should start timing the
‘sensations’ (as my sister likes to describe them) to see how often they were
happening. No it can’t be the real thing, I still told myself. But by 9 o’clock
I was on all fours every few minutes closing my eyes and yelling out. I tried
to think about all those lovely hypnobirthing techniques I’d been learning:
thinking about a beach, breathing out the pain, focusing on deep breathing –
and I closed my eyes, trying to apply them. As lovely as it was to think about
beaches and rainbows, the pain soon outweighed any of that: But the bit that
helped most was getting down on my hands and knees and pressing my head into
the mattress. It was time to call my husband – I had to admit I was in labour.
“You need to come home now
– I think this is it!” I told him, and his voice promptly started to tremble. Amid
a mass of stuttering, he managed to tell me he was on his way. After giving a
half-baked promise to call a customer back later, hubby got home very quickly,
by which time I was curled up on the floor, my head pressed into the bed. I spat
out orders at him and he responded by bringing me glasses of water, cereal, pillows
and the hypnobirthing CD to put on. But honestly – breathing techniques now? I
was ready to pick up the CD and snap it in half, closely followed by the
laptop.
It was time to head for the hospital but the thought of sitting
upright in the back of the car was scary enough to make me reconsider having
the baby in our own home. I couldn’t even sit upright, let alone walk down the
stairs and sit in the car for 40 minutes. Which is why I remained on the bedroom
floor for the next hour and a half, and by that time the pain had increased
twofold. Who knew how much worse it would get? And so I sidestepped out into
the sunlight, bent over and trying to keep as quiet as I could, now we were out
in public. I got in the car and organised the pillows around me, impatiently
waiting for my husband. I wanted to teleport myself into the hospital rather
than face what felt like would be a long journey ahead.
My husband drove us quickly and calmly, ignoring my shrieks
and cries, which by now, had reached a sizeable number of decibels. By the time
we got to the hospital, there was no chance of me walking to the labour ward – the
pain was too much and it would be very embarrassing to be stumbling and yelling
out in front of patients and visitors.
“I need a wheelchair,” I rasped.
“I need a wheelchair,” I rasped.
“A wheelchair!” hubby exclaims. “Oh gee, where am I going to
get one of those?”
I frowned at him, before biting into a pillow. “You’ll have
to get them to bring one out!” I snapped, thinking it was obvious. The pain had
sent me into a fuzzy daze, and nothing seemed real right then. Hubby walked into
the hospital, leaving me to scream into the pillows. At last he returned,
joined by a lady and a wheelchair.
The car door opened. “Here we go. Just make your way into
it,” he encouraged.
It took a few moments but eventually I got into the wheelchair
followed by the midwife pushing me backwards with the speed of a buffalo across
the hospital floors and down a string of
corridors to the ward. I was half carried into a bed, where I was asked a few
questions before having a pump with a nozzle shoved into my mouth.
“That’s it honey, breathe! Breathe in that gas and air!” The
midwife demonstrated a few breaths for me and as I copied her, I felt my eyes
flicker several times and my head fall back onto the bed. This was followed by
a few more questions but they could have been talking in Russian for all I knew:
Once pumped full of gas, a woman can’t remember her name, let alone why she is
there in the first place!
“I need to find out how far along you are,” one midwife leaned over me, holding up three fingers.
“I need to find out how far along you are,” one midwife leaned over me, holding up three fingers.
“I will…put my…it won’t hurt, just carry on with your
breathing…” I caught snippets of what she was saying and just nodded, getting
that there was going to be some prodding of my, er, parts. Taking off my
trousers, I laid back on the bed, gripping the gas nozzle in my mouth. Without
warning, I felt her fingers going into me fiercely and quickly, stop for a
couple of moments to look at my reaction. I had none…until - let’s put it this
way - she continued to probe her fingers for a number of seconds, at which
point I howled.
“You’re about five cms dilated,” she finalised as she leaned
back over me.
“Five centimetres! Is that all!” I slurred, wanting to sound
more disgusted than I did. All that work and pain for five lousy centimetres!
How much worse was it going to get?
Part 2 to be continued…