I remember writing The Prawn’s birth story some 3 years ago from a fairly bad place on the other side of a birth experience that was utterly unexpected and traumatic. Over the last few days, I’ve devoted a very small portion of my brain (the only part not occupied by washing, feeding, expressing, disciplining and, on occasion, breathing in and out.) trying to figure out how I felt about my experience this time around.

In the first place, I didn’t bother with a birth plan. While expecting the Prawn, I spent one very long evening composing a rather detailed plan for her birth which I responsibly printed out and included in the folder of notes that I took to the hospital. This piece of paper was instantly discarded and used as firelighters when it became apparent that the Prawn was having NONE of that labor shit and that she was QUITE HAPPY just where she was, thank you, necessitating the medical SAS to stage a uterine incursion to extract her. This experience taught me that that once you are caught in the current of the hospital system, it is best to behave as a very pregnant twig and follow where it leads. Knowing also that a Caesarian was on the cards this time around made it seem even more pointless to try to dictate the terms of The Squid’s arrival when I myownself wasn’t really going to have much to do with it other than turning up in an open backed hospital gown, showing my ass to the anesthetist, lying back and then marveling at the sensation of not being able to wiggle my toes.

The Rock Star and I arrived at the hospital unfortunately early due to my insistence that we were supposed to be there at quarter TO seven as opposed to quarter PAST seven, so we spent 15 rather whispery minutes sitting in an all too familiar cubical and surrounded by the all too familiar curtains with the all too familiar sights of Aylesbury and the surrounding areas. (Although this time around, I noticed that one of the buildings depicted was in the complex where I work) Of course, the catch phrase of the hospital is “hurry up and wait”, so had a fair amount of time to get reacquainted with the local sights before called down to the theatre.

Unlike my visit to the theatre with the Prawn, I walked in under my own power, getting a really quite detailed look at all of the instruments that would be being used shortly to expose my insides to daylight. Perhaps it was this fact or the fact that we’d been waiting for nearly 25 minutes in a very hot hallway, but the proceedings did NOT get off to the best start when the very talented anesthetist (to whom I felt much indebted later) put a relatively simple cannula in the back of my hand, and I pretty much nearly fainted like a big girl. My thoughts, through my rapidly diminishing field of vision, was that this was NOT a good start, considering what was to come.

During the Prawn’s birth, I did not have the luxury of a spinal block. The epidural that I had been enjoying the services of for 12 hours or so was simply topped up for the surgery. While epidurals are great for blocking out labor pains, they are not ideal for being attacked with sharp surgical implements and towards the end of the surgery, I started to get some sensation back at a rather inopportune moment, requiring me to be put under for the duration of the procedure. Because of this, it was AGES before I actually got any bonding time with the Prawn. The anesthetist was dead set that I should make it through this procedure awake and to make sure of it, gave me a fairly heavy dose of the numb stuff. So heavy, in fact, that I was not ENTIRELY sure they had begun the operation until suddenly I heard a baby crying and was informed that it was, in fact a girl. (Which both the Rock Star and I were hugely relived about as we had a) neglected to choose a name for a boy and b) had a large drawer of pink clothes waiting at home.)

Of course, because this is me. this is around the time that things started to go wrong.

The Squid was bundled up tightly and given to The Rock Star and I got a full 3 minutes or so of gazing adoringly at my new daughter’s face before it became apparent to me that all was not going completely well on the other side of the curtain, where bits of me that had never seen the light of day lay open to the elements.

First I was hot. Then very cold. Then incredibly sick. The Rock Star informed me that the anesthetist was very busy twiddling buttons behind my head, trying to keep ahead of my plunging blood pressure and the nausea that resulted from the blood pressure medication. The junior and senior registrars were called into theatre due to the fact that things were going a bit pear shaped in the uterus contracting department. Despite the fact that I was now completely numb and no longer about to pass out or throw up, I could tell that there was a fair amount of pulling, tugging and shoving going on. The Rock Star was made to clear out of the way and was standing on the other side of the theatre with The Squid looking nervous. However, I didn’t really notice any of these things as I was just so grateful to feel absolutely nothing.

Things finally DID come under control, albeit after some major bruising and blood loss and I was wheeled into the recovery room where I was able to hold the Squid. But what kind of birth experience would it be without a little MORE drama? One of the theatre nurses noticed that the Squid was making a rather demure squeaking sound which was not par for the course as far as newborns go. A consultant from pediatrics was dispatched forthwith and agreed that they’d like to have a little bit of observation time in the NICU. Of course, this is the news that NO new parent wants to hear, but as shot away as I was, I was keen for her to be looked after as well as she needed to be, so rather reluctantly surrendered her to a pair of blue scrubs and asked another midwife if, since they were taking my baby, could I please FOR THE LOVE OF GOD have a glass of water as I’d not drunk anything since the night before? I then proceeded to ignore advice to drink slowly and nearly drowned due to the fact that my diaphragm was in a spinal block induced coma and was temporarily unavailable for lung clearing activities.

It was, in fact, several hours before the Squid was returned to our be-curtained cubicle back on the ward. The Rock Star was valiantly trying to keep a full fledged pota-freak out from occurring when they finally wheeled her back in, looking rather pitiful with a My Very First Cannula sticking out of her tiny left hand. We were informed that she’d been started on a course of precautionary anti-biotics and given a chest x-ray (”Welcome to the world. ZAP!”) to make sure there was no infection lingering about. They were fairly sure she’d just gotten a snootful of fluid as many babies delivered by Caesarian do, but they wanted to be 100% sure.

Thus began again a rather traumatic time on the wards, much as I’d remembered it from the Prawn’s birth. I would simply like to re-iterate the fact that whoever thought it was an awesome idea to stick 6 post op women AND their babies in the same room for a minimum of 2 nights should be promptly found and set on fire.

One thing that had definitely changed was the speed at which the hospital was intent on getting Caesarian patients out of beds and out of their hair. With the Prawn, I remember begging every nurse and doctor that passed me if they could PLEASE GOD TAKE OUT THIS GODDAMMED CATHETER only to be told that I had to wait for someone very senior in charge to give them the go- ahead. However, this time around Operation Mobility was sincerely in force and midwives were working furiously to get those of us who had just undergone major abdominal surgery walking around again so we didn’t keep hitting the Call button every time our new offspring sneezed. Unfortunately for me, while I was able to get out of bed fairly soon, due to some unexplained internal bleeding, I was equipped with what was rather simply called “a drain”. For those not acquainted with this particular post-surgical apparatus, I shall spare you a detailed description save for the fact that it is deeply unpleasant to have to carry around a bag of fluids that are currently leaking out of you via an opening that, up until 24 hours previous, did not actually exist. And if I thought having it IN was bad, this was nothing compared to taking it OUT. This was done by a very kind midwife who was just as surprised as I was that the surgical team had left approximately half a mile of tubing in my innards which, at the end, whipped out rather suddenly, tagging what felt like every organ I owned on the way and causing me to yelp like a stuck pig. Oh, the indignity.

Unusually enough, my sister in law was in the hospital at the same time. Sometime during my second day, The Rock Star texted his brother asking whether they were upstairs yet and discovered that they were, in fact, behind a set of curtains on the other side of the room with our new niece, who has been affectionately christened “Wubba”, born less than 24 hours later than the Squid. Luckily, the midwives were on the ball and two women with identical surnames and nearly identical addresses in the same bay caused little to no consternation or pharmaceutical mishaps. Although I would not have wished a c-section on Trumpet, it was rather nice to have someone to text across the ward at 3 am when a VERY young woman was brought up with a new baby who proceeded to scream ALL NIGHT. It’s mother, not possessed with much in the way of initiative, took to tapping half heartedly on the plastic cot beside her bed rather than pressing the buzzer for the nurse who could have been of some assistance. Trumpet referred to the ward as “Guantanamo Bay for new mothers”.

Round about Friday, when I was ready to pack my bags to go home, we were dealt another blow to our morale when a pediatric doctor said that although all of the blood cultures were negative, they were awful gosh darn sorry, but they’d forgotten to have a good look at that pesky chest x-ray very closely and due to what they saw, they were keen to keep The Squid in for two more nights to complete the course of anti-biotics. Not only this, but due to a miscommunication with the NICU, the Squid’s cannula had already been removed, meaning that my 3 day old daughter would have to have a second ENORMOUS FREAKING NEEDLE inserted into her hand. Not only THAT, but THIS time, I got to be the one to hold her down while they did it, making me feel even more like Mother of the Year.

This of course, also meant two more nights in for ME. By this point, I was beyond tired; not due to the Squid, (who spent rather a lot of time sleeping) but rather to the lack of opportunity to have ANY peace and quiet for 2 nights running. I don’t mind saying that this lead to an absolute melt-down on my part- the idea of two more nights on the wards were more than I could bear. However, I was kindly offered one of the private side rooms for the duration of my stay so that I might actually be afforded half an hour here and there to catch 40  winks. So while still in the depths of despair at having to remain in hospital, the idea of a private room made it slightly more palatable.

I was feeling especially desperate due to the fact that I’d hoped to be home for the Prawn’s birthday on Sunday. In an uncharacteristic burst of foresightedness, I’d wrapped all of the Prawn’s presents before leaving for hospital, so it wasn’t much work for the Rock Star to gather them up and bring them to my little room along with the Prawn so that we could have a birthday of sorts in hospital. This was probably way more depressing for me than it was for the Prawn, who was thrilled with a bounty of Peppa Pig merchandise and a gingerbread man to munch on. While I felt terrible at making her share her birthday with me and her new sister in a clean but wholly sterile environment, she was quite happy to run around and try to find a moment when the two of us weren’t looking to press the “CPR” button on my bed control.

We were finally given the all clear to leave on Monday morning. While I had visions of being made to wait until sometime in the afternoon for the drug trolley to rumble my way, I was pleasantly surprised to be greeted in the morning by an enthusiastic midwife who’d obviously been informed about the melting down earlier in the week and had made it her mission to get me out of that ward as fast as humanly possible, so by the time The Rock Star arrived at 11 for visiting hours, both the Squid and I were packed, dressed, in possession of powerful painkillers (those were for me) and ready to get the HELL out of there.

Life since the hospital has been blessedly easy in comparison to what I was actually expecting, although both the Rock Star and I are waiting for the penny to drop. As far as sibling rivalry goes, The Prawn has pretty much been acting like your garden variety 3 year old with a burr up her tailpipe, but none of her acting out has actually been DIRECTED at her new sister, who she seems to be surprisingly well disposed towards. As for the Squid, she does rather a lot of sleeping and remarkably little shouting, although she has drenched both of her parents in bodily fluids various, but since this is par for the course for newborns, we shall not hold it against her. In the hospital, I took to calling her “Spitty Frog” due to some highly comical amphibian-style faces she was wont to pull. Upon her return home, we christened ourselves “The Itty Bitty Spitty Committee“, which, let me tell you, sounds HILARIOUS coming out of the mouth of a 3 year old.

We are well, but tired. Happy, but exhausted. And we are a complete family.

Eleanor Kestrel Anne arrived at 1pm on Wednesday, March 17th- 7 lbs, 13 oz. More to come when mama and baby manage to make it out of hospital!

The fact that people can grow other people is still kind of mind boggling to me, even though I’ve now been through it twice. Especially considering all of the unbelievable weirdness your body can get up to at the BEST of times, the fact that other human beings get grown at all is pretty astonishing.

In the past few weeks, I have, unfortunately fallen victim to bodily weirdness in the form of Gestational Diabetes.

Admittedly, I should have had the test WAY earlier. But some things simply can’t be helped, so 3 weeks ago I spent a rather relaxing 2 hours sitting and reading in the antenatal waiting room after having necked a foul concoction meant to test my glucose tolerance. This waiting room is always interesting due to the rather distinct cross section of the general public that pass through it and the often colorful nature of their personalities/ odours/ language. But fortunately for me, I had my Kindle with me and spent a rather pleasant time sitting in a comfortable chair and reading without being pestered for juice by someone under 3 feet tall.

I have to admit that I’d nearly forgotten about the test when I was phoned a week later and ordered to report to the midwife who deals with diabetic patients. After the call, I was imagining weeks of needles (which I hate) administered by The Rock Star (who I trust, but would still just assume that he not have to take on the role of Mr. Stabby.) and a diet completely free of anything that might taste remotely like food.

Luckily, I discovered when I went in for my consultation with the cheerful specialist midwife that thinking on how to treat Gestational Diabetes has changed fairly significantly in the past few years. Insulin is a fairly drastic measure, and only used when diet alone or diet plus Metaformin doesn’t do any good. Thankfully, my numbers were on the low side of high, so diet alone seems to be doing the trick. Even my assumptions about what I’m allowed to eat weren’t terribly accurate; the menu is much more varied than I imagined. It’s rather like being on the Atkins diet where carbs and sweets are a big no-no. So obviously not difficult AT ALL at a time of year when supermarket shelves are CRAMMED FULL OF DAMNED CHOCOLATE EGGS.

One of several side effects that has rather put a spanner in the works is the growth of the baby, which tends to accelerate due to higher blood sugar. At the moment, the Squid is measuring EXACTLY where she should be, but sadly, GD pregnancies are never allowed to go to full term for fear of the size of the baby. However, my sugars have been just fine since adjusting my diet and there’s no indication that the Squid is turning into some kind of behemoth in there.

So, the chances of my lovely natural birth are getting more and more remote as I was informed yesterday that they’d let me go til between 38 and 39 weeks, which is just 2 and a half weeks from now, before a) a limited induction or b) another c-section. To this, I say MEH. The consulting physician, while coolly friendly, did not seem like the type that I could meekly ask, “erm….could I not just be MONITORED, please? If the baby is the right size? To, you know, AVOID MAJOR ABDOMINAL SURGERY?” I have yet another appointment next week where my fate shall be well and truly decided, so perhaps by then, I can pluck up my courage to at least ask the question.

But, my guess is in that 2 and a half weeks, the Squid will be sprung from the joint one way or another.

Round 2, about to commence.

This afternoon, I’ve been looking back through my blog archives for late 2006 and early 2007 when I was pregnant with The Prawn, trying to draw some inspiration from the fact that, yes, pregnancy does, at some point END.

Due to my body’s unfortunately tendency toward miscarriage, I have pretty much been pregnant for all save two months since last January. This has lead me to an enormous sympathy for elephants. (22 months is a long time, ladies.) So, 10 months and counting since I could, in all good conscience, refer to myself in the singular. Oy.

The first mention of any serious complaint in my pregnancy with the Prawn came in February, about a month away from her due date. I suppose it should have come as no surprise that 3 years on, the niggly bits might begin to start a bit earlier. As I included in my Facebook status the other day, I’ve already come to the point where when I drop something that I need on the floor, I tend to take it rather personally. The fact that the Prawn does not know any of the most popular dirty words is a minor miracle. (To be honest, she learned the S-word after The Rock Star dropped a running hard drive on the floor once, but he managed to convince her that “sugar” is a much better word. She now says it exclusively in times of stress.)

Of course, I must add the traditional “how grateful I am for this pregnancy” disclaimer at this point. Other than our early roller coaster ride, the rest has been pretty much a piece of cake up until now. That I can bring myself to complain at all is testament to a ferocious head cold, which, on top of other discomforts has reduced me to being a big whiny girl about the whole thing. (Diminished lung capacity will do that to you. So will heartburn so bad that it’s started eating the back of your tongue.)

The serious waddle is about 3 weeks old at this point. Pain in places I wasn’t aware that I had ligaments started last week. And new for this week, just in time for the head cold, sneezing and hoping I don’t wet myself! Awesome. Of course, I am, in fact, a limber and adept frolicking flower fairy in comparison to my unfortunate sister-in-law, Trumpet, who has spent most of her pregnancy on the couch, wedged into positions that could charitably be called “not as uncomfortable as sitting on a rusty spike” with complex arrangements of pillows and hot water bottles.

Last week, I dutifully made my way to a midwife appointment for the usual pokings and proddings. When it came time to listen in to the heartbeat, the midwife, as is often the case, had to pursue the Squid around her uterine squat in order to get a good reading. When she finally DID manage to get a handle on the little bugger, she said, “Ah.”

“Ah?” I said.

“I was wondering why I couldn’t find the heartbeat where I was expecting it. The baby’s breech at the moment!”

This was not exactly news that I wanted to jump up and down about, even assuming that I was CAPABLE of jumping up and down any more.

People make a pretty big deal about the METHOD in which babies come into the world. I would certainly be the first to admit that this is a VERY big deal to a lot of women and with seemingly unnecessary c-sections on the rise, (more down OBGYNS who are anxious to get back to the golf course rather than a SUDDEN INABILITY OF WOMEN TO DELIVER BABIES NATURALLY. Seriously, I don’t for a minute believe that our pelvises have been evolutionarily sabotaged in the last 30 years.) it’s even MORE of a thing; creating feelings of weakness and guilt for women who are rushed into surgery. It’s taken me a good few years to process the ordeal of the Prawn’s birth but after a few chats with a very helpful hospital midwife, had begun to hope to take the natural route this time around.

However, if the Squid remains resolutely head up, in four weeks, I’ll be scheduled in for an elective c-section 2 weeks after that whether I like it or not.

There are several things wrong with this.

a) GETTING CUT OPEN AGAIN WHILE AWAKE. I can not over-emphasize how fucked up this is. This is something that happens in horror films. (Luckily, at no time during the Prawn’s birth did any of the surgeons gloatingly attempt to show me my lower intestine or severed foot.)

b) 6 weeks is in no way enough time for me to pick enough underpants up off the bedroom floor to fit in a moses basket. Also, there’s a not insignificant mildew problem that needs some serious attention before we end up with sentient fungus.

c) Do you have any idea where our bottle sterilizer went? Cause I don’t. Also, the crib?

d) DID I MENTION GETTING CUT OPEN WHILE AWAKE?

Do I wish for an end to c-sections? Of course not. They undoubtedly give a fighting chance to mothers and babies that under other circumstances, would not have been so lucky. But I can’t tell you how much I don’t want another one.

So I will be spending the next  4 weeks trying desperately to get the Squid interested in the upside down lifestyle. One website recommended putting headphones down your pants and trying to “coax” the baby down with Mozart. (It occurs to me that moving the headphones up to the top of the belly and replacing Mozart with Wu Tang Clan might be more effective.) However, I think I’ll stick to bouncing on our newly ordered exercise ball, spending some time on my hands and knees and maybe joining the Prawn in the enthusiastic dance routine she’s developed to “Single Ladies”.

Or maybe I should just get on with picking up those underpants.

Sorry I have been absentee. Most of my time has been devoted to trying not to throw up while coughing and I was simply SWAMPED.

So, Candy Begging Day is upon us once again. The UK hasn’t quite caught up with the US hysteria that surrounds the annual night of living dead zombies/witches/Barbie Dolls/Transformers and one is more likely to find a bar in a city centre giving away cheap beer for costumed adults than seeing a mass of trick or treaters at your door. Or, at least this seems to be the case in my neck of the British woods. (Chances are, if a group of kids rings your bell after dark, no good is going to come of it.) In the US, the holiday seems to drive the market for spooky goods, whereas over here, the market is trying VERY hard to drive the holiday. In the next 10 years, I can see Halloween being more US like, especially with the rise of large,new estates, which, as every trick or treater knows, are the Holy Grail.

Instead of doing anything that involves going outside in the evening, Trumpet (my sister-in-law) and I are going to have an evening in with the Prawn. Our respective significant others are venturing up to Leicester for a stag night (When questioned on the wisdom of a Halloween stag do, the Stag in question’s response was, “Is the 31st Halloween?” Any evening on the streets of Leicester is bound to be interesting, so we’ll see how our intrepid revelers make out on All Hallows Eve.) and since Trumpet and BoyRacer’s home is in the end of the village where various ner’do wells tend to congregate, Trumpet pleaded sanctuary rather than be subjected to window eggings at best and a firework through the letterbox at worst. (Really, UK government? Selling fireworks to 16 year olds? A good idea?)

Our two pumpkins have been sitting out in our lobby for the best part of a week or so and the Prawn has been excitedly pointing at them every day when she returns from nursery. “We’re going to carve pumpkins! And eat the seeds!” she squeals. Pumpkin carving has always been a task that’s fallen to me; not because the Rock Star is disinterested, but because I probably have slightly more patience when it comes to separating the multitude of seeds for baking from the rest of the pumpkin innards. And every year I have the same reaction while pulling the little white devils from the stringy goo to which they are attached: “God, this is gross.” However, the yummy nature of the pumpkin seeds when baked with butter and salt is well worth the effort.

Sadly, at 2 and a half, the Prawn is slightly young for any other Halloween related merriment, especially around here where a GOOD night walking the streets in costume might include 14 year old holding a can of Stella Artois spitting on you. So our evening, especially once the Prawn is abed will probably include telly, (the X Factor most likely, as sis-in-law is a devoted fan) chocolate rice krispie treats and exchanging various bitches about pregnancy. (Trumpet is due 3 weeks before me, so it would behoove most rational people to just avoid the area entirely for the month of March.)

Speaking of pregnancy related mischief, our “big” scan is coming up on Tuesday, so you may commence betting on a pink or blue outcome. The Rock Star is convinced that the  Squid will be at least as shy as the Prawn was at her 20 week scan (cord running between the legs,  legs crossed and hands over the whole no-no area.) but I am more hopeful that the Squid will allow us to answer the million dollar question of “SO, DOES IT HAVE A WEINER?”

On one hand, it would be interesting to sort of “start over” in the parenting stakes and learn how to raise a boy. (I have imagined many conversations with my son. Me: “Why were you and Timmy kicking eachother in the crotch on the playground?” Boychild:“I don’t know. It was funny?”  Me: “There must be an escape pod of some kind around here.”) However, I think I might feel a certain sense of relief to discover that another girl was on the way, girls being a known quantity. (And of course, there is that matter of all of the pink clothes in the attic.)

So, all bets are welcome. If you’re right, you win only the smug satisfaction of making the right choice in a 50/50 multiple choice question.

Since we have already somewhat touched upon the subject of pregnancy rage, I will simply begin with this thought in mind and leave it up to you, dear reader, to imagine what I may or may not be feeling at this moment.

The Rock Star has been working his pants off on a particular work project with a deadline of 2 pm today for some time. Unfortunately, other projects got in the way and he spent this weekend feeling a bit like a small thundercloud and having to work mornings before the Prawn woke up and evenings after she’d gone to bed. (Of course, on Saturday night, she staged an “I don’t want to go to bed” type protest, depriving him of further working time.) All things being what they were, The Rock Star was one big ball of stress come this morning.

And now we rewind briefly to a midwife appointment that I attended last Wednesday.

Perhaps when we were first married, The Rock Star and I might have toyed around with the idea of a bigger family. I liked the idea of three children. However, as it became apparent that we wouldn’t be able to start our family for some time due to fiscal concerns, we decided that two was probably a more reasonable number. This has been our thinking for at least 6 or 7 years now. So, one of the questions I had prepared for my midwife was the question of a tubal ligation, since I will most likely be having an elective caesarian this time around due to the manner of the Prawn’s arrival. This is a decision that I don’t really feel like debating with anybody. Do I wish they hadn’t cut me open the first time? Yes. Do I want them to cut me open again? No. Do I think it’s the best option for the baby? No. But do I need someone who lives on the other side of the ocean to come and look after my daughter during the birth? Yes. Do I trust my body to do something that it BLATANTLY wasn’t going to do the first time around despite three days of labor? No way. So, as far as I’m concerned, that’s the end of my debate.

She let me know that yes, that is an option, but that I needed to bring my husband to the consultant’s appointment today so that they could be sure that both of us were on the same page.

This was one of those statements that completely went in one ear and out the other until I set foot outside the surgery when Pregnancy Rage caused an enormous mental pile up causing me to go, “HANG ON JUST ONE DAMN MINUTE HERE….if I want to be in control of my fertility, I have to ASK PERMISSION from my partner?”

Self Control sits in a much smaller office since Pregnancy Rage took over the company. It nervously put it’s finger on the little buzzer.

“Erm….really? It’s not that big a deal. A little…um…ignorant, but probably not worth getting…erm…too worked up about since we know that our partner is totally on board the no more babies train?”

“WHEN I WANT YOUR OPINION, I’LL ASK FOR IT!” roared Rage.

“Yep, yep, okay, that’s fine…” Self Control conceded.

 “GO GET ME A DOUGHNUT!”

“Yep, that’s cool, I’m going….”

So, the situation this morning stood this way. The Rock Star desperately needed to work but I was of the equal belief (as was he) that he needed to accompany me to the appointment to validate a choice that I’m OBVIOUSLY NOT QUALIFIED TO MAKE ON MY OWN. Our only consolation, the 11am appointment wouldn’t last long and we’d be back to the office so that he could get on with things.

Around about the time the little hand was between the 11 and the 12 the big hand was on the everloving 9, both of us were starting to get a little stressed out. By the time the traitorous clock informed us that it was in fact 12.40, I kind of thought about calling the nearby Psych ward for the Rock Star, who looked like he might ACTUALLY burst into tears at any moment.

Of course, spending all of that quality time in the waiting room, we got to observe all kinds of domestic and familial drama, the chiefest being a 16 year old who’d come in for an early emergency scan who’s mother loudly informed the entire waiting room (on the pretext of informing her daughter) that if anyone gave her the eye for being the youngest person in the waiting room that we could all “just shove it.” and then proceeded to use extremely colorful language while leafing through a redecorating magazine (who would have thought that different kinds of wall paper would have required so many different uses of the F word?) despite the presence of a good number of children. Stroppy daughter then began complaining loudly about having to pee (despite the necessity of a full bladder for a scan) and I spent a good 15 minutes watching the rolling of eyeballs around the room as well as the sigh of relief  that went up when she was finally called back. I then got the giggles inappropriately thinking of Mom from Futurama, the supposedly sweet industrialist, zipping up her old lady suit and informing her advisers, “I’m off to some charity BS for knocked-up teenage sluts!” (I’m terribly sorry. It was a very, very difficult morning and my brain doesn’t know from appropriate anymore. I’m listening to Rage Against the Machine at the moment, so all is lost.)

For any of you not acquainted with my previous experience of baby birthing at this particular hospital, let’s just wrap up a whole week into a neat little parcel; it blew. It both blew and sucked, making a mockery of physics. (If anyone is bound and determined to read at least the sanitized version of events, it’s in the archives under March 2007) At the time, when I wrote my “birth story”, I think I put it this way:

To say that my birth plan went out the window is a colossal understatement. My birth plan tied sheets together, went out the window, caught a cab to the airport and spent the weekend losing money at The Sahara and getting hammered on free cocktails.

With the benefit of sober reflection nearly 2.5 years later, I can honest say that probably 60% of all that went wrong was just bad luck and couldn’t have been avoided. However, the remaining 40% comprised a significant portion of the stuff that was the MOST mentally scarring. It was because of this 40% that have made me think long and hard about the birth of the Squid and exactly want I DO and DON’T want to happen. I am not the 17 year old girl in the waiting room. I am a woman and a mother who knows what’s best for her and her family based on past experience, research and circumstances. To be treated as such is not, I think, an unreasonable expectation.

But, my NHS trust always has ways of surprising me. “However low the bar is, don’t worry, WE’LL SET IT LOWER!”

I like to be fair to people. My consultant was not a bad person. Nor was she a bad doctor. But she clearly had the idea that I needed hand holding or coddling and that I probably hadn’t really thought anything through very carefully.

Exhibit A: The c-section  I had three major points.

a. I have had a previous caesarian.

b. We need my parents to look after our daughter and obviously they need to know WHEN to come.

c. Being 12 days past my due date and after 3 days in hospital with more drugs pumping through my body than were found in Janis Joplin’s autopsy, my body did NOT want to give birth naturally. If you think I’m going through that again, I could do with whatever you’re smoking.

What she responded with: “I understand that you might have had a difficult time last time around, but we don’t like to do Caeserians for  purely social reasons.”

Pregnancy Rage was in the middle of taking an axe to the door “Shining” style when Self Control pressed the panic button.

“EXCUSE ME, LADY?” Rage screamed through the now splintered door. “WERE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO WHAT I JUST SAID? SOCIAL REASONS? SERIOUSLY?” Luckily, the watertight door between offices slammed to the ground and Self Control breathed a small squeak of relief to hear only muffled thumps coming from the other side.

Exhibit B: The tubal ligation I had only one major point.

a. WE DON’T WANT ANY MORE CHILDREN. EVER. PERIOD. We’ve been married for 10 years and this has always been our plan since we began to think about a family seriously. I’m not 24. I’m 34. This is my fifth pregnancy. I’m done. Finito. Finished. Two kids.

What she responded with: “Well, tubal ligation is very PERMANENT and not easily reversible. I appreciate that this is your plan, but circumstances can change. I don’t want to comment on your social situation in any way, but there are much less invasive forms of birth control.”

A faint blowtorch line was beginning to appear on the watertight door and Self Control reached into her desk drawer, hands trembling, for the tranquilizer darts as she could just begin to hear,

“I’M SORRY, DID I NOT JUST MAKE MYSELF FUCKING CRYSTAL CLEAR ON THE POINT THAT WE DON’T WANT ANY MORE CHILDREN? I’VE HAD TEN FUCKING YEARS TO THINK ABOUT THIS! I DIDN’T JUST WAKE UP THIS MORNING AND DECIDE OVER A CUP OF TEA AND CHEERIOS TO GET MY TUBES TIED!”

At this point, I made one last ditch effort to impress NICELY upon this well meaning woman how indescribably awful my previous birth experience had been and how I needed some form of control over my situation this time around, but as I feared, I became a blubbering mess, as I always do when I try to talk about The Prawn’s birth, thereby eliminating any credibility I may have had as a mother-to-be not to be messed with.

I could almost hear Rage calling me the most awful names.

One of the worst features of the antenatal unit at our hospital is that it’s in a port-a-cabin outside, so nothing is really designed for privacy, thereby forcing me to endure listening to the phone call that she placed in her next door office to the hospital’s “Afterthought” service, politely explaining to them in nice terms that she had a very nice, but confused lady who needed to “talk to someone” in order to “process previous birth issues”. The Rock Star (who suddenly realized that his presence at this appointment was, in fact, entirely unnecessary) and I contented ourselves by waving middle fingers at the closed door and giggling with insane disbelief.

So, the upshot of the interview- Sorry we gave you a c-section the first time, but no, you probably can’t have another one because you don’t have a good enough reason. Neither can you have a tubal ligation because you obviously haven’t grasped what “never having any more kids” means. Oh, and finding care for your existing kid? Well, that’s your problem.

Self Control is sleeping with one eye open.

This is a little bit of how life has felt recently.

I took this picture in the emergency room on Saturday afternoon. Every time we’ve had to go there for some reproductive difficulty, The Rock Star and I, no matter how downcast we are, manage to find something amusing. The last time, we saw a chart for the treatment of children and when to administer pain relief. One of the criteria was “SOB?” While of course we are aware that this stands for Shortness of Breath, it was amusing to think that a doctor might administer some sort of pain relief simply because the kid was being a complete asshat.

At any rate one might try to use this photo as a metaphor for the NHS in general, but as I am feeling particularly well disposed towards them at the moment, I preferred to apply it to my own situation. Drowning, not waving, with no lifeboat in sight.

WARNING! IMMINENT TALK OF LADYPARTS!

Anyone who’s suffered recurrent pregnancy loss will probably tell you that the worst bit is getting pregnant again. A blissful pregnancy is not to be for the multiple miscarrier. There is worry and tension and the terrible 3 month wait to see if things are going to go north or south. I read a miscarriage blog a while back in which the writer admitted a certain sense of relief at another loss, because at least the crippling worry was over. When you see a lot of blood, at least you don’t have to wonder anymore.

So, at 11 weeks, when I saw a copious amount of red blood, although my first reaction was to feel nauseous (not much of a stretch; I’ve felt extraordinarily sick for the duration) and to wonder why in the name of holy living hell this was happening to me again, a very small part of me stopped holding it’s breath, which almost felt…well, good.

A&E is always the first port of call. Unlike previous visits, every doctor who came to talk to me was British and completely understandable. I have no doubt that all of the rest of the staff on call from different countries are COMPLETELY AND 100% QUALIFIED to do their jobs. But when it comes to your health, it makes SUCH A DIFFERENCE to be able to clearly communicate with a doctor and have total faith that they have understood you. I hate that statement even reading it back because it just sounds so white-western-elitist, but if there’s anything I’ve learned over all of my encounters with Medicine, it’s that clarity goes a REALLY LONG WAY. Also unlike previous visits, the A&E was relatively clean and free of other people’s bodily fluids, but this might just have been because it was only 10am on a Saturday morning.

Of course, being a weekend, there was little the A&E staff could do for me other than to schedule an appointment and give my notes to the GYN ward in case I needed to be admitted.

So, this morning, I was escorted this morning to Waiting Room C at the hospital. I’ve been in it before, so I knew the way. While I’m glad this waiting room exists, it sucks. It’s at the back of the antenatal unit, far away from pregnant bellies, but it’s tiny and cold. It’s the room for the scans that aren’t going to be good news. Don’t get me wrong. I’m TOTALLY grateful for this terrible little room. Back in the mists of time, when I had my first miscarriage, I was forced to sit in a very crowded waiting room full of expectant mothers. Obviously, someone had an ounce of common sense and created the “Mercy” room.

They finally did call my name and while waiting for the scan tech, I thought,

“By the end of today, this is all going to be over. I can have a good cry tonight and then try to figure out what to do next.”

I was told in A&E on Saturday that they could book me in for an immediate D&C following the scan if need be. So I came totally prepared with pajamas, socks, and two books.

So imagine my absolute freaking shock when the technician turned the monitor my way.

“So, okay, here’s your baby, and here’s the heartbeat…”

Excuse me, the what now?

Despite the copious red blood, despite everything…still there. My cervix is closed, the placenta is firmly attached and NOT covering my cervix, so she basically had no explanation for the blood other than “Sometimes women bleed during pregnancy.” Of course, this has certainly not been the case for me. Some women may bleed during pregnancy, but I sure as hell haven’t been one of them. If I see blood, RED blood, it’s always been game over.

The NT scan, luckily, is booked for Thursday, so I’ll have some more reassurance later in the week.

The scan put me at 12.5 weeks. This is my fifth pregnancy, but only my second ever second trimester.

So, I guess today, I finally located the bell.

When I was about 10 or 11, my mother, myself and my late and sainted Great Aunt Myrtle (sainted not only due to the fact that she was the nicest lady that you’d ever want to meet, but because she was married for a rather long time to my “uncle” Charles; he of the terrible driving, mouth like a sailor and teller of inappropriate stories.) traveled to Kansas for the wedding of one of my cousins. We were put up in the house of a generous friend of the family and all bunked in the same room.

After an hour or two on the first night of our stay, it became clear to my mother and I that dear, sainted Aunt Myrtle snored like a congested Army cadet sleeping off a week long hangover after shore leave. To combat this aural assault, my mother turned on the air conditioner and returned to a few hours of slumber. However, this method turned out not the be foolproof, as Aunt Myrtle was delicate of composition, awakened to a chill in the air and rose to turn off the unit. Of course, this cycle was repeated many times a night and all of us returned to Maryland happy to have witnessed the wedding, but even happier to get a good night’s sleep. (All I can say is that Uncle Charles must have been deaf as well as crazy.)

It was this trip that I recalled as I tried to catch a few winks on the hospital ward on Sunday night, while both of my ward mates did their best impression of bunged up hippopotimi.

This was not the blog entry I wanted to write this week. I earnestly looking forward to announcing that we were expecting again in September. But, over the last 5 years or so, I’ve pretty much lost any inhibitions I might have had about discussing the personal, private, personal workings of my very own body, so if you’re squeamish about blood, feelings or needles, perhaps this entry is not for you.

It’s not a secret that we’ve had some difficulty in the past when it’s come to child-bearing. Despite this, in early February, we were pretty excited to find out that we were pregnant again. Since the last pregnancy went so well, we figured that my body had probably sussed out this whole baby-building thing, so I decided to be as Zen as possible and hopefully all would be well.

I’d be forgiven for being optimistic when, last Thursday, I finally reached the magic 12 week mark without incident. Saturday was the Prawn’s birthday, we had friends coming to celebrate, life was good.

But then, on Friday, there was blood.

After a rather predictably useless visit to A&E that night that yielded little more than a bad bruise due to an over enthusiastic medical student’s blood taking attempt, my fears of the worst had to be put aside in order to put the finishing touches on 48 pink and yellow cupcakes.

In the grand scheme of things, the one mercy that I was afforded over the weekend, was that the day of the party, I was able to be wholly there for my daughter and even managed to have a great time with family and friends even though I knew that I was probably staring down the inevitable. The Prawn’s ecstatic face when she noticed that we’d decked the ceiling with helium balloons was reason enough to be cheerful. Being able to watch her hugging and kissing her godsister and the two of them laughing like a pair of loons while playing together…fantastic.

However, on Sunday, it was pretty apparent that all was about to go pear shaped, so back to the hospital we went.

Our first point of contact was the most uninterested Ukranian medical foot soldier who could not have been more unhappy about working the Sunday night sports injury/domestic violence shift. (Seriously, guys, you’re REALLY wanting to go to the emergency room because you tripped while playing football and have a bit of a swelling on your ankle? SUCK IT UP, BUTTERCUP; USE AN ICE PACK.) It’s no bloody wonder, really, judging by the state of of my fellow A&E patients. However, unlike most of them, I was admitted after actually being able to see a doctor that specialized in, oh, what was actually wrong with me. (As relieved at I was to see an OBGYN, I am still suffering from her efforts to insert a canula in my hand; I am the proud owner of a 3 inch long bruise running down my arm. Both she and The Rock Star were alarmed at the small, red fountain that erupted.)

My previous experience on a hospital ward during the week that I had the Prawn loomed large in my mind as I was wheeled up to where they stashed gyn patients. (Anyone who’s able bodied who has been stuck in a wheelchair will tell you that this is a vaguely humiliating experience.) However, the wing that I was escorted to was newer, cleaner and by FAR more comfortable than Labor and Delivery. (My guess is that since L&D is a constant revolving door of a place, it can never been quite as well looked after. ) I quietly slipped into the dignity-stripping hospital issue nightgown, tearfully said goodnight to The Rock Star, and after giving up on getting something to eat (I hadn’t had anything since 3 in the afternoon) tried to catch as much sleep as humanly possible between the nocturnal apnea antics of my two ward mates.

Morning on the wards starts at 6. As it was likely I was going to be offered surgery sometime that day, my chart was stamped with a large “DO NOT FEED THE POTAMUS” sign, guarenteeing an entire day of a mouth that tasted like the underside of a city bus. I had little to do but wait for the scan that was scheduled for 8.30 that would inevitably show me what I already knew to be true, so I passed the time dozing while listening to the two other ladies (who had obviously been on the ward for some days) complaining about the time it took to get their pain medication.

Since the Rock Star had to drop The Prawn off at nursery around 8, making the scan at 8.30 was always going to be a bit of an ask, but when I realized that I was about to be wheeled down to the antenatal wing by myself, I couldn’t help but feel slightly desperate. The feeling of desperation increased when I and my unnecessary chariot were left by the reception desk to watch a parade of endlessly pregnant bellies and beaming mothers walk through for their appointments. Luckily, one of the receptionists showed an ounce of common sense and wheeled me back to a waiting room that was obviously reserved for appointments such as mine, far away from the main waiting room, where I don’t mind saying that I finally completely lost my shit. The scan technicians kindly delayed for 10 minutes in the hope that The Rock Star would be able to make it, but when it became apparent that I was holding everything up, I let them know that it was fine to go ahead.

It’s one thing to know something in your gut, but it’s quite another to have it graphically confirmed.  Although I was technically 12 weeks pregnant, the fetus had stopped growing at 8 weeks. Since the bleeding had taken so long to start, the diagnosis was: missed miscarriage. The scan technician was very sympathetic, but apparently, in cases such as this, a diagnosis has to be confirmed by a senior technician, so I was left alone in the room, shivering and covered with ultrasound goo with a junior nurse who had no clue what to say to me. Not that I blame her; what in the hell DO you say to someone who’s just seen a dead baby? So, she fell back on what most people do: “Where’s your accent from?”, which turned into, “Oh, from near Washington DC, huh?” which, even MORE oddly turned into, “Is that where Natasha Richardson was from?”

“ARE YOU SERIOUS WITH THAT? DO YOU THINK I WANT TO TALK ABOUT A CELEBRITY WHO DIED BECAUSE SHE WAS TOO DUMB TO WEAR A HELMET WHILE PARTICIPATING IN A SNOWSPORT RIGHT NOW?” I wanted to shout. But of course, I didn’t and said something along the lines of, “No, she lived in New York. That was a real shame.”

Lucky for me, the door opened at that moment and The Rock Star appeared with the senior technician, which was an enormous relief. The senior tech confirmed her junior’s findings and I was sent back up to the ward to wait for a doctor to discuss my options.

Stoke Mandeville is not immune to basic NHS problems, the two biggest of them, in my view are understaffing and bad communication. Suffice to say that it was about 2 hours before the doctor came to see me and then I was pretty much forgotten about until around 3 when the Rock Star finally cornered a nurse and asked her politely, but firmly if she could please find out what in the name of holy hell was going on. I was now going on 24 hours of food and water depravation (although I’d been given a saline drip to keep me hydrated, this did nothing for my Bus Mouth) and was starting to feel woozy. Not only that, but the Prawn’s going-home time was approaching and we, as of yet, had no idea how we were going to get her.

FINALLY, at 4 pm, a trolley arrived to take me down to the theatre. When faced with the prospect of surgery, it’s natural to think PAST it, but when actually confronted with it, lying on a gurney in the ante-room of the operating room, panic kicks in a little bit. Especially when the first person you see coming out of the theatre is a large man, sucking on a lollipop, covered in tattoos and dressed in scrubs. My moment of predjudice was an odd one; how am I, who have no fewer than 6 tattoos myself, to justify a feeling of dread upon discovering that this be-inked individual is the “master of surgery”? (Meaning, I think that he is responsible for everything and everyone in the theatre being exactly where they should be.) I suppose, when you’re about to trust your anethesthtised body to perfect strangers, that you crave gravitas, which, sadly, tattoos do not always convey. However, he was extremely competant, despite my reservations regarding the sanitary nature of eating sweets in a sterile environment.

The anesthetist was undoubtedly my favorite character of the experience; a rather short and camp character, he winked at me as he began preparing syringes and asked sympatheticly how long I’d been waiting.

“I was admitted last night.” I told him, welling up a little.

“Oh, you poor lamb! Such a long wait!” he said, patting my shoulder, “Let’s get you a gin and tonic.”

I’ve been under the influence of anesthetic a good many times and recognised the feeling as he administered what I termed, “the good stuff.” He laughed. “Yes, that was the good stuff. Nighty night, my love.”

The dose must have been relatively light. I’ve always struggled to fight through the fog of anesthetic while post op nurses cajole me to open my eyes. But this time, when I heard the mention of a cup of tea, I was wide awake. Although I’m notoriously picky about tea, the cup of hospital issue overstewed brown water tasted like the nectar of heaven after over 26 hours with no food or drink.

I was released at around 9.30pm.

It’s kind of hard to describe the feeling upon returning home. The relief that I’d felt in the hospital to have everything over and done with gave way to sadness a bit. Two days ago, I’d been pregnant. Now I’m not.

A family member who’s also experienced pregnancy loss wrote to me of her disappointment during one spring season, when wild thing start to bloom. “How can I grieve so much over a zygote smaller than a cherry blossom?” she said, “But I think of those little lost potentials every cherry blossom season.”

It’s this that is most distressing during pregnancy loss; the loss of potential. There is little anyone can do upon seeing two bright lines on a pregnancy test but begin to imagine the change in their lives that will be caused by a life to come and what that small bright spark might bring. When the bright spark is gone, the loss of it’s promise is as devestating as the physical loss to the body.

Everything that I know tells me that this was most likely bad luck. Our bodies have a good sense of self-preservation and know not to waste energy on a pregnancy that will not result in a healthy baby, but it’s hard to want to thank your body for  what feels like an act of biological treason. It’s difficult to learn to like yourself again.

Despite my experience, I am optimistic and grateful. I have a supremely amazing and beautiful daughter and a partner who I can rely on unconditionally. We are healthy. We are solvent. We will try again.

We have much to look forward to.

Back in college, I went to a local Olive Garden with a couple of friends for a post show meal. My friend Adam, a giant of a man, ordered a glass of Lambrusco with his steak.

“Isn’t that kind of a girl’s drink?” asked the waiter.

It baffles me why anyone would insult someone who was responsible for their tip, (he totally didn’t get one) let alone someone who was 6’3”. Luckily for our server, Adam was a good natured pussycat who didn’t believe in pounding someone into the floor like a picture nail just for insulting his choice of drink.

“Um, what?” he responded.

“Nothing, man, it’s your meal,” replied our waiter.

To give some element of credit to the extremely rude man, Lambrusco is completely heinous and is less a girl’s drink than something that should probably used exclusively for cleaning engine parts. But as college students, it was probably our first foray into the world of wine and therefore the extent of our knowledge. This is why there are no college age sommeliers. If there were, you’d end up with an awful lot of very wealthy people drinking a $3.00 bottle of Gallo with their fois gras and Russian caviar. (“Duuuuude, it’ll get you totally wasted.”)

I still wouldn’t call my wine pallet massively mature. It is mature enough not to drink a gallon of cheap wine and then spend the evening throwing up on my neighbor’s back porch from the comfort of my balcony. (Another college friend did this once, but I imagine that HIS pallet is a lot more mature now as well.) I can tell very good wine from very bad wine, but everything else in the middle is…well, just wine. If it’s in my glass, chances are, I’ll drink it.

Why all the talk of wine, you ask? Well, I’m just happy that after almost a year, I’m going to get to drink it again. This is because I’ve stopped breastfeeding.

NOTE: THOSE OF YOU WHO DO NOT WISH TO READ DETAILED INFORMATION ABOUT MY BOOBS, PLEASE LOOK AWAY NOW. DON’T SAY I DIDN’T WARN YOU.

Breastfeeding for 6 months after the Prawn’s birth was totally my plan. I mean, is there really anyone out there who DOESN’T know that breastfeeding is TOTALLY the best thing for a baby? (If you have visited any NHS health facility, chances are, there are roughly 17 posters on each wall informing you of this fact.) But, as with my birth plan which went the way of the pear, breastfeeding followed shortly there after.

There’s some statistic stating that most women give up breastfeeding 3 weeks after a child’s birth. Why do they give up? BECAUSE IT’S HARD. It may be a natural biological process, but it doesn’t follow on that it’s inherently easy. Not only does the MOTHER have to learn how to do it, but she has to depend on the cognitive processes of a small pink blob to figure it out as well. Sadly, while my pink blob is obviously now a genius and should be diagramming sentences any day now, when she was first born, ordering a drink was a little beyond her.

The key to breastfeeding is the “latch” which is what gives most mothers the problem. Babies will gleefully maul your nipple for hours until it cracks and bleeds rather than get a latch that works. This was one of the Prawn’s greatest problems. She COULD get a good latch, but much preferred one that would hurt badly enough for me to want to scream bloody murder. Not only that, but once she had a latch she was HAPPY with, she’d fall asleep. EVERY SINGLE TIME. WITHOUT ACTUALLY EATING ANYTHING. I tried everything that doctor’s recommend- taking off all of her clothes, blowing in her face, tickling her feet…in a moment of desperation, I actually once briefly touched her ear with an ice lolly, but to no avail. This kid sleeps harder than the dead.

So after about 2 weeks of her screaming her head off and not gaining weight, my midwife suggested that I should try supplementing with formula and expressing breastmilk for her. So I did. And the screaming stopped. She started putting on weight. She now has enough chins to vaguely resemble Alfred Hitchcock in profile.

Expressing is no party either. You have a choice between an electric model of pump that makes you feel like you live on a dairy farm or a manual one which is guaranteed to give you serious RSI. I have the later. But I dutifully pumped nonetheless BECAUSE IT WAS THE BEST THING FOR MY BABY.

What the midwife didn’t tell me is that expressing exclusively is a one way ticket to a dried up milk supply. Of course, I didn’t find out this bit of info until it was way too late.

So the Prawn just turned two months old and I still spend hours each day punishing my sore hands and breasts for a measly amount of milk. Yesterday, I decided that I’d had enough.

Stopping breastfeeding doesn’t only have physical consequences but a whole raft of emotional ones to go with it. Everyone in the medical community and other extremely judgemental people become hell bent on making you realize what a failure to your child that you are. When I told my health visitor last week that I was doing half breastfeeding (a lot less than half with my supply, actually, but I wasn’t going to go into detail.) and half formula, she gave me a stern look and said, “You DO know that breastfeeding exclusively is best for your baby, don’t you?”

This is what I have to contend with. The Nipple Nazis. (NOTE: I don’t use this term to describe anyone who breastfeeds or is pro-breastfeeding, but rather the judgemental assholes who feel the obscene need to persecute women who decided NOT to breastfeed or for some reason CAN’T. I’m looking at YOU, weirdly intense Irish woman from my mother’s group who can’t stop herself from making inappropriate comments about the fact that I express. Button it or I’ll button it for you.)

I have to wonder if these women honestly believe that I don’t already feel badly enough let down by my body’s failure to a) maintain a pregnancy b) go into labor and give birth naturally when it DID manage to maintain a pregnancy and c) produce enough milk to feed my child, that they feel it necessary to hammer the fact home on a regular basis?

So I’m going to do what anyone one else would do in this situation. I’m going to have a drink.

It’s traditional, in the blogsphere, following the birth of a child to write down the sequence of events that comprise your personal “birth story”. Presumably, this is for the future benefit of your offspring who may or may not be interested in the degree of rectal tearing you experienced. It’s also cathartic to share your experience with others so that they know what a freaking superwoman you were despite the fact that you spent 75% of the time crying like a little girl.

In the weeks before birth, midwives encourage you to write down your “birth plan”; a sheet of instructions, detailing what you’d like in the way of pain relief, how many people you’d like in the delivery room, whether or not you’d like to stand on your head for the actual delivery, etc. Dutifully, I wrote down a two page missive that basically boiled down to the following: “I’d like to do the whole thing drug free, deliver in a birthing pool and have my husband cut the cord. Oh yeah, and PLEASE DON’T CUT ME OPEN.”

To say that my birth plan went out the window is a colossal understatement. My birth plan tied sheets together, went out the window, caught a cab to the airport and spent the weekend losing money at The Sahara and getting hammered on free cocktails.

You may have been able to infer some of my experience from my embedded reporting from inside the antenatal ward, but here’s the shortened version, minus the bits I’m still trying to forget about. And yeah. There were some of those bits.

Sunday- We arrive at 11 on the antenatal ward and are promptly left to our own devices by the severely overstretched staff. Around 2, I receive my first dose of Prostin, a compound that is meant to open the cervix. Due to the fact that there seems to be some sort of baby gridlock occurring down in the L&D department, I do NOT receive a second dose lest I actually go into true labor. I discover that contractions are NOT any fun around 2 in the morning, after The Rock Star was forced to go home. These bouts of painful internal gymnastics have no discernable effect whatsoever in the moving-the-Prawn-along stakes.

Monday- By morning, the contractions have entirely worn off and I receive one of approximately 57 painful pelvic examinations by a doctor with fingers like cucumbers who is less than gentle. (You know why health authorities have to beg women to come in for bi-annual pap smears? Cause it’s just no fun having someone all up in your bid’ness. Especially someone who has no bid’ness of their own.) At 9, I get my second dose of Prostin which does pretty much more of the same; lots of contractions that bend me in half and do nothing but irritate the Prawn as it is disturbing her beauty sleep. The Rock Star brings me sustenance; Cadbury’s Eclairs, Ritz Crackers and Lucozade Sport drinks. That night, I discover the joys of Pefiden- a lovely little drug that doesn’t actually take away pain, but makes it possible to wallow in your own brain fog in the moments in between.

Tuesday- By this time, I’m starting to get pissed off with my daily routine of contractions that did nothing. I mean, really, enough already with this labor shit, this baby is LONG overdue so WHY THE HELL HAS MY UTERUS NOT GOTTEN THE MEMO?

Around about 5pm, I am FINALLY wheeled down to L&D to get the party started courtesy of water breakage and Oxytocin drip. After being informed by the friendly (but somewhat clumsy in the field of putting in a hand peg, as you can see) midwife in the delivery suite that I was going to be there awhile before anything started happening, I consented to one of many things that I was dead set against; an epidural. But after the initial bout of heebie jeebies about having a needle inserted into my spine, once it started working, I was ready to put on a little pleated skirt and wave pom poms in hearty support of Team Numbness.

However, by about 9am, it was obvious that every attempt to flush out the Prawn had failed and the dreaded words “c-section” were uttered. Definitely not the outcome I was hoping for. I am NOT good with surgery. “Can you put me out?” I asked.

“No, we don’t like to do that. The anaesthetic isn’t good for the baby. You’re going to have to be awake.”

Needless to say that I could have used a cup of tea or something before the knives were sharpened, but literally 10 minutes after having the news broken to me, I found myself strapped down to a table with a large screen in front of my face, my husband in scrubs sitting next to my head, looking stricken and some masked strangers doing dire things out of my line of sight.

And then.

I heard her before I saw her. A gurgly cry.

They told me she was a girl. They handed her to the Rock Star, who showed her to me. He cried. I would have too, but someone was yanking on my diaphragm and it seemed a poor idea to try to use it. I heard the nurses saying what a beautiful baby she was.

While blissful numbness had kept all sensations from below my waist from troubling me up until this point, rather suddenly, I regained some of it, unfortunately, while a large hole in my lower abdomen was being sewed together. I informed my tormentors of this fact by yelling, repeatedly, “I CAN FEEL THAT!!!” until the anaesthesiologist mercifully administered a general anaesthetic and I lapsed into unconsciousness.

Here is where I need to process. Two more days on the wards followed that I would sincerely like to forget about. In the old days, following a birth, the hospital had a nursery where babies went at night so that exhausted mothers could get some much needed rest. Nowadays, “rooming in” is all the craze, but whoever decided that women who have just experienced major, traumatic surgery should also have to spend the night looking after a newborn DESPITE the fact that they are, in fact, unable to get out of bed due to various medical apparatus attached to them AND surrounded by other women with newborns, should be repeatedly kicked in the head and then set on fire.

At any rate, I put my foot down and insisted on a Friday discharge rather than a Saturday one and blessedly left with the Rock Star and the Prawn to start our lives as a family back at our cozy little flat.

So, the Prawn? She IS beautiful. We’re getting to know eachother.