PUBLISHED - 19 July, 2011

Baby Diary: Labour day

Baby Diary:
Labour day

baby & parenting

After 9 months of waiting, the big day is finally here! Carla Mills shares the story of her two-day labour...

Day one

10am – “When are you due?” the checkout assistant casually asks as I start loading the paint into the trolley with a huff. “Oh, today,” I shrug, at which point she turns a peculiar shade of avocado and rapidly starts assisting with the packing. By the time I get home I am pretty sure this baby is on its way as I start to feel twinge-like pains at regular intervals, so I put the painting of garden furniture off in favour of a lie down.

6pm - When the husband returns home from work we decide to get the bags ready and call the hospital, but I’m told to have a bath, time the contractions and wait until I am in so much pain I can’t hold a conversation. I am in no mood to make conversation, and the bath isn’t quite as pain relieving as I’d hoped.

8pm - We discover a bit too late in the day that we have no stop watch in the house, and in what he calls a selfless flash of ‘inspiration’, the husband declares we must watch the football in order to use the match time clock on screen. “It will tell us by the second” he wisely confirms...

12am - I don’t sleep at all due to the sporadic waves of pain, so decide to retreat downstairs to the sofa to watch TV, read a book and pray that this won’t go on for much longer.

Day two

6am - The next morning the husband decides he needs to go into the office for a meeting but will be home by midday. After another warm bath I decide that tackling that painting job might take my mind off the pain – and get to work on turning the faded cast iron table and chairs into a gleaming glossy black. To be honest, I’m not sure all the bending and squatting in between my now longer and more intense contractions is helping the cause, but the furniture does look good even if I do say so myself! The husband arrives home, deep in conversation on his mobile phone. “Nah, nothing doing. I reckon this will go on for days,” he expertly answers, in the same tone of voice he uses when discussing footie tactics.

When we get home I do what I always do in times of confusion: I eat

2pm - We decide on another walk to see if it helps the pain or speeds things up, but my pace is noticeably slower, and I have to keep stopping due to the cramps. They have no definite pattern of frequency; and my waters are intact so perhaps this is labour...perhaps it isn’t. When we get home I do what I always do in times of confusion: I eat, aware that this could be the last decent meal I have for some time.

5pm – “I think this really could be labour” I tentatively suggest as I take a sharp intake of breath. We phone the hospital and the midwife cheerfully suggests waiting a bit longer, and that there is no rush. I choose to ignore this advice as I’m done with waiting and tell the husband to get the bags into the car sharpish. During the journey through rush hour traffic, the contractions slow down and I feel very uncertain and very foolish. The husband tuts and rolls his eyes, and I feel sure I am about to experience my dread of being sent home.

6pm - When we announce ourselves at reception, the nurses do not seem panicked that I am in labour. We are asked to sit in the waiting room much to my distress – as sitting is not an ideal position right now, and I am impatient enough without the need to queue to give birth. I eye the nurses outside casually chatting and eating their sandwiches, and decide to make my pain known by hobbling up and down past their desk, with much huffing and puffing.

I am impatient enough without the need to queue to give birth

7pm – We are finally ushered into a room to be wired up to a monitor to check the contractions and baby’s heart rate. I am clearly in pain but still no one seems concerned, and I’m casually offered some gas and air to practice on for when labour really starts. This does nothing for the pain and just makes me feel sick so I give it up. After around 45 minutes the midwife decides to examine me “just to see what’s happening”.

“Oh gosh” she exclaims, “you’re 5cm already, and well into labour – you won’t be going home tonight”. Well I could have told her that! She rushes around, calling the delivery unit and trying to confirm a bed. The midwife-led unit with the water pool is full, and I have to go to the doctor-led unit instead, generally reserved for complicated deliveries only. I am a bit disappointed but in too much pain to argue.

8pm - Within minutes of arriving at my room the new midwife suggests I bounce on a gym ball or take a warm shower. I do both – but to no avail in the pain relieving stakes, and am now close to tears. Despite my original plans for no drugs, I can’t go any longer without some pain relief, so breathlessly gasp for something – anything – to help. And quickly!

9.30pm - A doctor finally arrives to painstakingly slowly discuss the various pain relief options and side effects, as if we have all the time in the world – and I wish I’d done a bit more research on this now. “Just the best thing” is all I can get out – and despite an inherent fear of needles, go for the biggie: the epidural, which annoyingly then takes an age to set up, having to wait for another team of doctors to arrive and administer it.

The husband continues to gently praise my efforts, but I can’t appreciate this encouragement; I just want this over. Finally it’s done and the anaesthetist assures me it will kick in shortly. After 30 more minutes of listening to my screams he looks a bit unsure, and decides it is one of the rare cases where he hasn’t quite hit the nerve and will need to do it again! Another 40 minutes of agony and I finally feel some relief, and I allow the midwife to get close enough to examine me. She cheerfully announces I am now 9cm, progressing very quickly and it won’t be much longer.

1.30am – After two epidurals, plus a few top ups, things don’t quite go to plan, as my blood pressure has dropped too low, the baby’s heart rate has slowed too much and the cord is around her neck. My entire body is shaking severely with every contraction and after much discussion, debate and examination from various doctors and midwives, they decide a speedy exit is required. The husband pales as the forceps are whipped out, and before you know it I am being told to push whilst a doctor pulls. Just when I feel like I can't take much more, the husband excitedly exclaims “Honey she’s here, she’s beautiful!” before looking at the midwife for confirmation, and asking, “it is a she isn’t it?”.

Honey she’s here, she’s beautiful!

The elation of holding my baby, along with the fact the pain has finally stopped, means I don’t even notice I’ve spent the last 45 minutes receiving stitches. The husband and I enjoy the calmness of the next few hours, cuddling and cooing over our new baby girl, happily oblivious to the fact that we haven’t got a clue on even the very basics, such as nappy changing, bathing or feeding.

Well, how hard can it be?

Huge congratulations to Carla on the birth of Gracie!