"So what was it like for you?" my pregnant friend asks, and here's the answer she'll wish she never had...
The Ex got home from work, and even though I wasn’t in any more pain than I’d been during the day (when he'd left for work I'd had stomach cramps and ....there's no way around this.... diahorrea), I made a fuss just to get attention. He fished out a huge gymnastics ball from a storage cupboard that I sat and gently bounced on for a while, and he did massage my lower back and was extra sweet to his whining wife, but I could tell he just thought I was being, well, just that – whiny and a bit dramatic.
“I’m starving”, I complained.
“Want to order something in?”
“Yeah. Indian.”
“I thought you said you had the shits, do you really think a curry is a good thing?” he asked and looked at me sceptically.
“Vindaloo,” I glared angrily at him, my stare challenging him to defy me which he knew not to and got on the phone.
A bit later I’d forgotten all about my poor-little-me act and we ate in front of the TV. Suddenly my lower stomach contracted in a tight squeeze, and I flew up from the sofa. Actually, not “flew” because you don’t fly when you clock in at over 80 kilos, and especially if you’re just 5’6 and the majority of these 80-plus kilos are distributed around your middle – I prized myself up with the obligatory grunt, and yelled “I had a contraction! A real one!”
“Oh really?” the Ex said and winked at me, annoyingly calm.
What the hell was wrong with the son of a bitch? I gave him another evil and tried to come up with something mean to say, but instead sat back down and got back to my curry. I was just about to have another mouthful when I realised I wasn’t hungry anymore. Oh no, instead I needed to throw up. It came over me so quickly that I didn’t get further than the kitchen, and the tiny amount of Chicken Vindaloo I’d had came out into the kitchen sink. At the same moment there was another hard squeeze to my stomach, this one so violent that my knees buckled and I screamed to the high heavens.
Only then, the Ex realised I wasn’t faking it.
What the hell was this crap? My waters hadn’t broken and these contractions came upon each other, although they didn’t feel like contractions but more like someone was stabbing me with a rusty bread knife. I’d prepared for the eventuality that the labour pains might get too much for me and that I, after hours of labour, might have to ask for pain relief, but THIS I had not expected. It had been less than ten minutes and I was in so much pain it was driving me crazy. The Ex ordered a taxi and then called the hospital. After a minute or so he handed me the phone.
”Hi Anna, how are you doing?” a calm midwife, or whatever she was, gently asked me.
“I’m in pain, it’s too much”, I wailed.
“You sound like it’s bad, yes”, she reassured me, “how long between your contractions?”
“I don’t know”, I grunted, leaning on the kitchen table, but then there was another stabbing frenzy aimed at my midriff and my legs gave way again, the phone was sent flying across the floor.
The Ex took it, as I realised that whatever was attacking me had swapped the rusty bread knife for a rusty saw.
“Right. OK. Get her in straight away, yeah?" he hurriedly mumbled into the phone, "alright. Yeah, we’re just ten minutes away, the taxi should be here any minute. OK. Second floor. Thanks.”
I burst in to tears, paralysed with fear. The Ex got me up to my feet and helped me to the door, all the while grinning broadly and his hazel eyes sparkling like I’d never seen them sparkle before.
“I’m never sleeping with you ever again”, I hissed and hit him on the shoulder, “this is your fault and I hate you, I HATE YOU!” I yelled, before the saw from a minute earlier was driven into my gut full force again.
The Ex held me, whispered that he loved me, despite the fact that a demon had taken over my body and my face was a grimace of pain. The taxi arrived and I suddenly remember what a friend had told me.
“Some drivers refuse to take you if they realise you’re in labour, in case you end up giving birth in the car.”
The Ex ran out with the bags and I clung on to the hallway doorframe as another hellish contraction raged through my belly. Then, when it subsided a little, we hurried out to the waiting car and were on our way. Luckily the hospital was only five minutes away, but the route is like an assault course made up of speed bumps. I was under attack twice during the journey and endured my own little personal hell, tensing up and squirming and staying silent. The Ex must have had bruises all over his hands after how I’d squeezed them.
Finally up on the delivery ward, I was hanging off the Ex with my 80 and beyond kilos and I was screaming like a banshee. Quickly they got me in to a delivery room and peeled off my trousers and underwear. I just remember not being able to keep still because the pain was so bad.
I had hoped for one of those kick-ass midwives, a sturdy and bossy grey-haired old dear who’d waddle in and confidently take charge and be in control of the situation, someone to guide me through who’d delivered a million babies including five of her own. The little pixie that came mincing in through the door can’t have been more than twelve.
“Are you in a lot of pain?” she asked sweetly with her fragile and squeaky little voice.
I couldn’t get a word out. I was too busy trying to breathe through the mouth piece for the gas, that I hoped would get me so stoned that the pain would subside, but it just didn’t work, mostly because I was in so much pain that breathing itself was difficult, and when my lungs eventually screamed for oxygen I just hyperventilated.
“EHHHHH….! PEEEEEE..HEEEE! DEW-RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHL!!” I roared when I momentarily managed to catch my breath, at the same time as I tried to punch the little pixie as she tried to get a look between my legs.
The bread knives and saws were a thing of the past. I’ve never been able to deal with pain, but this was way beyond my worst nightmares. Nothing could have prepared me for this, not even my best friend’s “yeah… fucking hell” when she'd described giving birth to me. I suppose when people say there’s no way to describe the pain, they’re telling the truth.
And it’s different for everyone, but for Yours Truly it felt like this: imagine meat hooks. That’s right, those massive hooks of steel that they hang whole cows up on when they’ve been slaughtered. Imagine that five of those are hooked into your gut and that these are then chained to five tractors that are all pulling in different directions. That’s what my contractions felt like.
This wasn’t a state that I saw any reason to explore further - I cannot see the need for any vaginal distress beyond having a Brazilian wax - so I kept screaming and thrashing about until they pumped me full with all the drugs they had in stock. Or gave me an epidural, at any rate. Ah, the wonderful anesthetist – he was my only friend. He came walking in, his gait slouchy, a calm (stoned?) smile on his face that filled me with hope.
“Help me”, I panted, writhing around on the bed.
“I will,” he reassured me and patted me on the head, “I will make it all go away.”
There was no one in the world who needed him more than I did at that moment.
An epidural is administered via a huge needle that goes into your spine, so if you don’t fancy ending up paralysed, it’s a good idea to keep still when the needle goes in. How this was accomplished, I’ll never know. I just know that I was on the edge of the bed, with the Ex to my left and the tiny pixie midwife to my right, clinging on to them, still screaming like a banshee. (Yes, there was a lot of screaming when I was in labour.) Magically, the lovely anesthetist managed to get the needle lodged where intended into my spine, and just the knowledge that it was there calmed me somewhat.
“Right, darling, you’re going to have a sensation in your left leg that feels like a small electric shock, alright,” the anesthetist told me when he’d taped a tube from the needle up along my back and over my shoulder, where the tube had a little screw cap from which he would send the good stuff my way.
Immediately there was a little jolt in my left leg. Whoa! Impressive stuff, this. And then, I was engulfed in the sweetest veil of epiduralistic bliss. Still in full control of all limbs, but it was as if someone had pulled the curtain on that awful pain. I sank back on to the bed, relieved. The pixie massaged her shoulder, that had drawn full advantage of my manicurist’s skill. Even though the pain was almost completely gone, I was still reluctant to be examined down there, but gave in and the tiny pixie thing went to have a look.
“Just want to see how far you’ve dilated,” her sugar coated little voice sang.
When she’d been poking around for a while, she shook her head and sighed. Of course, just my luck, something was wrong, I knew it.
“Don’t be disappointed,” she started, and I knew that I was going to be disappointed, “but you’re only two centimetres open.”
Then she went on to tell me some crap she’d memorized from some book that it’s different for different people and that I should “just try to relax for a bit. I’ll come back to examine you in a little while and if there’s not much progress we’ll get you up for a walk around the ward.”
The epidural I was given was a “mobile epidural”, meaning I wasn’t attached to anything and was in full control. I couldn’t recommend it enough. But oh my. I knew enough after all my reading up on the mechanics of childbirth that you need to be fully dilated - that's ten centimetres - before baby could come out, and as a first timer you dilated at a rate of 1 ½ centimetres every two hours or something like that. And I also knew that an epidural could slow the process down. This did not bode well.
The pain wasn’t completely gone, so the anesthetist came back and topped me up from the little tube taped to my shoulder.
“After this dose it’ll all go, I promise,” he chuckled, and I loved him even more.
And he was right. It all disappeared, and so did the tiny little pixie. Through all this, I’d kept hold of the mouth piece for the gas and was pleasantly stoned.
“Anna, for fuck’s sake, give it to me, you’re just lying there smiling!” the Ex hissed at me and took it away from me.
Another mean comment was at the tip of my tongue, but I just scrunched up my nose at him. He ignored me and just kissed me on the forehead and sat down again in the chair next to my bed.
“Perhaps you should call everyone now,” I suggested, and he wandered off outside as the reception was really terrible on the ward.
It was just past midnight, just a short while after I’d found out that I was only two centimetres dilated and that this could turn into a very long night indeed. Alone in the room, I just lay there, listening to the fireworks that lit up the London night to celebrate Bonfire Night. The contractions came and went in waves just seconds apart, my stomach tightening and relaxing with each one, but no pain. I was aware of an enormous pressure down my pelvis but assumed that this was just how it should be.
A few minutes later, the Ex was back after having called our families and closest friends. For the first time that night, I took a good look at my (ex)husband. Calm and collected, perhaps a little dazed. No hint of worry, just filled with positive and controlled excitement.
Just as we were talking about what to do to pass the time, the pixie came back.
“Do you want to come up for a little walk around the ward?”
“Sure, why not,” I replied chirpily.
Why not indeed? Now I felt SUPER, all stoned to oblivion, so would be up for a little stroll around the hospital, perhaps down to the cafeteria and get some coffee. Yes, a coffee would be good.
“I’m just going to examine you again, just to make sure it’s going in the right direction.”
More poking and prodding. She changed her angle. Poked some more and dug around in me.
“Finding anything interesting in there?” I asked.
“Anna! Be nice,” the Ex told me.
More prodding from all possible angles. Then suddenly she looked at me, wide-eyed and I knew something was wrong again. Shit.
“I… I don’t want to say before I’m absolutely sure, so I’m just going to get a doctor to confirm, but I think you’re fully dilated!” she stuttered and ran off to find an adult to examine me.
The doctor, a good looking woman in her thirties, came along and put her hands up between my legs as well, for more poking, prodding and digging around. And then the anesthetist turned up again to check if I needed a top-up (which I didn’t but pretended I did just because I was terrified that the meat hooks would come back). Then another doctor came in to the room, because apparently there wasn’t much happening on the ward tonight.
So there I was, legs wider apart than Jenna Jameson during a day at work, with a bunch of strangers putting their hands between my legs and a whole audience staring right up me. The only thing missing was Ron Jeremy. In that situation it’s not the easiest thing in the world to keep your dignity. Both doctors confirmed I was dilated the full ten centimetres, but because it had happened so fast – my cervix had torn open the remaining eight centimetres in 40 minutes – my body should be given a chance to recover a little, so “let’s give it another hour before it’s time to start pushing,” Doctor number two decided. And everyone else in the room agreed, nodding and still staring between my legs.
“OK,” I mumbled, now just confused after all the drama and just longing to be left alone, just wanting to go home.
It just happened so bloody fast. There was no time to adjust my rearview mirror, let alone discover that reality wasn’t just hot on my heels but about to overtake me as well. Just after 1.30pm my pixie midwife and her guardians, the two doctors, came back in, and suddenly I was seized by fear and panic again.
“Alright. Are you ready to start pushing?” the pixie asked and smiled.
The goddamn Ex was grinning from ear to ear, but I froze in terror.
Hand on heart, I’m not sure how much of this terror was caused by my fear of giving birth, actually push out a whole baby, maybe tear… Another thought going through my dazed and confused mind was how I wasn’t ready, that I couldn’t do it, that I wanted to go home, that this was all wrong. Of course I’d realised that there was going to be a baby at the end of my pregnancy, but ironically, despite all my impatience for the day to come, now that we were finally here, it had come around much faster than I’d realised. The baby – he – had always seemed so far off into the future, so even though I’d longed so much for him, I was completely overwhelmed and overpowered by fear when the moment of his arrival was finally upon us.
“Um, I don’t know… I don’t know if I can do this,” I whimpered.
I think. I’m not sure any sound came out, but I think I said something like that. Then again, maybe not, because God knows no one took any notice.
So there I was. In the middle of the moment that would change my life forever. And I was the leading lady, the poor cow whom so much depended upon. A little person, a little he, was about to make his entrance into the world, and it was down to me to get him here. And instead of shouldering the super hero cape that this required of me, I frantically searched for an emergency exit and wanted to demand a refund. But pregnancies don’t have refund policies, at least not beyond week 18. My little baby boy was about to burst into the world despite his mothers fear and despair.
“When I ask you to push, push with all your might until I tell you to stop,” the little pixie instructed me.
“But... but.... I don’t know how!” I stuttered, close to tears again.
“Just bear down as hard as you can, put your chin against your chest, I’ll let you know if you’re not doing it right,” she reassured me.
Worried, I looked at the Ex, who mouthed at me to be calm, that it was going to be fine. The pixie poked around in me again and the goodlooking doctor felt around my belly. OK, great, a ten-yearold was instructing me on how to give birth. Excellent.
“Baby’s head is really far down, so we’re in a great position," the doctor told me, “seems like it’s in a hurry to come out!”
“He,” I whispered, “it’s a he.”
“So you know it’s a boy? That’s wonderful!”
“I still think it’s a girl though,” I mumbled, because I did.
I still couldn’t picture my son. It wasn’t that I’d rather have a girl, not at all, but I could picture a baby girl, not a boy. Perhaps you base the picture of your baby in your own image? Perhaps that’s why it was easier for me to envisage a girl? I don’t know.
“OK, Anna, there’s a contraction coming now, so I want you to push now,” the pixie ordered me with a voice that I found anything but comforting - she sounded like she was every bit as frightened as I was.
I put my chin to my chest and bore down for Sweden. The pixie counted out loud and when she got to ten, she told me to take a deep breath and push again. Sure. I pushed again. I could feel that things happened down there, but because the epidural had killed all the pain, I had no way of telling whether we were getting anywhere. What I did notice however, was a horrible stench. I turned to the Ex and was just about to yell at him for farting when I was in labour, but from his scrunched up nose and amused expression I realised that it wasn’t him. It was me.
Yep, the books had all stated that you end up pooing yourself in labour, and even though I’d had the shits all day, it was obviously my turn to suffer that humiliation now. It did fill me with glee though, that it was the pixie who had to sort it out. But I have made my peace with the fact that I am going to hell - at least I have a VIP ticket.
Another contraction and I was asked to push again. I pushed.
“Stop, stop, stop!” the pixie yelled.
I stopped.
“And again,” she told me.
I pushed.
“He’s got lots of dark hair!” she exclaimed, “come and have a look,” she told the Ex, who immediately went down there, the morbid son of a bitch.
“GET BACK HERE!” I screamed, suddenly going crazy with fury.
I already had my work cut out for me trying to get the Ex to, at some point in the future, find me attractive again after pooing myself, so I didn’t need him to see a head sticking out of me on top of things. But he seemed completely unfazed by this and laughed, tears of happiness rolling down his cheeks.
“He’s got lots of hair!” he whispered, and kissed my hand.
If a head hadn’t been sticking out of my vagina I would have beaten the crap out of him, I swear.
“OK, once again, Anna, come on, it’s like you were made for this!” the pixie chattered.
I pushed.
“His whole head is out now, do you want to feel it?” the silly little bitch then asked and went to guide my hand down there.
I lost my temper.
“Are you fucking crazy? HELP ME you fucking whore!” I yelled and tried to punch her in the face, which I would have done, had my Ex not caught my arm in time.
Funnily enough, no one got angry with me, it’s amazing what you can get away with when you’re giving birth and I considered giving everyone a right old dressing down now that I’d been given the green light to be nasty with no consequence. I wonder if that’s what it’s like to be famous? Just be totally obnoxious and still have everyone around you sucking up to you and following your every command?
“One last push, he’s nearly here.”
I strained all I could, and out he came, the little monkey who’d lived in my belly these last eight months and three weeks, flying into the pixie’s arms. Four contractions was all it took, I’d been pushing for less than twenty minutes. Moments like this, you should count yourself lucky and finally I’d made use of these hips that I’ve cursed since I was about 13 and first developed a complex over my round butt.
The pixie, whom I during these long seconds had wanted to throttle, fumbled around for what seemed like an eternity with the umbilical cord, then shuffled off with my baby to the other side of the room. No, I wanted to scream, what are you doing, what’s wrong, give me my son. The silence paralysed me. Several seconds passed and I nearly died from despair and confusion, but then this tiny little fragile cry pierced the air, the loveliest sound to ever caress my ear drums. My baby, my child, my son. He was real, he existed, he was here. In that moment, the maternal instinct that I'd never had washed over me like a huge wave. Never before had I felt such love.
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