My Son's Birth Story

Part 2

(This is a two parter missed the first bit? No worries you can read it here!)

So, there we were, sweltering in the hospital waiting room for what felt like a decade. Six hours passed, tests were done, and they declared me “fine” before sending us home. Brilliant, I thought, until a few hours later when they called, firmly demanding I come back. “You have preeclampsia,” they said. Oh, lovely.

Back to the hospital we went, for the second time that day. I met a rotating cast of doctors and midwives, who collectively agreed that I needed to be induced. “He’s breech,” I informed them, because apparently, no one had read my file. “You can’t induce me; he’s breech!” They exchanged awkward glances, as if I’d just announced I was having an alien baby.

Now, let me set the scene: It was September, peak baby season. (Pro tip: Don’t conceive a baby at Christmas unless you enjoy being on an overrun maternity ward. Nine months post-festive cheer is an absolute logistical nightmare.) The hospital was packed. People were practically queuing in the corridors to give birth. The whole thing felt more like a poorly managed music festival than a place to deliver human life.

I wasn’t ready. I’d planned a serene water birth with gas and air, bolstered by the delusions of hypnobirthing audio books. My birth plan was, in hindsight, comedy gold. But all of that went out the window when the doctors announced they’d be doing an ECV - an external cephalic version, which is a fancy term for trying to wrestle your baby into the right position from the outside. I’d read about it. It sounded barbaric and risky, and they weren’t even asking if it was something I wanted.

“No,” I said firmly. My husband smiled, because we’d already agreed this was a hard pass.

“It’s the best chance for a safe delivery,” they pushed.

“No,” I repeated, louder this time.

That’s when they decided to lock me on the ward like a hormonal hostage. Four days of monitoring, during which my organs were apparently on the verge of mutiny. I begged to go home, sobbed into my pillow, and generally made a nuisance of myself. The hospital, however, was so overrun they could barely manage emergency C-sections, let alone my sort of semi “scheduled” one. I was stuck.

Finally, they gave me steroid shots for the baby’s lungs and promised a slot the next day. By some miracle, they allowed me to go home overnight, with strict instructions to return immediately if anything felt off. I spent the evening in the bath, holding my bump and thinking, This time tomorrow, he’ll be here. Also, Oh God, they’re going to slice me open like a Christmas turkey.

As I lay there, I thought back to the hippy midwife - the one who wanted me to smoke my feet - and realised she’d probably saved both our lives. Who knew?

The next morning, it was go time. I decided to drive us there, because despite being practically blind with nerves and due for major surgery, I still considered myself the safer driver. My husband’s new licence and questionable skills didn’t inspire much confidence. It was an unseasonably warm September day, and I was shaking like a leaf. The nurse helpfully quipped, “Well, you shouldn’t have had a September baby.”
“He’s supposed to be October,” I muttered bitterly. “Take it up with my uterus.”

I felt like my body had completely failed me. Preeclampsia only ends one way: with birth. Otherwise, your organs just slowly clock out, and the placenta decides it’s done with this whole keeping-the-baby-alive business. My body was already halfway out the door, and I felt so utterly betrayed.

I was called in for the operation, and the anaesthetist turned out to be a giant of a man who looked like Santa Claus. “You’ll be fine,” he assured me, wielding a needle so enormous I stupidly looked at it. NEVER LOOK AT THE NEEDLE. I nearly vomited. My husband’s face wasn’t much help either, it was a perfect mirror of my horror.

What we didn’t know then was that my spine is slightly curved, which meant they had to jab me three times before the anaesthetic worked. Three! By the time they succeeded, I was ready to apologise for every sin I’d ever committed, just to make it stop.

Finally, the screen went up, and the surgery began. I didn’t want to see a thing, and mercifully, I didn’t. The sensations were… odd. I could feel something happening, but it wasn’t extreme pain. Then, I heard it: the first cry. My son was out. I couldn’t see him yet, so I begged, “Is he okay?” Yes. He was perfect.

They placed him on my chest, and it was instant love. My husband took him for a bit while they patched me up. I’d lost a lot of blood - enough to make them consider a transfusion, though thankfully I didn’t need one. The real kicker came when they shifted me from the surgical bed. Apparently, the anaesthetic hadn’t fully worked, because I moved my legs almost entirely on my own, much to the horror of the staff. (I was literally in a pool of my own blood. Gravy vibes, but less festive.)

When my husband returned with our son, I was shaking uncontrollably. I was convinced I’d accidentally give him shaken baby syndrome just by holding him. A nurse assured me he’d be fine. And he was. He was absolutely perfect and decided he wasn’t leaving my chest for three months. But that’s a story for another day.