The Anaesthesia Didn’t Work

A Rainbow Baby and a Failed Spinal Block

Today, while casually traumatising my mother over tea, I said, “Did I ever mention my spinal block decided not to work during my c-section?” No? Well, here we are. It’s not a story I trot out regularly, partly because it’s horrific, and partly because I’d rather not terrify anyone currently pregnant or even mildly considering it. If that’s you, feel free to quietly nope out now. Seriously, no judgment.

Let’s rewind to 2018. My son was breech, I was preeclamptic, and my organs had started staging a mutiny. Cue the c-section. The anaesthesiologist, who looked like Father Christmas, which seemed reassuring at the time, couldn’t find “the spot” for the spinal block. Seven attempts later (seven!), I was acutely aware of the needle, my husband’s increasingly pale face, and the sinking realisation that Father Christmas might not deliver this year.

When they finally got started, I would describe the sensation as "uncomfortable." The nurse kindly described it as “some sensation.” Yes, I had “some sensation.” Like feeling blood pooling around me, moving my legs on my own post-delivery, and thinking, This is definitely not in the brochure. But I handled it like a champ, which means I didn’t scream in their faces.

Fast-forward to my second c-section. This time it was planned because my body, once again, was ready to tap out. No Father Christmas anaesthesiologist, thank God. Instead, I got a very confident chap who assured me that in 25 years, no one had ever felt a thing under his watch. I liked him. I trusted him. He made anesthesia stats sound sexy.

The spinal went in on the first attempt (progress!), and everything was ticking along nicely. They did the cold spray test to make sure I was numb. “Can you feel this?” Well… maybe? Sort of? Probably not. I could feel it. But I’m British, so naturally, I doubted myself instead of speaking up.

Then came the incision. At first, it was pressure - manageable. But suddenly, there was burning. Ripping. I said, “I can feel that.” They said, “It’s just pressure.” I said, “No, really, I CAN FEEL THAT,” and my guttural animal noises started doing the talking for me.

At this point, the anaesthesiologist looked… less confident. I could see him recalculating his flawless record in real-time. After some panicked back-and-forth, he confirmed, “She can feel it.” Lovely.

“Laura, we need permission to knock you out,” he said, clearly hoping I’d save his career stats. “Absolutely not,” I snarled through gritted teeth. I was so close. She was almost here - our rainbow baby - and no way was I missing it.

The nurse and my husband cheered me on while I clung to my sanity, my husband’s hand, and whatever was left of my dignity. The pain was excruciating, but I held on. Finally, I felt her leave my body, followed by silence. Why isn’t she crying? I panicked. Then there it was = the scream. Relief washed over me, closely followed by about five abdominal stabs of local anaesthesia.

Later, the anaesthesiologist stopped by, looking sheepish and maybe a little afraid of a lawsuit. I smiled and said, “It’s okay. We’re okay.” Because we were. I had her. And I’d survived an 80% unmedicated c-section.

Of course, I also managed to have a spinal leak (A spinal fluid leak, also known as a cerebrospinal fluid (CSF) leak, occurs when the fluid surrounding the brain and spinal cord leaks through a tear or hole in the dura mater), wrecking his stats entirely. He sent me off for a blood patch a few days later, which worked immediately. My spine may be curved, but apparently, my ability to survive medical mishaps is strong!

Here’s a photo of me, moments after meeting my miracle baby. I’m not looking directly at her - not because I’m lost in some serene, ethereal moment… but because I was trying to focus. On what, I’m not exactly sure. Maybe the searing, body-splitting pain. Maybe the idea that it had to end at some point.

Also, shout out to whatever glorious drug they jabbed into me post-baby - it finally started to kick in. Oh, and yes, they let me wear makeup. The surgery nurses were absolute queens. 10/10 for mascara and emotional support.