Shit on my hands

MH

The fourth day of the fortieth week of gestation began like this: Woke up to mild gripping sensations in my bum. Could these be contractions or just nerves from the drawn out anticipation of childbirth? Either way, we had an appointment with the obstetrician. We made a plan with him to do a stretch and sweep the following Monday if nothing happened over the weekend and, if foetus still remained stubbornly reticent about entering the world, an induction on the Friday. Crap. I was as resistant to oxytocin drips and meddling medical fingers as cats are to baths. Hence my booking (immediately following the OB appointment) with an acupuncturist for treatment to help labour along. Even if it did bugger all, for some reason I immensely enjoyed having needles stuck into me and being hooked up to some kind of car battery/TENS machine device.

Home for lunch and a fitful snooze while the toddler napped. Those gripping sensations struck every half hour or so. While we prepared dinner they got stronger and more frequent. But there had been no show and the waters hadn’t broken. Still, rang my doula, T, and the hospital to give them a heads up. By 8pm the contractions were about 5 minutes apart, but relatively weak. Team Labouring Madge decided best to go in, and once Mother-In-Law arrived to look after toddler (bless), off we went. I had learnt from my last labour that M’s 1969 Valiant was the best transport - I could stretch out on the massive and comfy bench seat. Tried to concentrate during the trip on the special labour mix M had put together for the car stereo – an eclectic selection of choice Cold Chisel, Radiohead and Guns ‘n’ Roses tracks – thankfully no ‘Eye of Tiger’. By the time we arrived at the hospital I was having full body shakes, but contractions remained mild. OB did examination – only 3cm dilated. Could be in for a long night. Doula T arrived and began performing all those marvellous tasks for which good birth attendants are renowned: encouraging shit-scared intermittently contracting women, massaging, walking up and down and up and down hospital corridors, liaising with cranky night shift midwives, allowing exhausted partners to rest, having their hands crushed and eardrums ruptured when finally (finally!) the second stage gets underway. Meanwhile, I was ordering M to help me with relaxing visualisations but, before he could get a few sentences in, ordering him to stop because he was distracting me.

At 6:30am I was 9cm dilated and, on the direction of the recently arrived OB, ready to push. I’ll spare you the gruesome details of the actual birth, but will just say that it involved the dramatic spontaneous rupture of meconium-infused amniotic fluid, felt like a freight train was coming down the birth canal, and I panicked and roared as appropriate. Also, no matter how much people order you to RELAX and BREATHE the baby down, the impulse to slam that mass of flesh out cannot be controlled. My second-born, PJ, was out in four massive pushes. Amazingly, only three stitches required. And what a little beauty – looked exactly like her big sister as a newborn. Aaaah! Instantly in love and all forgiven – even if she did proceed to shit all over my chest. M, however, ordered to immediately book in for a vasectomy. 100% natural medication-free labour is bloody hard work but ultimately has its benefits: PJ found the nipple straight away and my recovery has been amazingly rapid. And that special trick nature plays on women – post-birth amnesia – means I that try as I might, I can’t remember the pain. PJ is growing so quickly and won’t be my tiny baby for long. Hmm, maybe I should reassess that male sterilization directive I flung so vehemently at M.