Shelley: Pregnant

I’ve never been pregnant, but Shelley was, twice. And due to the fact that, for most of our lives, Shelley and I talked every day, I know more about being pregnant than most never-been-pregnant ladies. I mean, being pregnant is extremely interesting, especially for the pregnant person. But Shelley made it fascinating.

Nobody tells people about Shelley being pregnant better than Shelley, and luckily she wrote about her experience of pregnancy here. It’s wonderful, and I’ve just spent an hour and a half reading her informative, entertaining, unexpectedly-karate-filled version of events through a blurry screen, with happies and sads both mixed in. Shelley was a very excellent writer, and it’s a gorgeous, funny way to feel like she’s still nearby.

I have two favourites that I’ve copied and pasted below. The first — of course — is a poem. Having resisted the lure of maternity wear for most of her first pregnancy, Shelley finally relented and invested in a pair of work pants with an elasticated top after spending a morning at work with her fly undone, none the wiser. She was so relieved and impressed that she immortalized them in rhyme, with the onus on the reader to obediently get whimsical with pronunciation.

Ode to my stretchy pants

O stretchy pants, my stretchy pants,
Encircling my protuberance,
Protecting it from prying eyes
And unforgiving button-flies.

O stretchy pants, my stretchy pants
Harbinger of deliverance
From safety pins and bits of string
And dungarees unflattering.

O stretchy pants, my stretchy pants,
Personifying tolerance,
Accommodating without fuss,
My e’er expanding uterus.

O stretchy pants, my stretchy pants,
You bring upon my countenance
A soft smile and unfurrowed brow
’Cause naught shall come between us now.

The second excerpt is a three-parter — a gripping and properly lovely description of her son’s birth that, in true Shelley style, includes both a comparison to kickboxing training and an assessment of the relative politeness of various medical staff.

Special Delivery #1

The making of Mitchell — the morning
Even though I’m a huge fan of planning things, it was a very strange feeling arriving at the Delivery Suite at Royal North Shore Hospital on the morning of the 31st of August. Casually strolling up to the reception desk at about 8am, it still hadn’t quite sunk in that I was actually there to go into labour, give birth and take a baby home.

After introducing myself and hubby, we were led to the waiting room while they prepared my room and found the midwife who would look after me for the morning. We picked up some magazines and went through the motions of flicking through the pages, all the while feeling like this was happening to some other lucky couple. Soon we were introduced to Sue The Midwife, who took us into Room 1 and organised a gown for me, took my blood pressure and some wee, and set me up on the bed. Still not quite real…

The passage of time throughout the whole day was a bit distorted, but I think I only waited about ten minutes before the obstetric staff specialist, Dr Nicholl, came to see me, and he explained the way things would work out:
1. Canulation, shortly followed by a prophylactic dose of antibiotics (a must for any heart surgery patient undergoing an invasive procedure)
2. Artificial Rupture of the Membranes (ARM) — such a touchy-feely term, isn’t it?
3. Commencement of the Oxytocin drip to start contractions
4. Pain relief
5. Pushy-pushy
6. Baby!

A few minutes later, Allan, an anaesthetic resident arrived to explain a little about what was involved in an epidural block. It was decided that I should have an epidural sooner rather than later, because the less stress placed on my heart, the better for everyone’s health. No argument from me — I had been keen to have an epidural from the start.

In the back of my mind, there were three stages of the process that I was concerned about:
Firstly, the canulation. I’ve had a canular inserted for various reasons more times than I care to remember, but for some reason I still hate it. It’s just a bit icky.
Secondly, the ARM. From what I’d read and heard, this could be as vaguely uncomfortable as an average pelvic exam, or as painful as the contractions themselves. I was just a little nervous about how it would feel.
Finally, the epidural. I honestly wasn’t too concerned about the risk — they don’t add up to much statistically — but I’d heard from other mums that they’d had painful experiences with the insertion of the needle, and some had less-than-satisfactory results.

Concerns or no concerns, I’m a pretty good patient, and there was no turning back now…

8:30am — Canulation Time
This is never as bad as you think it’s going to be. Unless you’re scared of a little thing like a needle being stuck in your wrist. Which I’m not, fortunately. Sue managed a fairly average job, however. My Paramedic husband almost stepped in to help when warm globs of blood started squirting out of my arm, but thankfully Sue managed to get it all right in the end, and clean up all traces of her slight clumsiness. Phew. Concern Number One: outta the way.

8:40am-ish — The Crochet Hook
Dr Nicholl, whose manner and approach put me completely at ease, showed me the water-breaking stick and explained the process of membrane-breaking. Like any well-performed procedure, it was all done before I knew what had happened. And unlike a couple of stories I’d heard from friends, it wasn’t at all painful. Concern Number Two: busted.

8:50-ish — Back-Stabbing
I was introduced to Dr Parsons, the anaesthetist who would administer the epidural. He seemed to be another doctor with the perfect bedside manner. He explained the procedure in detail, then moved me into position, bent over on the edge of the bed. Because I was a little worried, hubby dutifully held both my hands while I concentrated on staying calm. Unfortunately for him, that was the same moment that my body decided to expel an almighty gush of amniotic fluid. Ew.
The local anaesthetic that Dr Parsons administered was only a tiny prick, and after that the epidural only felt like a vaguely gross tugging and cracking of my vertebrae. Concern Number Three: Pah!

The doctor invited hubby to watch the procedure; an offer that was enthusiastically accepted. He administered a ‘test dose’ of anaesthetic to make sure that the catheter was positioned properly. My right leg felt entirely numb, while my left felt only mildly tingly. After a brief re-adjustment, Dr Parsons left, to return when I requested pain relief.

A little later, around 9am, Sue started the Oxytocin drip — it was all beginning! Dr Nicholl, the obstetrician, asked me if I’d like pain relief right away, or if I’d rather wait until the contractions kicked in properly. I told him that I’d like to experience a few contractions, because I was curious to know what they felt like. He mentioned that, with an induction, contractions often kicked in with more oomph than with a natural labour. The Tough Black Belt in me said, “no worries!”

Special Delivery #2

The making of Mitchell — the middle
Still a bit vague on the timing of things, I think it was right after I started on the Oxytocin that Mum showed up to the delivery suite. At first I wasn’t sure how I felt about having Mum in the room. I was a bit uncomfortable with the idea of her seeing me in pain and full of various tubes. But she was very enthusiastic about being present for at least part of the process of her child having a child, and she promised to only stay until things got yucky. In the end, it was fantastic having her there — she didn’t seem half as concerned about my discomfort as when she’d seen me fight in a karate promotion — probably because there wasn’t a team of medical staff present at my karate promotion.

Incidentally, one of the reasons I keep making karate analogies is because so far in my life, there have been two major yardsticks of pain and discomfort — giving birth and getting a black belt. And yes, giving birth is more difficult, but a lot safer.

Anyway…
It took about half an hour for me to feel the first contractions come on. I finally realised the difference between the pre-labour cramps I’d been having for a couple of weeks and the real thing. It’s like the difference between a tension headache and a full-blown, going-blind-and-throwing-up migraine. I felt it in my belly, in my back and mostly down my legs. I automatically took deep, slow breaths as each one came on, and quickly realised how little that helped! I found myself getting quite ecstatic every time a contraction faded, because the relief was so intense.

After about thirty minutes of contractions, I felt no further need to be brave, and asked for the epidural to start. And that was about as close to real magic as I’m prepared to believe exists. The drugs made the pain disappear completely. I could still feel tension in my belly and my legs when contractions came on, but there was no pain at all. I started to feel so relaxed that I really don’t remember much of the next few hours. I may have slept — I’m not sure. I know Mum left around about that time, and a couple of hours later, after an examination confirmed that I was 5cm dilated, hubby took leave to go to the gym around the corner for an hour or so.

It only felt like a few minutes later that the epidural started wearing off, but I’m sure it was much longer. I called hubby to make sure he was on his way back as the contractions started becoming uncomfortable again. Doctors and midwives came and went and made various “hmmm”-ing noises, and at some point hubby returned to his capable-hand-holder role. After another examination it was disovered that I’d dilated to 9cm — quicker than expected! The down-side of that discovery was the decision not to top up the epidural any further, as the second stage of labour was just around the corner.

It struck me ever so briefly that it was nearly time to push, and that after pushing came a real, three-dimensional baby! In between contractions I became quite excited and amazed that the little squirmy bump I’d been chatting to for a few months was going to be outside soon. I also became a bit impatient as the drugs wore off and the contractions felt stronger and stronger. Alison, the slightly grumpy midwife and I tried putting me in different positions to aid my comfort and that of Fetie, and we found that anything except lying on my back made Fetie’s heart rate a little erratic. It was fairly entertaining, if a little difficult, trying to experiment with my position whilst I was unable to move my legs at all. Thank goodness for a big strong husband trained in lifting people!

Pretty soon I started to feel something new — a strong urge to go to the loo, or so I thought. I simply assumed that’s what it was, because there hadn’t been any need for Number Two since early that morning. I ignored it for about 15 minutes, until Alison the Slightly Grumpy Midwife said, “let me know if you feel like you need to do a pooh”. So I did. Let her know, that is. And that’s when Dr Nichols and Tania-the-Registrar were summoned for the (cue dramatic music) Second Stage of Labour, otherwise known as the pushy-pushy bit. I simply couldn’t believe it had come around so fast! Ok, so it had been about 9 hours, but it felt fast after all those lovely drugs.

Special Delivery #3

The Making of Mitchell — the hard bit.
About four years ago, I competed in a large, full-contact karate tournament. I was in a big room surrounded by many people, all yelling my name and encouraging me to keep going, to ignore the pain, to not give up and to really push myself. Suddenly in the Delivery Suite, I was again in a big room surrounded by a crowd of people yelling much the same stuff.

Only this was much harder.

Dr Nicholl and his protege Tania were there, as well as Alison the Grumpy Midwife and of course my super-husband. Dr Nicholl explained that when I felt a contraction come on, I should push as hard as I could until I couldn’t feel the contraction anymore.

It doesn’t sound like much in theory — simply push downwards with all the muscles in your body for twenty or thirty seconds, without breathing, then repeat it every couple of minutes for about an hour. On the other hand, it does sound a bit difficult, doesn’t it?

The epidural was fading pretty fast now, and the contractions were quite clear. As each one built up, I said “here it comes”, then pushed with all my might while hubby, who was right next to me, did a magnificent coaching job. It reminded me of our kickboxing practice sessions, when he would miraculously get me to run around the oval just ooooonce more, when I thought I couldn’t. Both obstetricians and Alison the G.M. were also very vocal, and it really did help a lot.

Unfortunately, Fetie wasn’t paying much attention. Despite the vocal enthusiasm of my coaches; the physical contortions I was performing with two people pushing my knees back and grinding my elbows into the mattress; and the huffy-puffy I was contributing, the little guy only moved about five centimetres, and his heart rate came through the monitor in increasingly erratic patterns. After nearly ninety minutes, we all congratulated each other on our efforts but agreed with Dr Nicholl’s assessment — that Fetie needed forceps — or “the salad servers” as he called them.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved. I mean, it would have been great to go without the physical trauma of forceps and the accompanying episiotomy, but after an hour-and-a-half of pushing and no pain relief, I was pretty keen to get the whole thing over with. Dr Nicholl gave me a 30-minute rest while the epidural was topped up again (aaaaaaah lovely!), the stirrups and screen were set up and the various pediatricians were summoned to prepare for the arrival.

What seemed like seconds later, Dr Nicholl asked me if I was ready to push again. I certainly was, and my husband/coach kicked into gear right away, with lots of “come on baby!”s and “that’s it — you can do it”s at all the right moments. This was, however, a slightly more delicate affair, as the doctors needed to manouvre the forceps and Fetie’s head to the right spot without injuring anyone. At some point Tania performed the episiotomy, though I couldn’t feel a thing.

Only about three pushes later, hubby was invited down to the Business End to see the arrival of his son. Despite the fact that we’d agreed many weeks previously to keep hubby up at the clean end of my body, he really did think it would be rude to refuse, so down he went. This was the moment that it all became real at last, and it finally sank in that an actual baby was being born. Hubby took one look and said, “Oh my God! I can see an ear!” It’s certainly a moment I’ll never forget.

Then, two careful pushes later, I could see him. My son. Halfway out, then all the way. Finally, after all these months and the longest day of my life, a little blue baby appeared, arms outstretched and mouth wide open. The emotional impact was indescribable (I’m a bit teary typing this!). In moments he was cleaned and breathing, and was on my chest. “Hello! Hello! Hello! Oh, hello!” was all I could say. It felt so incredibly good to meet him at last, and to have my gorgeous husband there to share the moment with me.

Apparently during the next few minutes the placenta arrived, I was given stitches and the bedclothes were changed, but as far as I was concerned, nothing else happened that day. I just fell in love with my little, battle-scarred boy.

Aw.