Liz and Cary's
Birth.
By Liz Jones.
When the stick turned purple I
started crying and didn't stop for a week. A lot of my
negativity about my pregnancy stemmed from a poor
relationship with my own mother which had caused me to have
a complete lack of confidence in my own abilities to mother
a child. Therefore having a successful, positive birth
experience was of utmost importance to me on a psychological
and spiritual level. A long-time believer in home-birth I
planned to have my baby at home, maybe in water and in a
calm and peaceful, loving and joyful environment.
Unfortunately at 40 weeks, my baby
was high and posterior and no amount of exercises, sitting
in weird positions etc. was going to make her move. And
unfortunately, my due date came and went and no amount of
naturopathics, homeopathics or castor oil (!) was going to
make this baby come. My Midwife was great during this time,
a constant source of support and even though I knew that
after the 14 day mark had passed - she was outside her
limits of 'normal'. Yet she continued to support me in my
choice to avoid induction.
However three weeks after my due
date had passed, family pressures became unbearable and I
decided that I would have to go to hospital. I shed a few
tears at abandoning my hopes of a home birth but still went
to hospital with a positive outlook. Unfortunately for me
the minute I walked through the door it seemed as if all
choice was removed from me. I cannot stress enough how much
the attitude of the obstetrician in outpatients affected me.
At this stage I had zero confidence in my ability to give
birth in the hospital environment and that combined with the
baby still being, high, posterior and me with the beginnings
of toxaemia I felt that an elective Caesarean section was my
best option. I can honestly say that if she had discussed it
properly with me, I would likely have chosen to be induced,
key word there being "chosen". However, the obstetrician
would not even discuss it seriously with me and from then on
I felt as if everything done to me was an assault rather
than something I was a willing participant in.
So it was with resentment and anger
that I arrived at the delivery ward later that afternoon. I
was also intensely fearful because my first contact with the
hospital had been with some-one who did not respect me as a
person and instead treated me like a statistic to be
avoided.
I had the first lot of gel at 4pm.
At about 9.30pm my membranes ruptured spontaneously. I was
quite pleased to think that things were on the way as the
previous plan had been for a second lot of gel at 10pm and
AROM the next day. Unfortunately, the waters were stained
with meconium. A registrar came in and told me that my baby
was in distress and needed to come out ASAP therefore she
wanted to put a drip up to get things moving. She said
things like, "an hour has already gone by". My understanding
of this was that my baby was in imminent danger and needed
to be born within a few hours. I found out later that she
had in fact given me 24 hours and the baby was not in
distress at all. All I can say is, I was exhausted (I had
slept 3 hours the previous night and it was late by this
stage), anxious and some-one was telling me my baby was in
distress. I would have agreed to anything.
After having agreed to the drip, I
immediately asked for an epidural. My attitude at this stage
was, OK, if you're going to do this to me, you can at least
make sure I'm not in pain. My midwife arrived as the
anaesthetist was putting the epidural in. I was so relieved
to see her! She asked the anaesthetist if I could still walk
around with the epidural and he assured her I could. However
immediately after the epidural went in I felt very drowsy
and said to her I needed to rest. After an hour I started to
notice an increasing numbness in my left leg and pain in my
right hip. The pain continued to get worse and I knew the
epidural had dislodged and asked the hospital midwife (Jane)
to get the anaesthetist. She rang him and he advised her to
top the epidural up. And so began a vicious cycle which
continued until 7am when he finally (after being rung 5
times) replaced the dislodged epidural. At 5am Jane examined
me and found that I had not dilated at all. I knew that in
my 'plan' the doctor in outpatients had written Caesarean
section if I was not 5cm after 5 hours so I was very
distressed when Jane checked with the obstetrician on duty
(a different doctor yet again) and he wanted me to continue.
I started to ask Stuart why they were doing this to me and
completely lost control. I knew, like I knew night from day,
that labour was futile and could not understand why no-one
else could see that. I remember my Midwife trying to get me
to centre myself but all I could do was turn my face into
the pillow and scream hysterically. The pain was
excruciating, I couldnt breathe properly and I couldnt move.
My Midwife got the gas set up and I tried to knock myself
out with it.
Eventually the epidural was
replaced (after two attempts) but the pain just moved from
the right side of my body to the left and my legs remained
numb. It was an improvement however. Obviously, any good
chance I had had of helping Carys turn and thus be born
vaginally had been taken from me during those six hours of
being paralysed. The emotional impact of being left helpless
and in pain for so long is very traumatic made worse by the
sense of outrage at being sedated so much that I couldnt
complain. In addition to this I was physically restrained by
being attached to the foetal monitor. I liken it to being
tied up and abused. I still have nightmares about being in
that bed.
Once the pain had abated somewhat I
realised I was really hungry, I hadn't eaten since 2pm the
day before. Of course, I wasn't allowed to eat.
I dozed for a few hours and by 9am
I was 10cm dilated, but devastatingly I was unable to move
her. The disappointment of being so close only to fail is
acute. After starting off pushing when I was told to it
wasnt long before the desire to push became overwhelming. My
Midwife held one leg and Stuart held the other but all I
wanted to do was squat or get into a better position as the
midwife was suggesting. I kept touching my numb leg to see
if I could possibly weight bear to move into a better
position but it remained numb and the more I touched it the
more distressed I became. With my legs numb, I felt like I
was falling off the bed and then to make matters worse I
started to vomit. By this time the contractions were almost
one on top of the other and I was becoming exhausted. I
couldn't feel the baby moving at all and it just seemed like
every-one was prolonging the agony. I started to beg people
to intervene, telling my Midwife, "No more". In hindsight I
realise that I was exercising the last little bit of control
I had over the situation.
The doctor was called and she said
she thought I needed a Caesarean. I think she thought I
would be devastated. I lay there and thought, "no kidding, I
thought that 24 hours ago". I ended up yelling at her, "I
dont care what you do, just do it now". She seemed flustered
by that. I thought that was fairly mild considering what I
had been forced to endure thus far! The anaesthetist came in
to discuss anaesthesia. I chose a spinal block as I knew the
epidural wasnt being that effective. A few minutes later he
returned and topped up the epidural. Despite Stuart, myself
and my Midwife reminding him about the spinal block, he just
shrugged and walked out the room. I was too drugged to
protest more.
By the time I got to theatre I was
desperately worried about the epidural as I still had
sensation. When I mentioned it to the anaesthetist he made a
joke. I was reassured, thinking if he wasn't worried,
neither should I be. The theatre staff were busy arranging
the drapes and by the time the doctors had scrubbed up they
had set up the screen in front of my face. I was really
unsure as to who would be performing the caesarean, and I
was unable to see anything past the screen. It is one of the
most harrowing memories I have - that of not knowing who was
cutting into my intimate parts
What happened next is still very
hard for me to talk about. The epidural was not working
properly at all and as the doctor began to manipulate the
baby the pain became intense. I started to moan and some-one
told me to take deep breaths. I was at my limit of endurance
and horrified and panic stricken that the pain was so bad.
Next thing there was a heaviness on my chest. I couldn't
quite believe that a baby would feel so heavy so I asked my
Midwife something non-sensical like, "Is that it?". She was
smiling and nodding and crying at the same time. I cling
onto that memory as it was the only acknowledgment that
anybody in the room made that something miraculous had
happened.
The feeling of disassociation was
heightened by the fact I had been told to keep my hands
above the screen and when they showed the baby to me, she
was on the other side of the screen, so I didn't feel like I
was allowed to touch her. Incredibly they removed her from
my stomach straight away and placed her on a trolley behind
my head where I couldn't see her. How insensitive to not put
that trolley where I could see it.
Suddenly, I felt a gush between my
legs and the pain soared way out of control as I felt the
doctor's hands in me attempting to stop the bleeding from
the haemorrhage I was having. I use the term 'pain' loosely,
as there are really no words to describe what I experienced.
I was out of my mind with agony and even though one half of
my brain knew what she was doing, the other part was yelling
at any-one and every-one to make her stop. At that stage
bleeding to death was preferable to the pain. Through this I
was trying very hard to keep my legs pressed onto the table,
scared that I would knee some-one. It seemed an eternity
before the IV pain relief was organised.
Apparently I was out for about 20
minutes and came round as they were almost finishing
suturing. The anaesthetist attempted to give me some
prophylactic IV antibiotics. As I have anaphylactic
reactions to three major groups of antibiotics, I told him
no, which he refused to accept. He actually wanted me to
explain what I meant by anaphylactic. If I'd had my wits
about me I would have told him to go look it up in Mosby's
(sarcasm gets you nowhere in these situations but it would
have been satisfying now). There I was, still in pain,
exhausted, panicked and just had a living being pulled out
of my stomach and he wanted to argue with me?! He then
insisted on doing a scratch test on my arm, which he did
twice (like I hadn't had enough pain already) by which time
he had me so ticked off he wouldn't have got the antibiotic
into me for a million dollars. Eventually, he backed off
(which part of 'no' he didn't understand, I'll never know)
saying that it was no problem really, they were only
prophylactic antibiotics and any infection could be treated
later, on the ward. For crying out loud, if it wasn't a
problem, why force me to argue? All this was before I had
even seen Carys properly, a complete lack of respect for the
fact that I had just given birth. It should have been a time
devoted to allowing me to quietly see and touch my baby,
make sure she had all her toes, perhaps see who she looked
likeso much for being allowed to bond with your baby, I was
busy arguing a point with some-one who refused to
acknowledge my right to refusal of treatment.
Eventually, I made it to the
recovery room where the pain was once again intense, with a
ruptured, freshly sutured uterus still contracting strongly
from the synto being poured into me to control the bleeding,
it was like being in labour all over again. A morphine pump
was set up and after a dose, my Midwife brought Carys over
so I could have some skin to skin contact. Finally, I
thought, I get to see and hold the baby and do some of the
stuff I had missed out on so far. She put the baby to my
breast and although Carys wasn't interested in a feed at
least she was next to me. How disappointing to have even
this moment ruined by the sight of the hospital midwife
tutting and rolling her eyes behind my Midwife's
back.
Three months
later
The first month after Carys was
born was sheer hell. I was back to hospital five times with
complications, uncontrolled pain, an infection, retained
products. Stuart would bring the baby to me to feed and then
take her away again. I was so completely exhausted I would
cry and ask him to give her a bottle. I had no connection
with the baby, I was totally convinced she was some-one
else's and that is how I looked after her, like she was a
patient of mine. I dealt with her basic needs, anything else
was emotionally beyond me. I do have a connection with her
now but I still feel like she is adopted. The pain and
terror I felt during the whole experience and during the
section in particular have left me feeling very vulnerable
and lacking in confidence and this reflects in any decisions
I have to make regarding her. Whereas before I was
vehemently anti-immunisation, I had her immunised with
barely an argument. I cannot bear to see the scar on her
face. I feel I should have protected her from that.
I cannot relate anything that
happened with giving birth. One day I was pregnant, the next
I wasn't and I'm not really sure what happened in between. I
do not say Carys was 'born' or that I 'gave birth'. Those
terms have no relevance to my experience.
My relationship with my husband is
on rocky ground. He was supposed to protect me, why didn't
he help me? Why didn't he yell the place down until they got
some-one, any-one to fix the epidural? He was so upset by
the whole thing that he had a vasectomy. I hate him for
that. The grief I feel is compounded by the knowledge that
the healing experience of a second, joyful birth will never
be mine. Sex is impossible due to the continuing pain from
the incision.
Period pains cause a terrible panic
to come over me. For a long time Tuesdays and Wednesdays
were bad days for me (Carys was born on a Wednesday). Even
people asking how old she is causes me to think each time of
how many weeks since it is. I blame myself for being too
passive, for being too assertive, for not being informed,
for being informed, for not pushing hard or long enough, you
name it, I blame myself. I have become very critical and
unforgiving of myself.
I am incredibly angry at the
doctors who made decisions about me which affect the rest of
my and my child's life and then disappeared. Not once did
either of the doctors involved bother to even put their head
around my room door. The doctor who managed most of my
labour actually refused to see me in outpatients. Both
hospital midwives made the time to come and see me. I guess
that's the reason why we choose midwives!
I still wake up and go to sleep
thinking about it. Sometimes I cry, sometimes I get angry.
Every day I wish I had died on the table. Anything not to
have to live with these memories.
Five months later
I wake up every day wondering why I
am still here. When Carys was first born I had a concrete
plan that as soon as she was weaned I would kill myself. I
really felt she didn't need me in any other way than that.
Now I know that she needs me but instead of being happy
about that I resent her for keeping me here. Maybe one day
I'll thank her!
Asking the hospital for an
explanation as to what happened has descended into a war of
words. They now longer will speak to me except through their
lawyer. I guess I should be happy I scared them enough to
get their lawyer involved but it certainly doesn't help to
have my pain and anger repeatedly denied.
The anger is still overwhelming.
Some-one remarked how unemotional I was about it, I had to
explain that the anger is the only thing I have left to hang
on to.
I still suffer from terrible
flashbacks. I opened a magazine the other day to see a
picture of people in theatre garb and I vomited for hours.
To lie on my back brought flashbacks of lying helpless in
theatre, to lie on my left side brought memories of seeing
the foetal monitor, to lie on my right side brought memories
of the hospital locker. Nightmares of being attacked or in
pain or both are a continual problem. The feeling of
violation will not leave me, worsened by vague memories of
VE's performed while I was disorientated from the gas and
drugs. In fact, in the space of 24 hours I had had five
different people perform VE's on me, some more than once. I
counted 12 different people altogether.
I am beginning to resent the term
'post natal depression'. It is so easy for all my feelings
to be dismissed as hormonal. I may be depressed and I may be
post-natal but I do not have post-natal depression. Most
people who went through the amount of pain, helplessness,
fear and horror that I went through, whether having a baby
or not, would be depressed too.
Stuart is still suffering also. The
memory of his baby's birth is not a pleasant one for him
either. The first time he held her, it was with me moaning
in pain in the background. He thought I was going to die and
was panic-stricken. He tells me I was moaning even after the
IV pain relief. It must be harder for him in some ways as at
least some of my memories are dulled by the drugs. He on the
other hand was forced to watch while being fully
aware.
I still feel as if I have no right
to be making decisions about my baby. I bear a lot of
responsibility for what happened and feel as if I have
failed her by failing to give birth to her. Failure is still
a big issue and finding 'failure to progess' written in my
blue book was a stab right to the heart. Not "failed
induction", not "obstructed labour". God forbid that
any-one's judgement should be questioned. I didn't fail at
anything, I was failed.
Seven months
later
I gave up trying to think of Carys
as mine and instead I accept that adoptive mothers love
their kids just the same. It's a psychological ploy I use to
avoid having to confront reality. I love her and enjoy her
and refuse to let them take that away from me
too.
A couple of weeks ago I took an
overdose. I went to the doctor who said I didn't have PND
but that I was grieving and angry. He gave me the pills
anyway and they were the first things I reached for when I
could no longer abide the memories tormenting me day and
night.
I have come to the conclusion that
I really would quite like another child (me, who didn't want
even one!). As odd as it may sound, I would have an elective
section. I would gladly go through three months of physical
pain if it meant I could have just a few minutes of
happiness at my baby's birth. After all, the physical stuff
heals, it's the mental stuff that doesn't.
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