The Arrival

On one, dull March lunchtime seven years ago, I went to my midwife appointment for my 40-week check. I had been having contractions throughout the morning, so I asked my husband to drive me. He didn't really believe that I was in labour, which meant either I was hiding it well, or he was in denial. The midwife checked me over, then confirmed that I was in labour, advising us to contact the hospital to let them know. She added that we might like to do this, quite soon.
We went home, had a cup of tea and some toast, watched Neighbours, and listened to the silence of the house. My partner put the bag into the car, went around the house checking windows were locked, turned lights on, and put the radio on - the routine he did when we went on holiday! I remember feeling excited, nervous, and apprehensive. A sense of calm had descended around me, making me feel like I was in a protective bubble. As we left the house and I shut the door, it occurred to me that when I next walked through the door, I would be a different person. I felt as though I had shut the door on a part of my life which had passed.
I remember three things about the car journey:
1. It was the most uncomfortable trip of my life
2. I had a contraction at a set of traffic lights, where a man in a white van next to our car was watching me with an expression of fear mixed with fascination
3. The trees along the road leading to the hospital were budding, awaiting the signals of the arrival of Spring

When we got to the hospital, the birthing pool was occupied, so I waited, hoping that it would become available soon. But the calm, quiet birth I had hoped for wasn't to be, and so several hours later I found myself in theatre having an emergency caesarian section. The sensation of being in indescribable pain in one moment, and feeling completely numb the next is a surreal experience. My daughter was delivered, bundled into a towel, and handed to my husband.
I waited an hour for my first cuddle with her, and later was sent up to the post-natal ward. My daughter and I were separated by a cot, the spinal block that prevented me from moving for several hours, and a "no lifting" policy which the staff told me meant that they were unable to help me sit up to attempt to feed my baby. They were too busy to help me, so it was hours before I was able to properly cuddle her and feed her, giving her the skin-to-skin contact she needed. Needless to say, within a couple of days she became jaundiced and required a few periods on the bili-bed, of which I was given no warning, other than the NICU nurse arriving suddenly late into the evening, stripping my baby girl down to her nappy, and putting her onto the bed. The nurse left without explanation. I was furious, confused, and upset.
In my mind, I had failed my daughter. I had failed to bring her into the world quietly and calmly; I had been unable to give her the skin contact I wanted to; and I had failed at feeding her enough milk, resulting in jaundice which required medical intervention in order to make her better. When I reflect on this experience, as a trainee breastfeeding counsellor I know that the problems I had with feeding her - painful nipples, difficulty latching on, and later mastitis was because I wasn't attaching her correctly to the breast, and she was unable to suckle properly. The midwife breastfeeding co-ordinator at the hospital was simply too busy to spend any length of time with me to observe a feed and help me with positioning and attaching, but she did, at one point, grab my boob and push my daughter's head onto the breast! I am pleased to say that this is a no-no, nowadays - but at the time it added to my feelings of failure and lack of confidence.
Four years later, and I was about to have my son, this time as an elective c. section. We had moved to a different part of the country. My midwifery care was excellent all the way through the pregnancy. I was told about a "natural caesarian" where the baby is placed onto the mum's chest after delivery to optimise skin-to-skin contact. I opted for this and had a wonderful, beautiful, calm birth. This time, though, I didn't have my partner with me, as our childcare for our daughter had fallen through at the last moment, so he stayed with my daughter. The staff invited them to sit on the "sidelines" of theatre, separated by a screen. After spending some time nuzzling and staring at me, my son was taken to meet his daddy and big sister. Behind the screen, his cries were hushed as my daughter quietly sang "twinkle twinkle little star" to him. It was a moment to cherish, and one we remember and recount to our son.
The staff helped me with skin to skin contact, breastfeeding, and put all of my ghosts of the birth of my daughter, to bed.We spent hours just staring at each other, my daughter and partner getting close and cuddling, too. He attached himself to the breast and with some jiggling around a little, and some slight shifting about in the bed, we got going very quickly, and with only a little discomfort. It was a fantastic experience!
It seems that, within a comparatively short space of time, care and practice for skin to skin contact has advanced and improved greatly. Skin to skin contact after delivery and in the first weeks of life help with all sorts of things. Immediate placement of the baby onto mum's chest (or dad's if mum isn't able to do so) helps to mix the parent's natural skin bacteria with the skin of the baby, which helps with the newborn's immune system; it also helps to regulate temperature, raise the baby's blood sugar levels; regulate heart rate and breathing, and any nuzzling, suckling, or even touching the nipples by the baby will help to stimulate the hormones required for milk production (International breastfeeding centre). You can read more about the importance of skin to skin contact here.
What could be more rewarding than, at the end of labour, to snuggle up with your baby on your chest, resting, staring into each other's eyes, with partner and siblings cuddling and stroking your newborn's skin, and getting to know each other...apart from a cup of tea?!

At The Beginning

When I found out I was pregnant with my daughter, nearly eight years ago, the first thoughts I had were based along my career. I was in my late 20's and had got to a stage in my nursing career where I was in the "right" place: I enjoyed my work, I was progressing my career nicely, and I was about to embark on a 2-year degree which would take me further up the career ladder. We wanted to start a family, and were on the "if it happens it happens" stage of the process. We hadn't expected it to be successful straight away - we had allowed ourselves at least a year of trying! We were very lucky, and although I was over the moon when I saw the little blue line appear on the test stick, it was still a shock, and my mind was filled with questions, like "how will I work after the baby is born?" "How will I cope with sleepless nights and work?". I was very career-led at the time.

Next, I dashed to the bookshops in town and bought several books on pregnancy and birth, mostly for the benefit of my husband, who I'd told over the phone whilst he was at work, because I was too impatient to wait for him to come home that evening. I could almost hear him swaying on the end of the line as I told him.

For the next eight or so months, we read and re-read as much information as we could. We went to our antenatal classes, and made friends with couples in the same stage as us. We all knew we were going to have a baby, but we were focused on getting through the pain of labour in order to actually see and cuddle what had consumed our entire lives to that point. Few of us, I doubt, had considered what was to come in the following weeks and months, let alone prepared ourselves for what may happen if things didn't go according to our own expectations.

During that time, relationships with family and friends also began to change. Friends with children became closer, sage wise ones - dishing out advice at every opportunity - which was either politely taken on board for the recycling bin; or stored in the memory bank for later. For some of our childless friends, the dynamics changed to a more distant, less cosy relationship, whilst others enjoyed seeing how our lives were changing and were keen to celebrate these changes. The relationship with my in-laws became tense: I was constantly told I looked tired and exhausted, and whenever I put some food in my mouth the infuriating "eating for two, eh?!" comment would surface. At one stage, I was asked to perform a 360' turn to see where the distribution ratio of fat:baby bump was. This inevitably put strain on me and led to me keeping them at arms length to preserve my sanity. I am sure they didn't mean to make me feel scrutinised and judged, but that was how it felt, all the same.

Isn't this how society dominates the human pregnancy? The moment a woman finds herself pregnant, she is sitting in judgement of others. What she eats/drinks/wears; whether she looks "blooming", tired, or is having a "hormonal moment" is all the scrutiny of those around her. And how many people, including strangers, touch the "bump"? I personally found it an invasion of my space, and couldn't understand why complete strangers would come up to me (on three separate occasions) and rub my tummy! I would feel like saying, "I'm not Buddha, and I don't pass out good luck to all who rub my stomach!" But I was frequently mindful of being judged.

We were baffled, soon-to-be parents at what we actually needed to buy for our baby. We would take trips to well-known department stores to gawp at the prices for cots, mattresses, clothes, nappies, and maternity wear. We would stare in wonder at the array of "goods" needed in order to keep our baby happy, and safe. "Why on earth do we need cotton buds?" or, "what is the point in talcum powder? Isn't that carcinogenic?" "Does a newborn baby really need to have a comb? Surely that will be a pointless object?" These conversations were prolonged, subjective, confusing and often resulted in heated, loudly-whispered debates in the maternity pad aisle, next to the haemorrhoid creams section. But we were both suckers for the soft, fleecy cot toy which played tinkly music and resulted in us both welling up and hugging awkwardly before leaving the shop having purchased the said item and ignored anything remotely practical and needed in favour of a treasured trophy which, to this day, has us both grinning at each other wistfully as we are reminded of that moment of love and excitement at the prospect of welcoming our daughter into the world.

Then there were the questions about how I wanted to have my baby. "Safely" was my most repeated comment, and again, I felt judged if I mentioned I'd quite like a quiet water birth without drugs. "Oh you'll never cope without drugs!" I was told. "I bet you'll be screaming for an epidural after your first contraction!". This made me feel cross. How was anyone else to know my pain threshold? And wasn't the way I intended to give birth a personal matter between me and my husband, and the hospital? If I chose to give out these details, it was a different thing, but the boundaries were crossed at frequent times. Or the other person would give a graphic, detailed description of their birthing experiences. I wasn't always sure if it was an attempt to prepare me, or to frighten me. Either way it didn't bother me, as I still had fresh-ish memories of being a student on a labour ward, and had regular contact with other pregnant women and newborns in my job. My husband, however, grew more anxious about the birth as the date approached.

The most frequently-asked question though, was how I planned to feed my baby. I had decided that I was going to give breastfeeding my best shot. With that in mind, I didn't buy any bottles or teats. I was given a sterilising unit, but had no idea about using it. I read up a bit about how to do it, and expected the midwives at my hospital to help me out. That was what I'd seen in my training. I was told by my antenatal midwife to buy some formula just in case I couldn't breastfeed. I decided to ignore her. I was going to breastfeed, and that was the end of that conversation!