When we arrived the midwives were so lovely – all except the one that took my initial information. She wanted to know how long we had been having consistent contractions and I told her that it started Tuesday night. She refused to believe me! She told me no, and that when she had talked to my husband he had said that we started at midnight. I said, no, they started to tail at midnight but they've been going since Tuesday. In the end I wrote her off as a stupid cow, told her to write whatever she wanted, and went back to labouring against a risen bed.
The next midwife who came in was the one who would deliver Manny. She was the only midwife I had actually met before (I had to see Doctor's for my prenatal visits because of my complications) and it was so good of the Lord to give me the one woman who would be a familiar face! She apologised and told me that she would like to do an internal if I didn't mind. I was actually excited to do one because I wanted to know how well I had done at home. I was preparing to lie down on the bed for her but she stopped me gently and said, “Honey, wait for a contraction to finish and then hop on so it doesn't hurt you to be on the bed.” Seriously, how many midwives would be that considerate? She was quick and although it was a little uncomfortable it wasn't too bad, but she looked genuinely upset that she had hurt me.
“You're at 6 centimetres,” she told me. “You've done very well!”
I was so disappointed. I wanted so much, after the length of time we'd been going, to have been right near the end. She looked in to see if my bath was run and was horrified to see that the first woman hadn't filled it for me. After all, that first woman thought I'd only been going since midnight so I couldn't be very far along. Like I said at the time, stupid cow.
That bath was soooooo nice and soooooo deep and soooooo hot. The contractions felt like the first ones had, painful but no tail and no searing flame along my back. I settled in for the long haul and decided that this was a nice place to be settling! The midwife gave Chris bowls of ice and cloths and sat in for a few contractions to see how we were going.
Just after a peak, when I was squeezing iced water over my head to distract my mind from the pain, she asked “Have you been to one of Lorraine's classes?”
I shook my head and her eyebrows shot up.
“You are doing very well.”
Then she explained that she was going to leave and we could do whatever we wanted with whatever we wanted. If we needed more ice or a hot pack just ring the bell. She could come back if we needed her but we were doing excellently and could keep going as long as we liked without interferrence. Basically, she told us we had their facilities and their advice if we wanted it, other than that we were free to be alone. How lovely!
We kept going for some time and then a new deep pain started that I didn't cope well with. I tried to keep managing it and then thought I might like to try a little gas to help out. So in came the gas bottle and I put that nozzle in my mouth and all of a sudden it was the funniest day ever! I wish now that I hadn't taken it, I reckon I could have kept going but once I felt the tightening of my stomach and no accompanying pain I was addicted. And if I accidentally sucked too late the contraction hit me like a tonne of bricks – from zero pain right up to a twenty (on a scale to ten, lol). Anyway, I had a ball with it. I remember the midwife came in to check on me and I was leaning back, trying not to suck too much and trying my hardest not to burst out laughing! I'm sure I had an inane grin on my face but it my mind I was thinking, “I better be good or she might take my bottle away from me!” To my great relief she left and I was allowed to keep sucking!
And then the flirting started. Poor Chris spent the next few hours in stitches as I alternated between puffing and trying to kiss him!
At one point I leaned back, gas pipe between my teeth, and asked “Do you know why I have a towel on my head?”
“To... keep you hair out of the water?” He suggested. He was right.
“Nope!” Deep suck.
“Why then?”
Very coolly, I replied, “Because I am a muslim.” I started to giggle uncontrollably at my confession and waved my gas pipe in his face, “And you know what that means?”
“What does it mean Tracy?” (he was smirking. I remember)
“It means,” giggling again, “That I'm going to blow up all of Wanganui with a bomb. Except Castlecliff. I won't blow up that place with the buses. You know, those singing buses.”
Trying not to laugh, Chris asked, “And why not Castlecliff honey?”
“Because I'm a druggie. That's why I have the gas. I'm a druggy from Castlecliff.”
At one point Chris looked at me tenderly and told me I looked “so vulnerable”, and I informed him two minutes later that I knew what that meant, “I know about boys like you! You think I'm cute, doncha? That's your way of telling me I'm cute! You want to kith me, doncha? I know about boys like you! You think you can take advantage coth I'm vvvuuunrrrable. Well then, come kiss me!” I took a deep drag, went cross eyed, and leaned toward him for my kiss. Instead he cracked up laughing.
Later on, Chris started to get hungry. I already knew that I had made a mistake cancelling my support person (dumby, I thought I was being good to not inconvenience her. What an idiot!!!) but now I really knew I'd blown it. Chris had to eat. He hadn't left my side for two days already and he just needed some kind of sustenance. So he asked me if it was ok for him to run down to the car and get some food. Through-out the whole labour I had felt a deep strong love for him, so if he needed food I insisted that he had to get food. Besides, I had been doing very well. I was still chatting and flirting, so it was just fine for him to pop downstairs for five minutes. However, as soon as he was gone I was overcome by fear that I might have to deal with a contraction alone. Even though I had been using the gas I was still too late sometimes and I would have Chris pour ice on me and help to lift me through the peaks. So, I dealt with it the way any druggy would deal with it. Every breath I took I sucked from the gas bottle. I remember beginning to get hazy and feeling like I would pass out, so I had the brains to lean over the side of the bathtub in case I went unconscious. Why didn't we just ask my midwife to come sit in? To this day I have no clue. All I know is that Chris came in to find me barely responsive, gas pipe lodged in my mouth, draped over the bath. I remember seeing him crying and hearing him wail about how he should never have left me. I assured him dopily that it was wonderful to see him and did he like his lunch? And then as my eyes came into focus I growled at him for having a chocolate muffin, why wasn't he eating fruit 'for good health'?
After four hours of memory making in the bath I had another internal done. I had been losing some blood and mucus so I thought I must have been doing quite well. The midwife timed her internal perfectly again and made sure I didn't have to get out of the water. Sadly, we were still at six centimetres! I began to lose confidence and she offered to break the waters to help move things along. Again, she did it while I was still in the water but found that there was meconium present, so I had to get out to be monitored. She never once gave me the 'it's best for your baby if you do what I say' talk. She just told me what was what and let me make the decisions. If I thought the first contraction out of the home bath was bad – phew! That was nothing compared to getting out of this bath. The first one hit and I started dragging on that gas bottle as fast as I could. Only problem was that it wasn't connected to anything. It had become dislodged when I was moved into the room.
The next few hours were agony. Sometimes I stood, sometimes I kneeled, sometimes I sat. It got really painful and I started to pass out during the peaks. I faded in and out of consciousness and each time I woke I saw something different. I thought all of the visions were a dream, but that there was one somewhere, if I could just find it, that was real life. I remember hearing Chris crying and I started fighting against everything to open my eyes and talk to him. I remember telling him over and over not to cry, that I was OK but I needed to know that he was alright. Then I fell out of consciousness again and woke to see him weeping again. I lifted my hand and wiped his tears away, and told him “I love you”. It was the most important thing to me to know that he was loved, in case I didn't make it through. I remember I had my back against the bed and I faded out of consciousness, then everything went bright white. I saw a man looking at me and knew it was Jesus.
“Can I come home now?” I asked Him.
“Not yet child,” He replied, His silhouette disappeared from the whiteness, and instead I saw Chris and a little boy standing next to him, as though they were the reasons why I couldn't go home yet. I felt very disappointed, but my confidence grew strong knowing that Jesus was there and He said I was to live.
I started to hear things again and it was the midwife telling me urgently to breathe. I lay there thinking, “What is that woman going on about now?”
Then I heard Chris saying, “She's not breathing, she's not breathing! She's stopped! Tracy, listen to me. Listen to me Tracy. I want you to breathe. Breathe with me on every count, OK? 1 – 2 – 3 - ...”
He sounded desperate but strong, and I had a overwhelming desire to please him. If Chris wanted me to breathe, by George, I would jolly well breathe! I joined in at about 7 or 8 and got all the way up to 15. I became fully conscious again and we continued.
Since the labour I have talked with a friend who is allergic to opiates and I'm pretty sure I am too, as I have abnormal reactions to gas and morphine. At the time, obviously, I wasn't aware of it.
By now Chris was a mess and I was groaning deeply/yelling with each peak. Chris asked what they could do to help and the midwife suggested that perhaps a little morphine might help my muscles to relax. He told her to give it to me but she said that she was sorry, she couldn't administer anything without my asking for it. It was against their policies to offer any sort of painkiller directly to the labouring mother. So Chris turned to me and said, “You want something to help don't you honey?” I nodded yes, of course I did! So the midwife moved around to the side of the bed and said softly, “Do you want to tell me anything sweetheart?” And I said, “NO! I don't want morphine it makes me sick and it's horrible and I don't want pethidine because it's related to morphine. And I don't want an epidural under any circumstances. NO PAINKILLERS!”
Teeheehee! What a brat :-D Poor Chris was beside himself. Then as soon as the midwife left the room I had a really painful contraction and started yelling about, “Why does it hurt so much? Are we not in a hospital? Can't they DOOOO something?!”
The next contraction I started hollering about how “I want an epidural!”
Gag. Yes, I know. I weakened. For what it's worth I don't think I would have let them actually jab me and to the midwifes credit I don't think she ever lodged the request. Because mysteriously enough the doctor couldn't be found for the whole of the remainder of the labour – until the end when I really needed the doc, then she was there within twenty seconds. Interesting...
Chris started balling and I overcame my self pity enough to listen to what was wrong. “Honey, you're in so much pain. Plleeease can you just tell the midwife that you want a little morphine? It will help you so much.”
“But honey I just can't because it makes me sick and I won't have any pethidine or an epidural so I just can't.”
“Tracy, you've been labouring for hours and nothing is happening. It will help you. Please take it”
Again, the overwhelming urge to please Chris rose to the fore and I told him to call the midwife back in. She asked me what I wanted and I said, “Do you think a little bit of morphine would help?” At the time I couldn't see anything and I can't remember why. “It would possibly help to relax your muscles a little bit and help your body to open up. It would only be a small amount.”
So I had the morphine and laboured about another two or three hours. At least, I think I had the morphine. This has since come into question as I have read my birth notes and questioned Chris. He doesn't actually remember them giving me anything and my birth notes say that I never received any painkillers? Anyway... I remember one last intensely painful contraction while I was standing leaning against the bed. It was pure agony. And then I wanted to push. Actually, let me rephrase that. My body started to push. The midwife told me to hold on as long as I could because she thought I wasn't fully dilated but I couldn't stop it, involuntarily my muscles were pushing. After that I clambered up onto the bed and sat in a semi-sitting semi-squatting position.
I remember hearing the midwife say, “Get rid of the gas. She can't have anymore gas.” At the time I panicked and I know those around me did too! But she knew exactly what I needed. As soon as the gas pipe left my mouth my eyes refocused and my will came back. She looked me right in the eyes and said, “Listen to me Tracy. I don't want you to make any noise through your mouth, none. Channel your energy into pushing.”
Suddenly I had a purpose, and I was overwhelmed with a desire to see my son's face. I was finally going to meet him!
I pushed as well as I could, arms wrapped around Chris' head and my mouth over his ear. Not the best place in the world for a mouth to be considering the situation! During one contraction I yelled loudly and the midwife called me up sternly. “Tracy, no noise. Channel your energy.”
I know there are some women who would have hated this but this lady sensed what I needed. I needed someone who could guide me and direct me and who wasn't afraid to let me know I had to suck it up and get the job done. She ran and got a giant mirror and told me to watch for my baby's head.
I was tiring quickly but with one contraction I saw the top of a little head covered in black silken hair. I'll never forget that moment. I am a mum. I'm giving birth. Birth to a baby. A real baby. A baby with hair. A BABY! It was all the inspiration that I needed to keep going. His head wasn't out yet but I reached my hand down and just inside I touched the softest, most delicate thing I have ever felt. It was a miracle for my fingertips to be in contact with someone that had been just a precious imagining for nine months.
The pushing lasted much longer than it should have. At about the forty minute mark a midwife noticed that Manny's heart rate was dropping fast. My midwife looked me in the eye and said, “Honey, we have to get this baby out and we have to get him out fast. Push as hard as you can.”
I began to feel desperate. I had to get my son out. If he died because I couldn't push him out fast enough...
Finally, with a long hard contraction, his head popped out and stayed out! His shoulders were too wide to come out with me in the position I had but his heart rate had plummeted so there was no time for me to move. The doctor sliced me three times, I contracted and he was whipped out onto my belly.
There was no cry. There was no pink skin. There was nothing to indicate to anyone in the room that he was alive. Within a split second my midwife had yelled for the emergency switch to be hit and seven doctors were in the room within literally three seconds. I felt his warm softness on my belly and looked at him adoringly. And he blinked at me. Not one other person saw it but I distinctly remember seeing his eyes close and open again. Then his cord was cut and he was on the emergency cradle with four doctors working on him. I looked over to watch but I was completely calm, I knew he was going to be alright because God had shown me he was. I passed the plactenta, and I will always remember how shockingly easy it is after a birth. That thing may be huge but it really doesn't feel anything like giving birth. Then I noticed I could feel some warm liquid pouring over my body and looked down to see my midwife saying, “I've got blood here. A lot of blood.” She was calm but working so quickly, and the doctor was suddenly there trying to stop the bleeding and another lady was injecting me with long needles. Funnily enough I remember looking at a really long thick needle and thinking, “Hurry up and stab me. Please!” I was still contracting and I wanted the pain to come from a different area, just to distract. I remember feeling the stab and it being a relief, so mild was the sting. I knew I would never complain about a needle again!
I looked over at my baby again but his eyes were shut and the doctors kept blocking the view. I asked someone nearby if my baby was going to be ok and she said yes. I remember noticing in her eyes that she was not convinced but that didn't concern me, because I had seen him blink.
The bleeding kept going and the doctor started pulling huge blood clots from my uterus. Chris was holding me and wouldn't let me go. He later told me that he thought I was going to die and he didn't once turn around to look at our baby, he was so scared that I was going to go home.
After what seemed like a very long time, and was in fact over 1.5 litres of blood later, they stopped the bleeding and the stitching began. My baby was whisked away for further treatments and I wasn't able to get up. I trusted the doctors. If they could get us this far they knew what my son needed. I later found out that Manny had an Apgar score of 2 out of 10. The explanations varied and I've come to the conclusion that no-one really knew why. Some said the labour was too long, some said the pushing was too long, some said the pushing was too short, some said it was because of the morphine, others said the morphine couldn't have had an effect the baby... Whatever the reason, Manny ended up in the nursery under constant surveillance.
After the doctors were done stitching I tried to sit up but couldn't. I wanted to go see my baby but the blood loss had made me too dizzy to move. I was covered in blood and really needed to shower, so Chris carried me to the bathroom, the midwife brought in a stool and Chris sat me down so he could wash me. I couldn't even hold my head or shoulders up I was so weak. I remember feeling scared because my mind was still functioning perfectly well but my body couldn't function, and I thought that this must be what it's like to be old. I just sat hunched over like a rag doll, unable to even lift a hand. It was an awful feeling.
Although I was desperate to see Manasseh I had to rest. The midwife quickly cleaned up the bed as best she could and Chris laid me on. I fell into a deep sleep and awoke at 2am. I was still weak but I HAD to get to my baby. I called Chris awake and told him to check Manny and to find a way to get me to the nursery. A midwife returned with him and they helped me off the bed. I couldn't stand and almost fell, so she quickly ran to get a wheelchair. It was only then that I noticed the room. There was blood everywhere. It really looked like a scene from a horror movie. The midwife swore when she saw the floors and the bed. I hope I never see anything like that again but right then I didn't care, I was going to the nursery! I was going to see my first born son!
I was wheeled into the room and there he was, lying on his belly in a glass bassinet under a bright light. He was so perfect, so delicate, so mine. He looked like my uncle, the splitting image only smaller.
A lady once asked me while I was pregnant, “You think you love him, no?” I had replied that yes, I loved him so much already. “Ahhh, you think now you love him but you do not know what is love. When he is born you will know much greater love.”
She was right. My heart trebled in size with that first look and it was all from the love for my son. A beautiful motherly blonde midwife was watching him and asked me if I would like to feed. My eyes filled with tears as she handed him to me and I felt his warm little body against my chest. I had to be careful of the tubes that he had going into his hand and foot. He nuzzled around and latched on perfectly. My little miracle.
I will forever be greatful to that lovely midwife because she didn't feed Manny so much as a drop. She knew I would want to give him his first feed and she let him wait on the stores that he had from birth for as long as she could. Another hour, she told me, and he probably would have started to get peckish and she would have had to give him a bottle. God is so good!
That first feed was so special. I examined each little part of his body and enjoyed showing off the tiny limbs to Chris. I felt so close to my husband, and I wanted to tell him over and over, “Look what we made!”
My Pastor described that overwhelming feeling we get toward our young sometimes as a “love attack”. It's when we have to hold them and smother them in kisses and gaze at the wonder of their very existence in rapture. That night I had my first real love attack for my son, but rather than diminish I've noticed they just get stronger and stronger. Manasseh is my first born, my son, the baby that opened my womb. I pray that the Lord will allow me many more “Love Attacks” to come.
