Sunday, December 13, 2015


Jamie was born by planned caesarean.

It was an odd decision to try to make. My condition isn't such that the medical professionals involved were insisting that a c-section was the only way to go, but the option was on the table from the outset. The decision, however, was entirely down to me, which helped me feel a lot more in control of things.

Surgery is never something to take lightly. As operations go, c-sections are pretty safe, but they ultimately involve a slice through your abdomen big enough to haul out an entire wriggling baby - there's a lot of risks to be considered and it typically takes longer to recover from than a complication-free "natural" childbirth. But we felt that, for me and my body and what I know of my condition for the last decade, an attempt at "natural" labour would be likely to end up in an unplanned c-section anyway, that would happen while I was exhausted to the point of incoherence - and then I would have to recover from surgery AND labour simultaneously, instead of one or the other. Therefore the best way of ensuring things went smoothly, that I recovered as soon as possible, that I understood what was happening and was mentally present for the birth of my child, was a planned c-section.

A secondary factor was that if I attempted "natural" birth and failed, that failure would be very upsetting. I would feel that I'd let the baby down. If I'd been so exhausted that I couldn't understand what was happening when I went into theatre, then my consent would have been a fuzzy issue, and I would feel like my hoped-for "birth experience" had been taken from me. It seemed more emotionally sensible to set my expectations at an achievable level.

I have to admit that even now, two months post-partum, I'm still not entirely reconciled to the c-section on the emotional side of things. There is so much information out there about the many and varied reasons why a "natural" birth is better for both mother and child, if there are no other factors to be taken into consideration, but pretty much all the information leaves out that caveat. Pregnancy magazines cheerlead expectant mothers along with soundbites like "having a baby is what your body was designed to do!" and (quite apart from the feminist and anti-creationism problems I have with that statement) this approach really excludes those of us whose bodies struggle with certain things. Every magazine I read gave me exactly the same feeling of "this isn't for you; you're not our target audience and we'd rather not have to consider you" as a shop or service building that has steps out the front. Goodness knows what it does to women who need c-sections but aren't already used to finding themselves outside the dominant paradigm.

Anyway. A planned c-section it was. The planning extended to the date, but not the time of the surgery. The way our hospital runs it is: people scheduled for c-sections that day arrive at the labour ward at 8am, and then the day's theatre schedule is created in order of priority, to include the women who are already in labour and for some reason need or are likely to need an unplanned c-section. I think this is a really good way of organising it. Not only does it mean that the women most in need are prioritised, but also, it was nice having some unknown elements in what was quite a medicalised version of having a baby.

On the day, we turned up at 8am and I was given a theatre gown straight away and told there were only two of us in for surgery that day so we'd likely be meeting our baby quite soon. Unfortunately emergencies started to happen and after a while our midwife came back and told us to get my socks back on and bundle me up in our coats to keep warm during the delay.

A while after that we were moved to the post-natal ward to wait. It had been agreed ahead of time that the best way to deal with my mobility needs after the birth was to place me in one of the side rooms, which had solid walls rather than curtains and a bit more space either side of the bed than the cubicles on the ward. I think perhaps part of the reason we were moved was to make sure that the room the ward manager had felt would be most suitable didn't end up being reassigned to one of the emergency cases. It was a lovely and unexpected bonus to get the chance to relax and acclimatise to the post-natal environment while still being pre-natal. I think the only downside was that being pre-surgery I had to keep declining the offers of breakfast, tea, elevenses, lunch, more tea... Mostly we were just being thankful that we weren't an emergency.

I did have to send Steve to go and eat something. He'd been too nervous to eat first thing in the morning. By mid-morning he was hungry, but didn't dare go to the cafeteria in case we were called for theatre while he was gone. Eventually around lunchtime I convinced him that I'd rather have him be two minutes late into theatre, than risk him passing out while I was lying there immobilised on the operating table.

And then suddenly, mid-afternoon, our midwife appeared in the room wearing scrubs and asked if we were ready? We took the coats and jumpers off me, I got into my wheelchair, and we followed her to the corridor where the operating theatre was. At that point, Steve was directed to go put some scrubs on, and I went into the theatre. There were windows and natural light as well as the electric lighting, which I hadn't expected but quite liked. I was in my chair right up to the operating table.

First I had to sit on the table to have the spinal anaesthetic. The anaesthetist(?), who I think was called Scott, stood behind me, while another person (doctor? nurse? other? I think his name was Trevor, everyone introduced themselves to me by first names rather than titles) supported me to try and bend forward enough that the needle could go in between the correct vertebrae. This didn't work so well - I think my back muscles had tensed from sitting in slightly awkward positions and also from being suddenly cold, plus of course I had a massive baby bump to try and bend around. Another person joined in, and the combination of being manhandled, but so very carefully, and at such an emotional moment, meant it was a weird halfway point between wrestling and a group hug. Eventually the spinal was in, though, and I lay down on the table and realised that I had, after all, forgotten to take my socks off.

At that point Steve was allowed in, although his first job was to return my wheelchair (and, I presume, my socks) to the post-natal ward. It can't have taken him more than two minutes but it felt like a very long two minutes. Meanwhile, probably-Scott was adjusting my drip based on what I was telling him. I did feel a bit silly and complain-y saying things like "I feel cold," and "I don't think I'll throw up but I feel a bit nauseous," but since his response was invariably "okay, we'll take care of that," followed by whatever it was being resolved, I guess it's what I was supposed to tell him. Finally a can of spray was squirted first at my arm (where I felt it as freezing cold) and then all over the rest of my body (where I didn't feel it at all), and we were ready to go.

Steve came back in and was told to sit at my right shoulder, and probably-Scott was at my left shoulder. There was a sheet suspended over my chest, and everyone else was on the other side of the sheet. The people in the room did do a quick run-through of names and roles but my mind was otherwise occupied.

I did not feel the incision, but I could feel the baby still moving inside me, and I could feel that my lower body was being moved about, although I have no idea what position I ended up in. It's not exactly a delicate operation and there was a whole lot of pushing and tugging - sometimes enough that my upper body on "our" side of the sheet was visibly moving. There wasn't any pain at all, but having the rummaging-about sensations meant I didn't feel detached from what was happening. Steve kept talking to me, and I kept breathing and trying to relax, and then there was the sound of a baby crying, which seemed so... scripted? clich├ęd? but of course it's what happened, and then someone said "oh, he's gorgeous!" followed by "erm, did they know if it was a boy or a girl?" which Steve and I couldn't help laughing about.

Steve took pictures with my phone of Jamie being wiped off, weighed, en-nappied and wrapped in warm towels. Then as per our birth plan, he took the first cuddle while the various wires and monitors around my chest were moved to allow Jamie to be placed on my chest for skin-to-skin contact. Probably-Trevor came round the sheet and joined probably-Scott for this bit but I really wasn't paying attention to anything at that point except Jamie, who didn't yet have a name. He was just Baby, all tiny and warm and fragile. He looked so very much like a complete and individual person that I could hardly believe that just a few minutes previously he'd been inside me, effectively one of my internal organs, growing out of the things I ate. I was aware, on some level, that the operation was still continuing, but I couldn't feel a thing any more. We kept cuddling all the while that I was being sewn back up, and he even stayed on me while the two of us were transferred from the operating table to a hospital bed and wheeled through to the recovery room, where the midwife helped us with our first attempt at breastfeeding.

It was a lovely birth experience. I don't have a Natural Childbirth Top Trumps card (hours in labour, number of stitches, etc) but in many ways that's a relief. I just have the care and friendliness of the NHS helping us transition to being a family of three with a minimum amount of drama.

No comments: