So when last we spoke, Wifey had finally been granted an epidural after some 28 hours of contractions. The thing about epidurals is that they don't always work.
Fortunately for us, this was not the case.
The other thing about epidurals is that a lot of the time when they do work, they quite often bring such relaxation, that contractions slow enormously, effectively putting Baby on a stop-work. This did happen to us. Moments earlier we'd been on track to imminent, screaming natural birth. Now we found ourselves in the eye of the storm: the pain may have disappeared, but there was also a distinct lack of progress... For a time the animal mews and hoots ceased and sleep (of sorts) took us - that is to say, the kind of sleep you can get in between two hospital chairs at the bedside where your wife has spent the last 9 hours heaving in pain.
Periodically my "slumber" was interrupted by midwives bustling in and out, checking the bleating machine that was still strapped to Wifey's bulge. I watched vehicles come and go from Emergency below, their red and blue lights dancing across the walls. I watched nurses come and go from the car park. I watched dawn break with a pink sky promising more of Christmas Day's 'refreshing' weather. I made serious headway on the weighty novels that inspired the HBO series Game of Thrones. Meanwhile, Baby did bugger-all.
And this started to become of some concern; you see, without contractions, labour kind of ceases to be labour and without labour, babies don't get born... well, not by their "natural" path anyway. So, steps were taken to ensure contractions continued: syntocin was added to the drip (with all the fluids that get pumped into a woman on epidural) - this is the synthetic version of oxytocin, the hormone that brings on labour.
Apart from that not a lot happened. Unless I left the room, that is....
Absence number one occurred when I was outside the Birth Unit updating the in-laws on Wifey's progress. When I returned the room was a whir: I was at the ugly end of Wifey's pushing under the enthusiastic instruction of a midwife, one leg up, gripping her ankles in a kind of sideways tuck. I have long-believed myself to have a special bond with the ocean, one that is manifested by my ability to summons waves by rolling off my board for a swim, thus being entirely unprepared for their arrival. Was it possible that this extended to labour also? Would I spend 30 hours diligently by Wifey's side, only for Baby to arrive in the few minutes I was away?
Alas, no. Baby was in distress: her heart rate had dropped and they weren't sure why. This news could have sent shockwaves through me, but at this end of an all-but sleepless Christmas and surrounded by confident-looking professionals, I simply fell back into my post at Wifey's side and took up my roles of hand-squeezer and "You're doing really well!"-sayer. A rod was slipped up "there" and a monitor clipped to Baby's head. This gave a more accurate reading of Baby's heart rate, which either thanks to lack of faulty monitor, or a whole lot of excitement, was looking good again. Once more we settled and I found distraction in George R. R. Martin's fantasy world.
The next absence saw me depart in search of food in the downstairs cafeteria. Once more there was movement at the station. The epidural had worn off and the animal noises had returned. There was a doctor checking "down there" and pleas for an end renewed from Wifey. Could this be the wave?
Well, not quite... After a good inspection, Doctor was able to inform us that, though Baby had been pointing in the right direction for pretty much the duration of pregnancy, she hadn't quite completed the necessary twist and was therefore not ready to slide out just yet. There were brief mutterings about the potential of caesarian, others regarding helping Baby out her "natural" passage and then a 'decision' to give her more time - the good ol' "wait 'n' see". Our charming midwife (well on her way to becoming Wifey's favourite person on earth) topped up the epidural and on our journey rolled.
By about 1200 hrs (we're still on Boxing Day) Wifey was feeling pain again, though this was specifically relating to ligament damage in her lower stomach. For some reason the enormous amount of drugs pumping through her system were not aiding and we were reaching fever pitch. Once again, life imitated the movies, as Wifey uttered words to the tune of "I just want this thing out of me!" and I went scurrying from the room.
With the assisted pressure of Wifey's favourite midwife, the specialists were assembled and a plan was put forth for Operation Get This Thing Out Of Me. Doc assured us that the time waiting was not wasted, as Baby had in fact completed at least part of her rotation, though she still had some way to go. This being said, Doc was pretty confident that if he got his extra large BBQ tongs out, he could yank her right on out. Alternatively, he had the option of taking a Dyson to her head and sucking her out. However, if neither option was successful in drawing Baby from her hiding place, he vowed to unsheathe his blade and seek her where she lay. Wait... maybe I'm confusing it with Game of Thrones... Anyway, the final resort was C-section an for that reason, they decided to prep Wifey for surgery and perform O.G.T.T.O.O.M. in theatre. This meant I got to scrub up!
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| Just like JD! |
But seriously, it was a little unnerving...
When everything was ready, I went with our midwives and made the journey to theatre. Now I mentioned previously about how far we had to walk up hospital corridors to get to the Birth Unit; this was nothing in comparison to the trip to the particular theatre where Wifey's procedure was to take place. Keeping in mind that this walk was entirely out of public area and was therefore eerily quiet, every time we turned a corner it seemed like the hall was getting longer as we walked.
Eventually we entered the tiny room that was a kind of foyer (I guess more technically a preparation room) for surgery. This was like a who's who of our pregnancy experience - with a whole host of midwives, doctors and specialists, not only from our time at the birth unit, but our various checkups in the Women's Health Clinic, in attendance. Of course, we were but a number to them, a sign-off in a skills book, but it was nice for us to see familiar faces all the same.
After a few minutes, Wifey was rolled into theatre and I was asked to stay on my stool for a few minutes while they got prepared. I noted the time was just hitting 1300hrs on the clock on the wall and that my heartbeat was clocking a few per movement of the second hand.
After what felt like an hour (but I can say, with confidence, was 7 minutes), I was summonsed to take a new stool by Wifey's side and take up my official post of hand-holder once more. To aid a recently topped-up epidural, Wifey was also given a spinal, so she was properly numb from the waist down. Doc had decided the tongs were the go, so they were positioned and Wifey was asked to push. Determined to maintain some form of natural birth, she mustered all her remaining strength and did just that. The action required to push a baby out (if you were wondering) is the same as to push a poo out. And yes, poo does happen; it didn't in our case (to my knowledge), but I assure you, at the tail end of 36 hours of labour, pooing in front of a room full of people is about the last thing in the world you care about. (Really selling pregnancy, aren't I...)
Well 'push' did Wifey and 'pull' did Doc and (I won't draw it out any longer) all of a sudden (at 1324hrs) there was a hatless Smurf, coughing and crying softly in his arms. I'm told by Wifey, who remembers little else, that "HOLY SH*T!" was my welcome to the world for my first-born. I don't recall the exclamation myself, but I am willing to believe it: I mean, this thing was blue - which fortunately I was a little bit prepared for - but it did look freaky! She was bundled off to a bench at the side for her immediate checks, Wifey panting and weeping in a daze on the bed and me on my stool, not quite sure what to do.
Moments later, I was called over by the midwives to lay eyes on our little Pixie. Pinkness was starting to come to her body as scissors were placed in my hand and I was told told to cut the cord.
"It's a little rubbery and harder than you might expect..." I was warned.
"I'm used to cutting squid."
"She's beautiful!"
"She looks like an alien." (Jokingly. Kind of...)
Not quite sure of what I was allowed to do, I just kind of looked at her, until Midwife suggested I put a finger in her hand and she held on tight.
Then we were off again: a brief "Well done!" and "See you soon!" to Wifey, as the doctors set to work with some running repairs with needle and thread below (yes guys, get your head around that too!). Back down the halls (which had fortunately shortened) to the room that had started to feel like home. Pixie was weighed (3.58kg, just shy of 8 pounds for the oldies), measured (52cm) and dressed in a gown to match Mummy's, then wrapped up tight.
"Would you like to have a cuddle?" the midwife asked, "Then we'll take you up to Maternity to meet your wife."
And she left.
Walked out.
Departed.
Entrusted the sole care of a newly born, entirely helpless, completely vulnerable babe to a 23 year old boy.
Now for a long time I had this thing with cats, where try as I might I just couldn't figure them out. I'm an animal person, so I really wanted to be their friends, but just couldn't quite judge them. They would strike me with that weird, piercing cat gaze and I would offer my hand, hopeful it was a gaze of longing. Occasionally, that would prove correct, but every now and again they would reveal their ninja skills and I would be left bleeding.
Babies have been much the same: they would fix me with a stare, that could so easily crack into a smile, yet oft' some subtle, subconscious false move on my behalf would trigger the other response and soon enough they'd be in their mother's arms, who between "there-there"ing, would assure me that it's very out of character and they must be tired.
Well eventually I got myself a kitten and sorted out my cat dramas - seriously, I am like the cat whisperer now - and here I was to once and for all deal with the baby drama. This was sink or swim. I decided to go with the approach I would for a dog I wasn't sure about - overly confident and (appropriately) lots of baby talk.
Well, she didn't bite or claw my hand and neither did she cry... too much. What she did do is capture me in her gaze and ensure I would never let her go.
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| Pixie |
