The “C” Word.

#CaesareanSection

I feel that more and more since having Carter (yes, I have a son now. Crazy) that I am encountering women who have gone through the same procedure I went through in order to bring my son into the world. Although people tell you that it’s maybe only 1 in 8 or 10 who end up not able to have their child “naturally” for whatever reason, this is wrong. I think this whole procedure and how often it happens is being hugely downplayed. Every mother I have encountered in my current town ended up with a section. A friend from work ended up with a section. Girl from school – section.

Looking at it now, 6 weeks on, I can’t deny the sheer shock has somewhat started to fade. However, what has not faded is the memory of what I went through and how I felt then, and how I still feel now. Carter is 6 weeks old. His development so far for someone his age is something I didn’t expect but he was what they deem ‘big born’. But I think this also is becoming more and more common.

Big Babies. It’s 2019, and big babies are more and more common. I was 5lb odd when my mum had me. My brother – not much bigger. Family members and acquaintances however – big babies. Is this something attributable to the modern obesity crisis? Are we producing larger babies because of our lifestyles and what we choose to do or more commonly – NOT do. There is a distinct lack of exercise in folk nowadays compared to that of back in the day. Before everyone owned a car or lived near a metro or before there was a bus for nearly every route. We had to walk further back then, work harder. Cooking was ‘cleaner’ before big corporations introduced E numbers, salt and preservatives. Before the deep fat fried potato.

My friend from work recently came over for a play date with her daughter and of course naturally we were happy to talk about the time we spent in hospital. Her story was entirely worse than mine (I hope she doesn’t mind me saying) and more and more women are having the same birth. A last minute or emergency C section.

My story started with being 1 week overdue and of course, being induced. Another thing more and more common these days. 75% of people I have come into contact with have been induced. I entered the hospital in Durham for my 4pm induction 1 week after Carters due date. I had my pessary by 5. My waters broke naturally by 10, which you would think would be good. Nope. Wrong. As became evident as my birth experience went on through the next 30 hours – I should have had a second to bring things on. Even still, this probably wouldn’t have actually ultimately helped.

I went through that night – nothing. Not a single decent contraction. 7am the next day (Friday) I arrived into the labour ward to be put onto a hormone drip. Much to the delight of my husband who secured the only reclining seat in the whole ward which happened to be in our room. So here I sat, hooked up to the hormones and fluids, waiting. And waiting. Nothing much. So they started to up the hormones. Apparently, doctors want to see expectant mothers get contractions and have those up at 5 in 10. By the afternoon – I needed pain relief as the gas and air no longer did anything. Speaking of Diamorphine – waste of absolute space. Lasted 2 hours then they won’t give you more for 6 hours. So we continued. By 4pm I was screaming in pain with contractions with no more pain relief available other than gas and air or an epidural. I refused the epidural. Husband had to spend the next 2 hours watching me cling to the side of the bed and scream while trying to breathe AND take gas and air. Thrilled.

9pm came and with it – the Doctor. I was only 4 cm dilated and hadn’t progressed all day.

C Section.

No choice, no say. Apparently, asking for more drugs and stating you will go another 14 hours to try and get that natural water birth you wanted doesn’t fly with a stern, smart and concerned woman doctor. She was amazing. I was having a section and she wouldn’t be argued with.

Next – the epidural. Having been the life and soul of the party in the labour ward all day with my high as a kite chatter patter and jokes, along with my strong wit, my anaesthetist couldn’t resist my charms either. Had him laughing while inserting whatever it is into my spine which oh yeah – can paralyse you. Love that waiver they make you sign whilst highly under the influence of drugs absolving them of any responsibility – legally challengeable much?

They wheel me down and get Mark into scrubs. He joins me in the theatre. The curtain is up. I am shaking due to adrenaline, practically convulsing. I am numb, but I feel them. The doctors. I feel the theatre team wrenching at my stomach and wiggling it.

Yeah – those horror stories of women who can feel their child being taken from inside them even though they are numb – that was me. Why am I not surprised? Story of our lives. We also wanted the sex to be a surprise, although deep down we knew it was a boy. So once he was out and before they told us – the doctor assistant behind me says something involving the word ‘he’. Ace. It’s a boy then.

All of the above is true, and all of the above is not at all what I had planned, especially nearly being tea bagged by my own son when they lowered him down toward me on the operating table. What is also true is how YOU feel after. WHAT you feel, and more importantly – what was MISSED.

They don’t prepare you for it. You expect what you see on TV. In Movies. You don’t expect to wait 45 mins to hold your own child whilst watching his father get those first bonding moments. Because you have to be sown up. They have to ‘fix’ you. Nor do they prepare you for your husband being sent immediately home at midnight when out of theatre as ‘he can’t stay’.

You are alone, you can’t move your lower half of your body and you can’t feel it. You’re baby cries. And – you are alone. You can’t get up. You can’t go to the toilet. You didn’t experience that miracle of holding your child immediately. You didn’t get the water birth that would have been magical. You feel stripped, like the genuine magic of childbirth was simply taken away from you. And that is something you will never ever get back.

That – that feeling and everything that goes alongside it. It’s as if you failed. Like it’s your fault. THAT is what they need to prepare women for, it’s what they need to support women through after the fact. Phoning them every day to find out about feeding – that is NOT helping. Necessary or not. That is hindering. That is pressure.

Having my experience, I totally understand and sympathise with those women who have post-natal depression. I get it. You don’t feel like your enough. Like you failed. Well – you didn’t.

As it turns out when I spoke with the doctor after Carters birth – my baby was actually physically stuck. Literally. He had grown so big and comfy; he was stuck in my pelvis. I would never ever have been able to have him naturally according to her. It just wasn’t meant to be, they had to scoop him out with a tool to get him out of there. He was big, and long like his dad. And still is. At 6 weeks he is now in 3-6-month-old clothing and his feet pretty much match my friends 8-month olds in size. I am 5ft 2 and was a size 8/10 before falling pregnant. My family are all small, tall sometimes, but small. Marks family are all tall. At what point should they have done growth scans? Or something – anything – to check how big he was and where he was. I was in pain constantly with SPD. Turns out those last 3 weeks when the pain in my pelvis was absolutely excruciating was simply down to Carter wedging himself in there good and proper.

6 weeks on, the initial shock has worn off. Like I have said though, it seems more and more women now are ending up with a C Section birth. It does definitely beg the question as to why?

Every moment with our son is magical. They say it changes you. It does. We love weekend mornings spent in bed for hours just watching him sleep or being fascinated by his new facial expressions. His squeaks and noises. He is the most amazing thing I have ever known.

6 weeks on, we are both back at the gym. We take alternate days. We are still renovating the house, with works starting on Carter’s nursery in August. We hope to have only a bathroom and kitchen left to do by Christmas. Life goes on, life doesn’t stop. And our little half-Scottish michael jordan length baby is now part of it all.

He is our greatest adventure.