Mr Moi and mum finally arrived at the hospital just as I was entering the ‘I can’t talk’ zone of labour. I will still staring out the window and recording my contractions into an app on my phone, cause hey! it was something to do.
Eventually the pain became a little too much, and I demanded an internal because I wanted to figure out just how much I was progressing. I believe I uttered the words, “If I’m only 3cm dialated, it will break my heart”, quickly followed by, “and if that’s the case, I want an epidural”.
So in comes Doc to do my first and only exam of this labour – hurrah. I was 4 – 5 cm dialated and it was at this point I decided that I would hop in the shower to try and relieve the pain. Problem – I can’t get my dress off. Solution – get it over my head and arm, add it to the tangle of drips and hang it on the drip stand. So into the shower I go, where I sat for an hour breathing through the utter pain that is labour. I kinda remembered the pain from Frankie, but not really. There is simply no reason to remember the excrutiating pain of labour, it’s designed to be so horrible that it’s banished to the dark realms of memory as soon as possible.
Anyhoos. In pain I was, and every few minutes someone would poke their head into the shower to ask if I was OK. Yes I’m not OK dammit was about the response I could muster, when I could actually talk.
After about an hour, I noticed that the contractions had slowed down despite me now being on more Syntocinon. And when I was contracting, my tummy felt a kind of lightness. Also, I was becoming very vocally over the pain, and over everything – thus the rational part of me that existed under the heaving breathing Mad Woman of Labour determined that I must have been in transition. I mentioned it to the midwife, who seemed rather unconcerned, telling me to hop out of the shower and onto the bed when I ‘felt ready’. Whatever the hell that was supposed to mean! Take charge of me already!
In the end, one of the midwives gently suggested that I get out of the shower and head on over to the bed. Her suggestion was a little too gentle, because it took me five minutes to realise that she actually meant it.
When I got to the bed I expected to be told I was still only about 5 cm dialated. In fact, they didn’t even do an examination, they just told me to start pushing. I took this as meaning I’d reached 10cm and pushed away…
(This is the la-di-dah moment where one inserts an intermission, and John Cleese starts running around the Hollywood Bowl trying to sell people ‘Albatross flavoured Albatross’. There’s not really much to say except I pushed, the Doc was there, the cord was wrapped around the neck x 2 (just like Frankie) and Harrie was born in less than 20 minutes. It was painful. By God it was painful. My poor uterus felt broken. But y’know, no different to any other woman who gives birth.)
And so, 4 hours and 15 minutes after Doc stuck my arm with Syntocinon, Harrie entered the world and was plonked on my tummy, where she immediately lifted her head to look at me and started crying – and squeezed one real crocodile tear. The start of a lifetime of emotional blackmail, I’m sure.
To be concluded (maybe)…
* Part 2 of probably a billion, the way I’m going