The Birth of Our Son

I find it really interesting that the last blog post that I wrote was titled ‘When the Universe Throws You a Curveball’, as that’s exactly how the birth of our son felt! I had carefully planned out how I wanted the birth to go, knowing full well that the vast majority of human births certainly do not go exactly ‘according to plan’. I even planned in my preferences for different scenarios in the hope of maintaining some sort of control over the situation that I was in. Afte all, due to various factors (not least the fact that I had lost two previous pregnancies) I had certainly not felt in control of this pregnancy however hard I had tried to look after myself. From the outset I had asked for help. I’m incredibly proud of myself for even writing that sentence as asking for help was not something that I was taught to do growing up. In fact, it very much went against my family’s usual outward public display of, ‘Everything is fine here’, ‘Move along now’, and ‘I’ll call the doctor only if I think I’m actually dying’. Mental health and emotions were not ever really talked about. Spiritual health was also something of a myth despite certain family members insisting that we were ‘Christian’ purely for the fact that we were ‘British’. You get the idea…

Having lost my mum at the end of January, I had found out I was pregnant on Friday 22nd March. If you’ve read some of my other blogs then yes, there it is again. The ‘22nd’. That significant number. My jubilation at finding out I was pregnant, very quickly changed to thoughts of fear and dread. I was sat alone at home sobbing thinking, “I’m not sure I can do this mum.” Mixed up in all of my emotions were thoughts of deep gratitude at being given another chance, dread at what might happen if things don’t go to plan or if something awful happens to me, and conflicting thoughts as to what I was supposed to do about work. I pretty much decided there and then to keep the pregnancy to myself with two important exceptions. My husband was obviously the first to be told. I don’t think I could have kept it from him if I’d tried, we are literally like two halves of the same person. We tell each other everything. The second person to find out was my teaching assistant who was more like a friend/family member to me than a colleague. Anyone who is a teacher will know that a good teaching assistant (TA) is worth their weight in gold and if you have any health ailments, your TA is there to (literally sometimes) prop you up. In fact, a good TA is like a friend, sister, mother, agony aunt, personal assistant and secretary all rolled into one! They certainly do not get the credit they deserve. I knew that I needed to tell her if I was to survive this pregnancy. Even then, the news came to her with a pre-warning of, “Now please don’t get excited yet ‘cause I’m bleeding a bit this morning but…”

I could go into detail about the months of anxiety I endured whilst I waited, hoped and prayed that this pregnancy would come to a safe conclusion with a happy and healthy baby but, in all honesty, a part of me would rather consign it to history. At the start of April, we went and visited the city of Bath. It is somewhere that I had visited once before on a singing course when I was younger. At that time, I didn’t really get to explore it much and as I split up with my then boyfriend, it wasn’t somewhere that I had particularly fond memories of, and I wanted to put that right. Bath is after all a beautiful city. We were only there for two nights, but it was lovely to spend time away from home with Bobby and Phoebe. However, my fear of losing the pregnancy was never far away as I was spotting and feeling achy throughout. That pretty much sums up most of the first trimester: spotting, occasional heavier bleeding, and feeling achy and tired. It was no surprise that rumours were rife at work. In the end I sent an email around to all the staff carefully explaining the situation and how I was feeling about it. Everyone at work was really understanding and supportive. I still kept the news hidden from my social media with carefully angled photos and the occasional update about my daughter.

I decided to book a private ‘early reassurance’ scan in the middle of April to confirm that I was indeed pregnant with a single baby and that despite the spotting, things were okay. Due to the fact that we had suffered a previous loss, my husband got in touch with the bereavement midwife who also arranged for me to have a scan at the hospital. This was followed with trips to A&E as I experienced incidences of what I thought was heavier bleeding. One occurrence happened whilst I was in the shower and a sudden gush of red ran down my leg. This particular occasion was utterly terrifying, and I was certain that I had lost it. I was screaming out for Bobby and, as I didn’t have my hearing aids in, I had no idea if he was on his way to me or not. He said himself that the scene that he walked in on could only be described as something out of a horror movie. Again, I was taken to A&E absolutely exhausted and eventually admitted to a hospital ward for another scan. Everything was fine. They had no idea where the (‘light’ as they described it) bleeding had come from, but everything was fine. The whole thing certainly did not do my anxiety any good. Throughout the pregnancy, I was on edge every time I went to wash.

During my booking in appointment, I practically broke down in front of the poor unsuspecting midwife who had the task of filling out my green pregnancy notes. I had to relay all of the information about my previous pregnancies and losses and how I was feeling and whether or not I felt I was going to be supported (baring in mind I had just lost my mum who lived around the corner). It was all too much. I knew I was going to need as much help as I could get and for the first time in my life, I asked for it.

Thankfully, due to this, my mental health was taken seriously. I have never once in my life had any type of counselling or therapy despite my parents divorcing and loosing my dad at a young age.  I guess outwardly I’d always portrayed this calm ‘happy-go-lucky’ kind of appearance, and everyone just assumed that I was okay. I could smile my way through any situation, right? Well, this time I just knew I couldn’t. My husband and daughter needed me, and I owed it to my baby to try and find help and be as well as possible during the pregnancy. Hey, maybe I could even attempt to enjoy the pregnancy? I certainly didn’t feel like journalling about it or taking loads of pregnancy selfies at the time for fear of jinxing things or tempting fate. I was put on a ‘Maternal Loss Antenatal Course’ online which was led by a psychologist. This gave me some important breathing space and reflection time and helped me to put things into perspective. I was also assigned a mental health midwife who is absolutely lovely and who is still looking out for me at the time of writing this.  Together they helped me to write a detailed birth plan.

In the early hours of Monday 14th of October, I woke up and felt wet down below. This was puzzling. Had I had an accident or something? I was lying on my side with a cushion between my legs in attempt to make myself comfortable. I put a hand down and felt the cushion and my underwear. It was not urine. Urine is just wet. This was wet and ever so slightly sticky. I called out to my husband, “[Name], I think my waters have broken.” I don’t think I have ever seen him move so fast in my life. As he jolted out of bed and woke up, my next thought was to try and sit up although I knew that if I did, more liquid would come out. Sure enough, it did, despite feebly attempting to put a towel down. I stood up. Same again. I put some other items of clothing on and went downstairs, yet another gush. This baby was coming, and it was coming early. My due date was supposed to be the 20th November. My Gran’s birthday. My only consolation was that I knew my pregnancy was far along enough for the baby to be able to be admitted to the neonatal ward at my local hospital. By this point I was 34 weeks and 5 days.

Frustratingly, we had to wait for my father-in-law to drive from the nearby town before we could set off on our way to the hospital. Someone had to stay and look after our daughter. Thankfully he was able get to us quickly and we were on our way. I was not feeling any contractions, just the occasional gush of fluid. I knew then, as we were driving through the cold dark streets, that I would need to be cut open and have a caesarean section. It is something that I had always dreaded (after all, it is major surgery), not least as some people had suggested that your stomach muscles are cut and never quite heal. This, by the way, is a complete myth.

I was consoled by the fact that I could still feel the baby moving every so often. Luckily, as it was still very early in the morning, there were plenty of parking spaces at the hospital. My husband walked me round to the triage desk where I was told to take a seat. I quickly explained that this might not be the best idea as my waters had broken and I was very wet down below. I had had to sit on a puppy training mat in the car on the way to the hospital. Thankfully, as it was quiet, they ushered me straight through to a side room to be assessed by a midwife. It didn’t take her long to establish that my waters had broken and that I was indeed in labour. A quick scan revealed that the baby was perfectly happy for the time being, so I was then taken to another room to be strapped up to a monitor.

At this point I was very grateful that my best friend is currently living in Las Vegas. Despite it being the early hours of the morning, I was able to message her with updates about what was happening. She sent some lovely encouraging messages saying, “You’re very brave, and I know you can do this!” It really helped me to stay calm and focussed.

In my birth plan, there were strong recommendations that I was not to be put in a room near the far end of the corridor. The suite right at the end was where I delivered our second daughter who was born sleeping so for obvious reasons I did not want to be put anywhere near that area. Well, I’m not sure if anyone on the labour ward actually bothered to read my notes fully as that end of the corridor is exactly where I was placed next. Not only this, but I was informed that they would simply watch and wait for things to progress. They could potentially continue watching and waiting for up to two weeks whilst monitoring me to check that I didn’t have any infections. They were simply happy to leave me in that situation until it looked like things were starting to go wrong. To say that my husband and I were terrified, would be an understatement. We were almost preparing ourselves for the worst. On top of this, I asked how often they would be monitoring the baby, to which I was told that it would be at least three times a day (Morning, noon and night). Whilst staff seemingly whizzed backwards and forwards to other ladies on the ward, I was left for several hours without being monitored. My husband had only had a few snacks to eat and had slept on my coat on the floor. We were exhausted and I was beginning to get worried as to whether I had actually felt my baby move or whether I was imagining things.

I’m not usually one to make a fuss, but on this occasion I rang the bell and asked to be strapped up to the monitor again. A short while later, a consultant/surgeon happened to be walking past and came to look at my monitor. I am so thankful that he did, as I honestly feel that he essentially saved my baby’s life. By this point it was very late on in the evening. He noticed that the baby’s heart rate was fluctuating. He turned around to me and said, “Okay, let’s get him out.” I believe I looked at him a little confused and asked if he meant right away. He did. No time for a planned caesarean, they were taking me into theatre for an emergency caesarean right away. In no time at all we were donned with hospital robes and awaiting the theatre to be ready. We took a quick selfie of ourselves all dressed up. A midwife helped me to take one last trip to the toilet as I was still strapped to the machine. It was whilst I was mid-wee that she asked me for the baby’s name. I hadn’t dared to say it to anyone. She said that she needed to know so that she could print labels off ready. I told her and it felt wonderful to say it out loud.

In the theatre I had a strange sense of DeJa’Vu. It was the same theatre that I had been in when I gave birth to my first daughter via forceps delivery. I had also been in it when they placed a cervical suture at week fourteen of the pregnancy. It had been a preventative measure to put my mind at rest. Despite my fear of hospitals, I was willing to do anything to aid this pregnancy. Even so, at my twenty-week scan they discovered that there was some funnelling and had me wheeled down to see the consultant who merely told me that there was nothing else they could do. It either held or it didn’t. Although at the time she wasn’t worried, I cannot say the same for me or my husband.

The theatre staff were absolutely lovely. They chatted away to us about our pets and music and helped to put us at ease. Once I was anesthetized, the surgeon wasted no time in getting to work. He immediately announced that the baby was a good size, before pulling him out. Little baby cries could be heard, and our son was born into the world in the early hours of Tuesday 15th October at 34+6 weeks gestation. I had a brief glimpse of him before they started checking him over. He had some fluid on his lungs still so he would need to be taken to the neonatal ward. I held his hand for a few seconds before they popped him in the incubator and wheeled him away. At least he was safe.

It took a further hour for them to finish work on me. The placenta was yet again difficult to remove. On top of this, the suture had embedded itself in my cervix and they had difficulty cutting it away and removing it. I had lost a litre of blood, but at last I was placed on the recovery ward. I had done it. I had given my husband the two living children that we had always dreamed of. My job was done. I never have to go through all of that again. I just hoped that everything was okay with our son and that he was being looked after. I kept reminding myself that despite the fact that my body had failed to carry him to full term, at least he was now in the best place. He had a fighting chance. He was a good size. We would be okay and make this work.

The other pressing matter was to start expressing colostrum to feed him with. I was familiar with this from the first time I had given birth. Little and often, you are expected to use a syringe to gather up small droplets of colostrum whilst you wait for your milk supply to properly come in. With my daughter, despite my best efforts, my milk supply never properly started and she wouldn’t/couldn’t latch on no matter what I tried. This job kept me busy and gave me something to focus on throughout those first few days. I was so determined to keep collecting as much as possible that I even set alarms during the night so that I hand expressed on a regular basis. I was very glad when they admitted me onto a ward and into my own single room with ensuite.

As soon as I could I went to see our son. You never expect that your baby is going to end up on a neonatal ward in an incubator surrounded by wires and tubes. The machines were deafening as they whirred away through my hearing aids. Our son looked so helpless lying there in his tiny nappy with his breathing tubes. Despite this, he also looked incredibly beautiful, and I knew he was a fighter. I loved him from the moment that I first got a glimpse of him in theatre. I also wished so much that my mum and dad could see him. I knew that they would both love him too. I also desperately longed to pick him up and hold him, but I was too nervous to ask due to all the wires.

The next morning I went to see him again and he looked almost alien. Due to his jaundice, they had placed him under a blue light with a mask on his face to shield his eyes. I hoped he wouldn’t still be like that when our daughter came to see him later. Unfortunately he was and she refused to go anywhere near him. I’m pleased to say that since then, she now absolutely adores her baby brother. Despite me stating on my birth plan that I didn’t want visitors until I was ready, my mother-in-law also came to visit alongside our daughter. I know that she meant well, but I couldn’t help but be a little annoyed. I was very weak after the surgery and I needed to have a blood transfusion that evening. On top of this, once she had been to see our son, she was also overwhelmed by the situation and sat there in tears whilst my husband tried to reassure me that everything was still okay with him. I wasn’t sure who to believe. I think she was just emotional about seeing him on the neonatal ward, but it certainly didn’t help to reassure me of the situation especially as I still hadn’t got to hold him. I was so grateful when on the Thursday morning a nurse offered to help me get him out of the incubator so that I could finally give him a cuddle. He was so small and fragile, but just perfect.

That same day it was suggested that I should go home. I was rather reluctant to leave the hospital without my son. It seemed unnatural. But I knew that I wouldn’t be able to get a proper night’s rest staying where I was, and we weren’t sure how long he would need to be kept in for. In the end he was kept in for nearly two weeks. I spent many hours sat with him daily. I expressed milk as often as I could and slowly started to build up my supply. It was also suggested that I spend a couple of nights in a room with him on the ward to try and establish breastfeeding as that was my preferred feeding method. Despite being premature, he was able to latch on with the aid of nipple shields. However, being on the ward with constant checks and barely any food really affected both my mood and supply. I remember crying in front of one of the nurses when I wasn’t able to express as much milk. On top of this, they were worried about his weight, so they preferred me to express and know exactly how much he was having rather than take him directly to the breast. I couldn’t believe it, despite all of the posters promoting breastfeeding, here they were almost actively discouraging it. After two nights I went back home and just continued to express. He was slowly putting on weight and I knew that we would get him home soon enough.

On Monday 28th October, our son was finally allowed to come home! It seemed to happen really quickly. We went in to see him in the morning and we were informed that he was ready to go home. I’m not sure that I entirely believed them at first. I was almost getting used to the daily visits to hospital. Would we be okay looking after him ta home by ourselves? He was still so incredibly small. It was late evening by the time all of the paperwork had been sorted and we were able to ring the bell to leave. Of course I somehow managed to break the bell for good measure! The in-laws were at home with our daughter when we got back in the dark evening, and they were also glad to finally be able to have cuddles with him. I remember going upstairs and needing a lie down. It had been another looong day.

Once he was home, I continued to both breastfeed and express for a while before giving up with the breast pump. It was too much to carry on doing both. The health visitor seemed really pleased with his weight and all was going well. All except my poor nipples. They were really sore and on a couple of occasions he had even managed to make them bleed through the shields. Noone ever tells you about that possibility do they! I asked to be referred to the infant feeding team and at six weeks old we discovered that he had a severe tongue-tie. I was rather annoyed that his hadn’t been picked up on before. I could either have the tongue division done on the NHS but we would have to wait four to six weeks, or I could get it done within a week or two if I went private. My son couldn’t feed properly. There was no way that I was going to wait around. We got the tongue division out of the way at seven weeks and I continued to breastfeed. Then suddenly at nine weeks old I was told that he wasn’t putting on enough weight and that the health visitor was concerned about him. It’s soul destroying to think as a mother that someone is concerned that you’re not feeding your child enough. I was doing everything that I could. I was actually amazed that I could breastfeed at all considering the fact that I couldn’t with my daughter. But I had no choice other than to face up to the facts. Whether it was because of the tongue-tie and him having to learn how to use his tongue properly again or whether there was a problem with my supply (possibly also due to the tongue-tie and the fact that my body did not realise that he needed more), he wasn’t putting on enough weight and we needed to closely monitor how much he was having again. I decided that same day to stop breastfeeding and started to do combination feeding instead. We alternated between giving him expressed milk and formula. This wasn’t exactly ideal as we were having to wash and sterilise both bottles and pump parts regularly, however I felt good knowing that he was at least getting some breast milk throughout the newborn stage. At the end of three months, I decided to start reducing the number of express feeds. I also ordered myself a little charm for my charm bracelet that will contain powder made with my breast milk. A little homage and pat on the back to me.

After all of the trials and tribulations, we are now a family of four (Five in our hearts). I never imagined that it would take seven and a half years to create the family of our dreams, but my dad always told me that ‘good things come to those who wait’. I am actually excited again about what the future might hold despite there still being quite a lot of uncertainty in my life. I know that we are a strong family unit and that whatever happens in the future we will face it together. For that I am truly grateful.

Blessed be.