The beginning

I have to begin my story by admitting that I fell pregnant with no idea whatsoever about how hard it is to manufacture a human being. If you have been lucky enough to avoid the tougher side effects of pregnancy, I suggest you feel enormous gratitude and keep it to yourself. As for the rest of us who were lumped with nonstop nausea, five months of copious vomiting and a few visits to the hospital, not to mention acne and backache, the birth couldn’t come quickly enough.

I decided very early on in the pregnancy to leave the smoggy hustle and bustle of Joburg and have my baby in Cape Town. I had to find a new gynaecologist along with a new home at a hearty seven months pregnant. I had been mostly bedridden up until then and only started “enjoying” the pregnancy when reflux and heartburn were at their most potent. My friend bought me a pair of tiny shoes to remind me constantly what I was fighting for; I simply couldn’t wait to meet the feet – especially the toes – that would one day wear them.

I knew after the first appointment with my new gynaecologist that I had “landed” in the best hands possible. I felt confident that whatever happened in the labour ward that I wanted her by my side. Since my partner was going to be commuting at irregular intervals throughout the latter part of the pregnancy, I decided to employ the services of a doula, Gayle. That was the single best decision of the entire saga, and a saga it turned out to be.

Due to the fact that I had been on antibiotics and cortisone during the pregnancy, I wanted to be as drug free as possible during the birth so as not to subject my baby to any further narcotics. What do they say about good intentions? When my waters broke at 6am in my 39th week, I was both calm and excited and my fiancé, Brett, and I slowly made our watery way to the hospital. I had discussed the birth plan with both my gynae and doula so we were all on track for a natural birth.

I waddled my way into the birthing room and immediately started drinking a food supplement shake to keep up my energy stores. I needn’t have bothered as I began throwing up every few hours and lost whatever nourishment I gained into a dustbin after just 30 minutes. I was already having fairly strong contractions and by the time Gayle arrived, which was barely an hour after I had been there, I was noted to be in proper labour with my contractions coming three minutes apart. Everyone was very impressed and claimed the possibility that the baby may even be born by early afternoon. This was confirmed by the gynae, who said I was dilating nicely – though a little slowly for the intensity of the contractions – but she was confident all was going according to plan.

The pain was intense but manageable and I found myself moaning a strange humming chant while I rolled my hips and moved around the room. Brett switched roles between a concerned observer and a go-between of information for my mother, since she was in the hospital but was not allowed in the room with us. She managed to sneak in to hold my hand for an hour or so and that will be a treasured memory for us both.

Active labour

After about seven hours of labour, the gynae came by for the “slightly uncomfortable” (holy cow is that a wrench in my #%@) second internal. Things were not going as well as we had hoped as I was only four centimetres dilated and, given the stage of labour I was in, should have been closer to seven. She recommended some form of pain relief to help me to relax my cervix. I chose an epidural as I wanted to be as conscious as I could be during the labour. I felt any other medication would adversely affect my concentration.

Understand that once you have decided to have assistance with the pain, the drugs can’t come soon enough. It felt like days before the anaesthetist arrived, though I probably waited no more than a half hour. My back was in such spasm that it took the doctor about 15 minutes and five tries to get the needle in; all the while I was being told to keep still. Yeah right!

The epidural took and the relief was instantaneous… but only on one side of my body. This is apparently not uncommon, but was completely unexpected by me. I was dentist-chair numb from the waist down on my right side and, although the pain was lessened on my left side, I could still feel every contraction. A few more hours passed in a blur and when my gynae appeared for the third time, she cheerfully announced that I was fully dilated and we could start to push in the very near future. We had all been certain that the baby would arrive mid-afternoon, but 4pm came and went without a hint of a newborn.

As 5pm neared, I began pushing. I could feel the contractions quite intensely down my left side so could push with “ease”. I made eye contact with Gayle and my gynae. I pushed for an hour. My stubborn little bambino hadn’t budged. They gave me a 20-minute rest, but were becoming more concerned with every passing minute.

I tried changing position and pushed while on all fours, making some glib comment about taking up stripping as a profession when Brett walked in to find me bottoms up. When there was still no sign of my son’s appearance, a vacuum was suggested. I pushed some more. My gynae pulled and I pushed and suddenly there was a snap. The vacuum broke inside me. I was alarmed as I watched her hands disappear inside me. “Now what?” I exclaimed.

With the confidence of Dirty Harry, she pulled out another vacuum and we began the push-pull scenario once more. Boy, did I feel lucky. The hospital midwife had her elbow wedged deep into my diaphragm and was exerting downward pressure to no avail. I could feel myself defecating and even in the exhaustion felt immense shame. I apologised profusely and the team assured me that it meant I was pushing correctly and that his head was in the right position. This didn’t make me feel any better especially as he still did not make an appearance.

I was becoming increasingly fatigued and the atmosphere in the room quickly changed from excitement to anxiousness. The team was checking the baby after every contraction and when the gynae checked the baby’s heart rate after roughly an hour and a half of pushing her face indicated that we could be in trouble. I had been in active labour for 12 and a half hours and my baby was in distress. She ordered an emergency C-section and suddenly people began moving very quickly around me.

Emergency caesarean

I was rushed through to the operating room for an emergency Caesarean and was very blessed that an anaesthetist was close at hand. The contractions were excruciating and I could feel my whole body wanting to push, which by then was futile as my baby seemed to be stuck. I had to sit completely still as a team held me up for a repeat performance of the previous needle debacle. The anaesthetist struggled to get the needle in as my panic and disappointment grew. I started to sob as each contraction wracked my body and I had to fight every natural instinct in order to remain still. After five attempts, a few bent needles and multiple expletives from me, the spinal tap was done and everyone flew into action.

Someone shoved what looked like an entire arm inside me to undo any of the pushing that had taken place and get my baby into place to remove him surgically. There was a small amount of pain as they hurriedly cut me open. Gayle had remained outside and only Brett was witnessing the operation. He looked drained and harrowed, which broke my heart. Suddenly, we were graced by the sound we had all been waiting for, a hearty wailing that brought a sigh of relief to the whole room – most of all me!

Quinley Tate Wild, a gorgeous baby boy, weighed in at just under 3,6 kilos and was as healthy as an exhausted little man could be as his cold, clammy exquisitely perfect body was placed on my chest and I held his chubby hand for the first time. He had a head circumference of 37cm, which was apparently just a tad too large for my small frame to push out.

I am both happy and frazzled by the fact that he has exercised that mighty wail day and night for three months now, though I must admit to provoking him by smooching his toes a hundred times a day. I can’t say that I wasn’t deeply disappointed with the way things turned out, nor can I say it was “worth it” in the end. The joy of my treasured baby boy is entirely separate from the horror of the birth for me. I don’t equate him with the suffering; it was just something I needed to go through in order to meet those podgy toes.

For a comment from an independent midwife on this story go to 'Dear Casey B'.