Amanda Magrath - 15 Jun 18
When I was pregnant with our first baby, way before I had learnt that crucial first rule of parenting (you will have absolutely NO control over anything. Ever. Again.) I had it all planned out. I was going to give birth in a pool, lights dimmed, serene music playing, my husband holding my hand and whispering loving words of encouragement before we finally welcomed our baby into the world in a state of total (exhausted) blissed out joy. He or she would be placed on my chest and we would gaze lovingly into each other’s eyes, my husband’s arms around us and we’d cry tears of joy. I’d breastfeed our seconds old little newborn for the first time and we’d soak it all up, our tiny baby, our miracle, our perfect little family of three.
At 34 weeks pregnant, my baby suddenly stopped moving. I was used to feeling him wriggle and jiggle and he was a particularly active little night kicker (Note to self: this did not bode well for the newborn days) but one evening I felt a strange, empty quiet. Nothing. I knew something wasn’t right and we went into hospital to have things checked out. We were relieved to hear a heartbeat but as a precaution, the doctors decided to keep me in overnight for observation. I told my husband to go home to get some rest and I’d see him at home the next day.
At 4am my waters broke, six weeks early, for seemingly no reason. I was alone and frightened. My baby was coming early and there was nothing I could do about it. I was wheeled into the labour ward and into a world of bright lights, beeping machines, drip lines, wires poking out from all sides and doctors and midwives rushing in and out in a state of ordered urgency. I was told this baby needed to come out NOW. My waters had broken six weeks too soon and my baby was now at serious risk of infection or worse. I was told I needed an induction and if that didn’t work quickly, then a C section would be on the cards.
My husband was there in minutes (I think the Uber driver may have contravened several traffic regulations in the process) and together, we contemplated this somewhat unexpected state of affairs. It was at this point and to this day that I thank my lucky stars we had practiced hypnobirthing during our pregnancy. Once I had recovered from the initial shock, I was able to breathe, recentre myself and accept this new turn of events. Our baby was coming far too soon, we didn’t know what complications he or she would suffer, I wasn’t bathed in a sea of calm, quiet and dim lights but, despite all this, it was all going to be okay. We would be okay. I trusted my body to do what it instinctively knew how to do. I felt a strange sense of calm amidst the panic, a true acceptance and despite the fact I’d rather our son hadn’t been in such a rush to get cracking, an incredible excitement that I was going to meet my baby soon!
Against my wishes, the anaesthetist was sent in to tell me that as I would be having an induction (was I? I wasn’t aware I’d agreed to this!) the pain would most certainly be unmanageable and I would need an epidural. Would I like that now or when the pain got too much to bear? I could feel my panic systems start to switch on – Fear! Unbearable pain! Too much for me to cope with! and my heart began to race. Whilst I was drawing on every mental strength I had to bring myself back to a place of calm, my amazing husband asked to speak with the medical team outside the room. I later learnt he had told them that if at any time the baby was in distress, naturally we would entrust the medical staff to do what they felt best, but we had chosen to take charge of our birthing experience and at no point was I to be spoken to in terms that might be frightening, disempowering or lead me to believe I wouldn’t be able to cope.
He protected me, he protected my safe space to labour in both physically and mentally and in doing so he enabled me to give birth exactly the way I had wanted; calmly, naturally and with a sense of being held and believed in. It didn’t matter that my serene birthing pool dream had gone out of the window because fundamentally, he had enabled me to stay empowered and feel completely safe and that meant more to me than anything else.
Once I was allowed to get on with it without fear of imminent intervention, my labour progressed quickly. One minute I was walking around the hospital car park trying to kick start things, the next I was lying on the bed insisting I could feel the baby’s head whilst the midwife smiled and said that was practically impossible as I’d only been 1cm dilated less than an hour ago. (Trust me, I CAN FEEL THE BABY’S HEAD!!!). A quick internal exam confirmed that yes, our progeny was about to make his or her stage debut and suddenly DEFCON 1 was activated. Two consultant obstetricians, three midwives and an entire team of neonatal specialists (I’d lost count at this point) came flying in complete with a crash trolley and an incubator that looked like something out of Starwars. I think there may have also been a gaggle of medical students thrown in for good measure (hey, come and join the party guys!)
Within minutes, kneeling over the bed I had birthed our baby and my relief was immeasurable when I heard a cry as he entered the world. I turned to look but they had already cut the cord and rushed our newborn son across the room to the crash trolley. I hung my head over the bed in a state of utter exhaustion and unbeknown to me at this point, my husband watched as the neonatal team fought to resuscitate him. He had cried once as he came out but then, like a lot of premature babies, he stopped breathing as his lungs were not yet fully developed. I can’t imagine how frightening this was for my husband to watch and I am thankful that, somehow, I had been protected from witnessing it.
I turned slowly to lie on my back on the bed in a state of surreal disbelief; this was the moment my newborn baby should have been placed on my chest, skin to skin, smelling and feeling his mother, being enveloped in her warmth and love, feeling the first pangs of hunger and revelling in the comforting bliss of her breast, safe, warm and home. Instead he lay helpless on a crash trolley with bright lights in his eyes, surrounded by a sea of unfamiliar faces and frightening noises.
Those wonderful doctors saved our little boy’s life. They placed him, swaddled in a blanket on my chest for about six precious seconds, six seconds that I will cherish for the rest of my life as I remember the overwhelming heart-stopping love I felt as I gazed upon this precious face and drunk in the first sight of my baby. And then he was gone, whisked off at full speed to the NICU. As was my husband (we had agreed he would follow that baby wherever he went and not let him out of his sight), the midwife and all the doctors. Minutes after giving birth, I lay alone in a side room on the labour ward, silent and shocked. I spent the next 45 minutes alone, breathing in the silence and hating it.
I was a mother. My baby was alive and for that blessing I will always, always give infinite thanks. But he wasn’t here. He wasn’t here with me where he should be. He wasn’t wrapped up in my arms. He was somewhere else in that vast hospital, in an incubator, alone, wired up to machines, being helped to breathe by a machine as his little lungs couldn’t do it on their own.
I now realise that in those minutes after giving birth I shut down. It was too much. My husband came back, excitedly hurrying me along to get up and come to the NICU to meet our baby properly. But I just wanted to have a shower. I got annoyed with him for rushing me; couldn’t he see I needed to shower and chill out for a bit?? I needed something to eat. We’d go and see him soon for sure, but not right now, not this minute. It could wait. He could wait. It makes me cry now to think of that new mother who was so overwhelmed she didn’t know how to cope and just had to remove herself from the situation.
When I did later venture into the NICU, I looked through the incubator at our little boy lying there so weak and helpless, unable to hold or even touch him yet every cell in my body yearning to, my heart melted and the tears came. He needed me. He needed us. We would do everything in our power to help this little boy grow in strength and get him home to us as soon as we could.
Our journey was not the journey I had expected but it is our journey and because of that, I love it and all it has taught me. Our little boy is now a strapping, lively two and a half year old and every day I give thanks that he is here, he is safe and he is loved. And, like the day he was born, he still likes to do things at double speed and I can’t imagine it any other way.
Did you enjoy this post? If so please support the writer: like, share and comment!
Why not , too? You can share posts & events immediately. It's free!
Mama to one amazing little boy. Wife to one equally amazing husband. Living in north London, writing about postnatal anxiety and depression and the challenges of new motherhood. Moonlighting as a veterinary surgeon with a side interest in photography and yoga
LIST 
