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On pregnancy and…caesarean sections

1
The Story of a C-section

So, there I was, twenty hours into labour and being told the baby was breech. My first thought was “bloody hell”, my second thought was “my sodding midwife”, and my third thought was “thank Christ for that, my vagina is saved”, in that order. This meant that I promptly burst into tears and then recovered myself in very quick succession. I was told that there was no chance of manually turning the baby as my waters had broken (wouldn’t have done that anyway, sounds awful) and my options were to have a C-section or

SelfishMother.com
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attempt delivery. I think I’d opted for a section before the doctor had even finished her sentence.

After that everything sped up. I was taken to a room on a different floor, where an earnest anaesthetist explained the risks of the operation and the anaesthetic. I tried manfully (womanfully?) to listen politely, but by this point my contractions were coming every two minutes and it felt like my womb/pelvic floor was transforming into some kind of Iron Maiden. Periodically I had to walk away from the conversation and pace around with my face all

SelfishMother.com
3
scrunched up, before coming back to do some more Intent Listening. I think I signed a form, and then I was asked when I last ate. The advice before a planned section is to eat and drink nothing – i.e. precisely the OPPOSITE of what you do to prepare for a natural delivery. So I had to tell them I had eaten an entire take away pizza and drank two litres of Highland Spring almost directly before coming to hospital (shout out to V.I.Pizza in Brighton, it was very delicious). Then I had a minor freak out because, as well as eating and drinking too much
SelfishMother.com
4
(the consequences of which were never explained or, indeed, apparent) I also had to take out all my body jewellery. My belly bar had not suffered from being attached to a pregnant tummy, but I suffered when my nervous clammy hands couldn’t get the bugger out. In the end I had to get C to do it, which he did with his usual brilliant efficiency. Though obviously he wasn’t 21 hours into labour at the time. Just a side note.

I gowned myself in a toilet, with C’s help, and came shuffling out with my bottom out, as you always do in hospitals. I was

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5
worried I would continue to have my waters break all over the floor as we walked to surgery, but I was reassured by a lovely nurse who was busy telling me exactly what the anaesthetist already had about the operation and the risks. We got to the theatre which was full of smiling, efficient, and generally bloody brilliant NHS people bustling about looking reliable. I sat on the bed and was prepped for the local anaesthetic, which you have injected into your back in a regular size needle. This paves the way for the bigger needle which goes into some
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pocket near your spine somewhere and deadens you from the boobs down. This was a real low point – I was sitting on the bed with no pants on, having a contraction, trying to lean forward enough that my lower back would curve a bit and give the anaesthetist a nice prominent bit to inject. And I Could. Not. Do. It. I have known from yoga lessons of yore that I make a better table than a cat, and I couldn’t get the requisite part of my back to curve at all. Eventually he just ploughed on, and I squeezed C’s hand obscenely hard as the local anaesthetic
SelfishMother.com
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went in. It felt like a fizzy metallic bee sting and it was really horrible, especially when it didn’t work and then I could feel the big fat needle doing its business, before being given the local again. However, I know anaesthesia is a miracle of the modern world, and I would of course deal with a million bee stings / needles if it meant getting the baby out safely (and protecting my vagina, of course).

After that I was tipped over into a lying position and the bed was tilted (you can’t lie on your back when heavily pregnant). It was a very

SelfishMother.com
8
strange and destabilising feeling – or lack of feeling, in the case of my legs. The nice anaesthetist gave me a cannula and squirted my sides with cold air to ascertain that the all sensation was gone. He told me the surgeon was pinching my tummy hard with some big metal pincers and asked if I could feel it. I said no, and remarked on how lucky we were not to be in medieval times with no access to great medicine (I think the drugs sent me a bit funny). He remarked that what was going on behind the curtain looked pretty medieval to him, which I thought
SelfishMother.com
9
was very witty. It turns out that in an operation the anaesthetist is your best friend because they stay by your head the whole time, monitoring you, while everyone else is behind the curtain. This means that a nice reassuring and friendly one, such as this guy, is a real blessing.

Brilliantly, it was now so close to midnight that we were asked what birthday we’d like our daughter to have. Within five minutes she was out, with a minute to spare, and I could hear her cry for the first time. The surgeon asked if I was OK at that point, because I was

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10
doing some very strange breathing, but I told her I was just very emotional. Immediately after that M was being held above the curtain, Simba-style, for inspection. All I really saw was a giant wailing mouth and scrunched up little eyes in a very red face, but nevertheless it was the coolest thing I have ever witnessed. She was taken off for her Vitamin K, and from across the room one of the nurses cheerfully announced that she had done a wee and a poo (the baby, not the nurse). C went to cut the cord with what he described as ‘children’s safety
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scissors’ – apparently it requires more of a sawing action than you might expect – and then the baby was wrapped in a towel and bought over to me. I had my hands on my chest, with a cannula on the back of one, and I didn’t feel able to take her. Instead I stroked the top of her head and looked at her, and at C, in wonderment. Apparently, it took 40 minutes to stitch me up, but it felt like no time at all.
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- 7 Apr 17

The Story of a C-section

So, there I was, twenty hours into labour and being told the baby was breech. My first thought was “bloody hell”, my second thought was “my sodding midwife”, and my third thought was “thank Christ for that, my vagina is saved”, in that order. This meant that I promptly burst into tears and then recovered myself in very quick succession. I was told that there was no chance of manually turning the baby as my waters had broken (wouldn’t have done that anyway, sounds awful) and my options were to have a C-section or attempt delivery. I think I’d opted for a section before the doctor had even finished her sentence.

After that everything sped up. I was taken to a room on a different floor, where an earnest anaesthetist explained the risks of the operation and the anaesthetic. I tried manfully (womanfully?) to listen politely, but by this point my contractions were coming every two minutes and it felt like my womb/pelvic floor was transforming into some kind of Iron Maiden. Periodically I had to walk away from the conversation and pace around with my face all scrunched up, before coming back to do some more Intent Listening. I think I signed a form, and then I was asked when I last ate. The advice before a planned section is to eat and drink nothing – i.e. precisely the OPPOSITE of what you do to prepare for a natural delivery. So I had to tell them I had eaten an entire take away pizza and drank two litres of Highland Spring almost directly before coming to hospital (shout out to V.I.Pizza in Brighton, it was very delicious). Then I had a minor freak out because, as well as eating and drinking too much (the consequences of which were never explained or, indeed, apparent) I also had to take out all my body jewellery. My belly bar had not suffered from being attached to a pregnant tummy, but I suffered when my nervous clammy hands couldn’t get the bugger out. In the end I had to get C to do it, which he did with his usual brilliant efficiency. Though obviously he wasn’t 21 hours into labour at the time. Just a side note.

I gowned myself in a toilet, with C’s help, and came shuffling out with my bottom out, as you always do in hospitals. I was worried I would continue to have my waters break all over the floor as we walked to surgery, but I was reassured by a lovely nurse who was busy telling me exactly what the anaesthetist already had about the operation and the risks. We got to the theatre which was full of smiling, efficient, and generally bloody brilliant NHS people bustling about looking reliable. I sat on the bed and was prepped for the local anaesthetic, which you have injected into your back in a regular size needle. This paves the way for the bigger needle which goes into some pocket near your spine somewhere and deadens you from the boobs down. This was a real low point – I was sitting on the bed with no pants on, having a contraction, trying to lean forward enough that my lower back would curve a bit and give the anaesthetist a nice prominent bit to inject. And I Could. Not. Do. It. I have known from yoga lessons of yore that I make a better table than a cat, and I couldn’t get the requisite part of my back to curve at all. Eventually he just ploughed on, and I squeezed C’s hand obscenely hard as the local anaesthetic went in. It felt like a fizzy metallic bee sting and it was really horrible, especially when it didn’t work and then I could feel the big fat needle doing its business, before being given the local again. However, I know anaesthesia is a miracle of the modern world, and I would of course deal with a million bee stings / needles if it meant getting the baby out safely (and protecting my vagina, of course).

After that I was tipped over into a lying position and the bed was tilted (you can’t lie on your back when heavily pregnant). It was a very strange and destabilising feeling – or lack of feeling, in the case of my legs. The nice anaesthetist gave me a cannula and squirted my sides with cold air to ascertain that the all sensation was gone. He told me the surgeon was pinching my tummy hard with some big metal pincers and asked if I could feel it. I said no, and remarked on how lucky we were not to be in medieval times with no access to great medicine (I think the drugs sent me a bit funny). He remarked that what was going on behind the curtain looked pretty medieval to him, which I thought was very witty. It turns out that in an operation the anaesthetist is your best friend because they stay by your head the whole time, monitoring you, while everyone else is behind the curtain. This means that a nice reassuring and friendly one, such as this guy, is a real blessing.

Brilliantly, it was now so close to midnight that we were asked what birthday we’d like our daughter to have. Within five minutes she was out, with a minute to spare, and I could hear her cry for the first time. The surgeon asked if I was OK at that point, because I was doing some very strange breathing, but I told her I was just very emotional. Immediately after that M was being held above the curtain, Simba-style, for inspection. All I really saw was a giant wailing mouth and scrunched up little eyes in a very red face, but nevertheless it was the coolest thing I have ever witnessed. She was taken off for her Vitamin K, and from across the room one of the nurses cheerfully announced that she had done a wee and a poo (the baby, not the nurse). C went to cut the cord with what he described as ‘children’s safety scissors’ – apparently it requires more of a sawing action than you might expect – and then the baby was wrapped in a towel and bought over to me. I had my hands on my chest, with a cannula on the back of one, and I didn’t feel able to take her. Instead I stroked the top of her head and looked at her, and at C, in wonderment. Apparently, it took 40 minutes to stitch me up, but it felt like no time at all.

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