Labour…the second time around

My darling Miss J,

Let me tell you a story about the time I saw stars. It’s a story about excitement and fear. It’s a story about the day you were born.  It’s a story about love.

On this day, three short years ago, I met you – my beautiful second daughter.

Happy Birthday Miss J, aka “Curly Tops” and “Sparky.”

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“Don’t go in yet,” my sister says as I come up for air after a strong contraction. “Just wait a bit longer. It will be hours before anything happens. Let me make you lunch. You will need energy.”

And so I do as I am told. After all, she has been through this 4 times and I am desperate to avoid a 35 hours stint in the labour ward like I did for your sister.

In between contractions I eat a sandwich fuelling my body for the physical endurance that lies ahead.  I have been through this before, but your birth is spontaneous.

“I also brought you some chocolate cake,” she says. “The sugar will do you good.” Never one to pass up the offer of chocolate, I agree. But half way through the decadent piece of rich chocolate cake, I am hit with a contraction that announces your imminence with alarming force. It is aggressive and unapologetic.

I put my fork down.

“Now!” I say to your dad. “Seriously, now!”

And we are off to the hospital, leaving the half eaten cake to your sister who has no idea that her life is about to change forever.

“No,” I say. “Just get the anaesthetist.”

“What took you so long?” she enquires, confused that it has been two hours since my phone call.

“My sister thought I should eat lunch first,” I begin but then WHAM, another contraction puts a halt to that explanation.

My Ob arrives and pronounces my dilation at 7cm. “I don’t think it will be long now,” he says smiling.

“I want an epidural,” I say, pleading

“I don’t think you need one,” he says.

“I do, I really do.”

“There may not be enough time”

“There is,” I say. “I don’t feel like I need to push,” I add , to convince myself as much as him.

He agrees, reluctantly, and the anaesthetist arrives in minutes, at which time I really do feel like I need to push. I don’t tell him that.

He is quick to administer the anaesthetic….in between contractions that are on top of each other.

And then I am sick, really sick.

What the epidural relieves in pain it replaces with the most intense nausea and my blood pressured plummets. The chocolate cake was a bad idea. I vomit and feel like the blood is being drained from my body.

I have never felt so ill. Your dad later says I was as white as the hospital sheets.

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I am declared too sick to push. “Just lie there and don’t so much as sneeze,” orders the midwife.

My Ob returns an hour later and says I look terrible. “Can you push?”

“Yes,” I say, as I want to push you out and avoid the vacuum extraction that was used for your sister.

As the contraction builds on the monitor the midwife and OB tell me it’s time to push.

I breathe in, and…

Stars. I see stars.

It’s just like in the comic books; they are floating in my vision, confusing me….and then…..everything is dark.

“Are you still with us, Michaela?,” a voice says from very, very far away.

Silence.

“No, she’s gone!” my Ob says.

Are they talking about me? Am I dead? I wonder, momentarily.

And then I come to.

“No one has ever fainted during the pushing phase of labour before,” says the cheerful midwife.

My Ob tells me he’s going to use the ventouse to get you out.

“No,” I try to protest.

And the stars return for an encore…

Darkness engulfs me again

And then my eyes are open and you are being passed to me.

“You have another girl!”

I turn to your dad and smile.  I can’t speak. How could we be so blessed?

I look at you on my chest, and although I am shaking uncontrollably, I admire your perfection.  10 little fingers, 10 little  toes and the cry that every mother wants to hear announcing a healthy arrival into the world.

And then I cry….

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My darling Miss J, today when I look in your eyes I see stars. Not the stars that I saw at your birth, but bright, exciting, spectacular stars. I love the way your big blue eyes dance with happiness. I love the way you register emotion with your eyes first and then explode into a passionate exhibition, laughing as though you will burst. I love the way your eyes lock with mine as you find words to match the intensity of your emotion. That passion is going to guarantee you a  rich, colourful and full life. You are a dynamic, fascinating and beautiful girl and I could not love you more intensely than I do.

Happy 3^rd Birthday my very special “Curly Tops.”