What to Expect Part 1

Dear Alexis,

Towards the end of pregnancy with your baby brother, I was required to have weekly check-ups. Every check-up would take an hour or more as I was strapped to a CTG monitor. Being there so long and so often meant that I was able to build friendships with some of the midwives. During one particular check-up, I was talking to the most beautiful midwife. Her name was Angela. We were talking about your birth and she asked if I would like to go over the birth notes. Of course, I agreed.

It was such a special moment as she read out what had happened during your birth. I wish I could get my hands on them to keep them forever. As she read, I cried. I cried for many reasons; I felt sad for you, coming into the world with past me as your mother. I cried because of what I knew would take place over the few years since that day. I cried because of how fragile I was. Most of my tears, though, were for you. Reflecting on your birth enabled me to reflect on your life and I cried because I had no idea how much joy you would bring me every day. I had no idea how much I would love you; how much you would expand my heart and capacity to love. I cried because God gave you to me. Perfectly. He knew that you and I would be a perfect, albeit riddled with flaws, duo. I cried because you were the greatest gift that I ever received.

The mid-wife went on to the next file. I don’t remember what the day was, but the year was 2015. I asked her not to open it. Your brother or sister is recorded in that file. The ending of their short existence is written down there. And I couldn’t, can’t, bear to think about it.

As she spoke and read out the details of your birth, I couldn’t help but realise that, when I was pregnant with you, I really had no idea what to expect from labour or your birth. All I wanted at the end of my labour was a mum and a baby who were both healthy and okay.
And I got it.

I know I’ve spoken about it so many times before, but I need to write about it here too.
I sat on the toilet and I could hear Jurassic Park playing in the background. The timer was on the screen of my phone and I was doubled over, counting to 60 and waiting for each contraction to pass.

The only expectation I had of labour was that it would hurt. I went to the classes, and read about it and talked about it but, upon reflection, there was nothing that could prepare me for your birth. It was a good labour, a beautiful labour. You came early and naturally, though a ventouse had been attached to your head to help you enter the world. You wanted out and I wanted you out. 9 days before your due date, you entered the world as a 7 pound and 8 ounce dark-haired baby girl.

With your brother though, I had all the expectations.
In the lead up to his birth, I had been told so many times that because it would be my second labour, it would be faster and easier. I was told that it should take half the amount of time. Therefore, as your birth was 12 hours, he should be out in 6… if not less.

Bullshit. It was all bullshit.
I should have known there was a chance that labour and birth wouldn’t have been as easy the second time around.

My pregnancy with you was a breeze; with your brother there was a lot more pain. Was it better or worse? No. It was just different.
I went into spontaneous labour with you; because of the pain, decreased movements and the worry about your brother’s size, I was induced with him.
I had no idea what to expect with being induced. No matter what they said or how many times we went over it, I still found it overwhelming. And what they told me about being induced, was not what happened.

My expectation of your brother’s birth looked a little like this… I expected to be induced, to sleep over night, for them to put in a drip or balloon to start contractions. Music would be playing in the background and, all going according to plan, I would be in a bath, or at the very least in the shower. Alex would be there, the lights would be dimmed and my strength, my mind, and my body would take control as I rode the waves of contractions. It would be a relaxed and calm environment, full of soft and soothing voices. I would use gas if I needed it but I didn’t want any other pain relief. I expected your baby brother to be out in a few hours. It would be full of beautiful emotions as your baby brother cried for the first time, lying on my chest. What beautiful expectations I had.

Instead, I started cramping as soon as they inserted the hormone gel. It was a surprise as I had expected a full night’s rest and a drip to be placed in my arm the next morning to kickstart the contractions. However, within a few hours, I was in labour, meaning they would remove the strip well before the next morning. By the time 10pm rolled around, they had removed it. By 11pm, I was throwing up because of the pain. 11.15pm rolled around and I was calling Alex to get back to the hospital. I expected Alex to be back at the hospital in 15 minutes. I didn’t expect him to lose the car keys (they were behind the bathroom door), delaying him by about 30 minutes.

Contraction timer

You know, I think when we expect too much of ourselves, others and the situation at hand, we have the potential to set ourselves and those around us up for failure and disappointment.

Looking back, I don’t know how I made it through your brother’s birth. I didn’t expect for my contractions to ramp up so damn quickly or for Alex to be delayed. I didn’t expect that the second I saw him I would say, “I can’t do this! I need an epidural!”

Being induced meant that I went from not being in labour to being in active labour in a short space of time. I didn’t expect that an epidural would take 3 fucking hours to be administered. I thought it would happen quickly, that within 30 minutes I would no longer be in pain. I couldn’t understand why they weren’t as stressed about my pain as I was!
I didn’t expect that I would have to lay dead still as they poked needles into my back, even during contractions.

I was exhausted, falling asleep in between contractions, unable to keep my eyes open. I couldn’t hold the gas mouth piece in my mouth because of the pain. It was too much.
I didn’t expect to sound like a dying animal as I moaned through contractions. It was like an out of body experience; I was in so much pain that I was thinking to myself, “what is that disgusting noise I’m making?”

I didn’t expect that at 5am they would say I was fully dilated but still not allowed to push. It turns out that being 10cm dilated isn’t enough, babies need to move into a certain position too. When I felt the urge to push, I was told that it wasn’t time yet, that he wasn’t ready, that I had to wait until 7.15am. I didn’t know that could happen.

When I finally started pushing, I did not expect to be pushing for an hour and a half. Nor did I expect to shit myself with every push. I didn’t expect that after the midwife changed over to a new midwife, she would explain to me that to get Solomon out I would need assistance.
I so badly wanted him out and I wanted to be able to do it with my own strength, but there came a point when they told me to push that I just didn’t have the physical strength to do so. I was exhausted.

I didn’t expect to feel like I had failed, but I did.

I’m a big believer that no matter how a bubba comes into the world, birth is amazing and the mother is a badass. But I did not feel that way in this moment. It was too much.
The epidural had started to wear off and the contractions, which I hadn’t been feeling before, were coming on in full force. The pain caused me to throw up violently. The force of it causing your brother to poo inside me. I knew this wasn’t meant to happen; that it wasn’t a good sign. And then they told me that his heart rate wasn’t rising as quickly as it should after every contraction.

Two things happened. Firstly, I prayed silently, over and over.
And secondly, probably to the annoyance of everyone, I constantly asked if he was okay.

I so badly wanted to get him out on my own, but I just couldn’t anymore. My mind and body had failed your brother and myself. Before I knew it, Alex was in scrubs, my piercings were covered with tape and an orderly named Petey was wheeling me to a theatre. They dosed me up through the epidural again and got me through the door into the actual theatre. They moved me from one bed to another.

I pleaded with God; please let him be okay, please let him come out, please let this be over with soon.

The dimmed room with soft music that I had imagined had turned into a room of bright lights, where doctors and midwives talked about the best course of action. I did not expect my body to be completely numb, my legs in stirrups. I did not expect my vagina to be on display for everyone in there.

I did not expect them to use the ventouse, sticking a vacuum to your brother’s head like they had done with you seven years prior. The doctor pulled him out of me with great strain on their face (Alex’s recount, not mine - my eyes were closed as I pushed). I did not imagine that the cord would be wrapped behind his little shoulder and head, holding him in place as I strained for what seemed like hours to get him out. I did not expect them to cut the cord so quickly, not allowing the final blood from the placenta to flow into him.
I did not imagine that your brother would only be placed on my chest for a minute before they took him over to the doctor to make sure he was okay. I did not imagine him not crying, instead only making a tiny noise, and me responding with “On One Born Every Minute, if they don’t cry it means something is wrong.”

None of that was in my plan. But it’s okay that nothing went to plan.
When they finally placed that little life on my chest, I didn’t care what had happened. I forgot about feeling like a failure, I forgot about the pain. All of my expectations fell to the floor. They didn’t matter at all. All that mattered was that moment. I thought about him and I thought about you; I thought about how I must be the most blessed mamma in the whole world.

Now I realise that maybe we shouldn’t expect too much. Not to make it less disappointing when things don’t work out the way we thought they would, but so that when things do work out in the end, we appreciate them for what they are, without taking any of the beauty away from it. There are so many roads you can take to get to a destination. Each one will have different challenges, different views, different twists and turns, but you will still get there in the end.

I think I’m learning to expect less, so that I appreciate more.
Expecting less meant that the hemoriods the size of planets coming out of my arse didn’t make having a new born any less beautiful.
It meant that bleeding and cracked nipples which caused toe curling pain didn’t make breastfeeding any less enjoyable.
Expecting less meant the six weeks of bleeding and getting my period a week later didn’t bother me too much.
The three rounds of mastitis, the antibiotics leading to Solomon having stomach pains and the tears from me which have woken you up have not detracted from what an amazing journey this is.

Baby, keep this in mind, just because your expectations may fail you, it doesn’t mean that life has failed you, nor have you failed life.

A different outcome isn’t the wrong outcome.