I was fascinated reading others’ birth stories when I was pregnant with Oscar. I had decided that the more I knew; the more possible eventualities I was aware of, the better — plus it was something that filled me with awe, an event that many consider to be the greatest hardship in their lives yet at the same time the most magical, joy-filled occasion they’d ever experienced. I knew I wanted to document our birth story, if only for myself, but somehow it wasn’t until the run up to Oscar’s first birthday when all the memories, feelings and emotions of the day started flooding back that pen eventually came to paper. For a long while, that story was going to be just for me, to help me remember in years to come, but I decided I wanted to pluck up the courage to share it with you: this feels very raw and vulnerable for me, and I’ve shared some less-than-attractive photos (who looks good right after giving birth?!), but it’s real, and I hope you enjoy reading it.

Oscar was born twelve whole days past his due date. For some reason, I had not expected this — I had a ‘gut feeling’ that I wouldn’t make it to forty weeks, so that wait felt like an absolute eternity. Thankfully, other than some obligatory lower back pain and indigestion I had a relatively easy pregnancy and loved having a huge bump, so I spent the last few weeks walking (waddling) around York, knitting, cleaning the house obsessively, taking long, relaxing baths; punctuated by the occasional (daily) brief ‘blip’ when I’d feel incredibly inpatient to meet my tiny man and I’d become a tearful hormonal mess. Forty-one weeks came and went, there were three uncomfortable and ineffective membrane sweeps, until we were at 40+11: the last day that the hospital were happy to leave things up to nature. I had done a lot of research into induction of labour and knew that I wanted to avoid it at all costs, and felt a little more frustrated and panicked with each day that brought us closer to it. I even felt annoyed with my own body for not going into labour (which is a little crazy, as I knew that normal full-term is anywhere between 37 and 42 weeks). That evening as I took a relaxing, hot bath, Ben came to me and read a letter he had written to our unborn little boy; about how he couldn’t wait to meet him, his wishes for him for the future — it filled me with so much happiness and a sense of calmness, and all at once I simply felt ready for whatever was ahead. We discussed our options again and decided that I would go for the induction that had been booked the following morning; I finally felt both resigned to this as the outcome of the pregnancy, but also completely at peace with our decision, and went to bed feeling calm and relaxed, dreaming of meeting our baby soon; and for the first time in two or three weeks without the nervous mix of anxiety and excitement of hoping that tonight would be the night.

I awoke a few hours later, at 3am, with a tightening feeling across my tummy. It wasn’t painful, and this had happened most nights for the past 3 weeks, so I thought nothing of it. As I lay in bed trying to get back to sleep I soon felt a second, then a third. I realised that they were different from my pre-labour tightenings; they were very low down and began to feel like a dull ache. After weeks of false alarms I knew this was the real thing, and part of me wanted to whoop with joy and excitement; but strangely, I felt an overwhelming sense of focus and direction which took over at that moment, and remained with me right up until the end, that somehow kept me (uncharacteristically) calm and composed. I would follow my instincts, I knew what to do. I murmured to Ben that I was having tightenings, and was going downstairs, not wanting to disturb him at such an early stage.

I sleepily set myself up with my hypobirthing tracks (I had been listening to the labour preparation tracks in the weeks before the birth) and leaned over my birthing ball, rolling my hips from side to side with each surge. I began to time these; they were only every 10 minutes but lasting a good 90 seconds. I lost track of time, and drifted off to sleep in between surges, but at some point Ben came downstairs and slept on the sofa next to me, to be with me. At around 5 or 6am, I filled the bath and continued with the labour tracks on loop. They were incredibly soothing, kept my mind occupied and in a trance-like state and reminded me to breathe deeply and slowly through each surge. In no time, Ben came through and told me it was 8am, and rang the labour ward to cancel our induction admission as I was in labour. Their response was: “Ok, well as it’s her first time things will probably fizzle out, and you might need help, so we’ll keep a bed available for you”. We looked at each other, and unphased, I popped my headphones back in and continued with my routine.

By around 9am my tightenings were every 5 minutes, but it was only at this point that they started to become really painful. I was out of the bath, had had some breakfast, and was pottering about the kitchen but was finding I’d have to lean on something for support and concentrate on my breathing hard with each surge, however in between I’d have complete relief of the discomfort and could go about busying myself. I checked my hospital bag and tidied up, finding something to grab onto each time a strong surge came; Ben even took some last bump photos in between! Until this point everything was going far better than I could have ever hoped, I felt entirely in control, calm and with just a little bit of nervous excitement.

By 11am, my contractions were every 3 minutes and I was no longer getting any relief from the pain in between; things had fairly rapidly gone from entirely manageable to less so. I asked Ben to call the hospital, feeling a release of adrenalin in response to the surprise of how unbearable the pain was at the height of each surge. One very quick but unpleasant car journey later we were at labour triage, so that they could “see if I was in labour”. The next hour or so was possibly the worst part for me: the pain was accelerating in intensity at an alarming rate, I was moving my hips from side to side with each surge desperately trying to find relief, but failing to, and I found myself crying out loud for the first time.  We were first left alone in a room for what seemed like an eternity, and then a midwife entered and slowly leafed through my notes, commenting, surprised, that this was the first time I’d contacted them – with more than a hint of doubt in her expression that I was really in active labour. Finally I was examined, something I was prepared would happen but nevertheless resented, as I knew the only function of this was to prove to her that I was worthy of the labour ward at this point in time. I do wish I had had the confidence, in retrospect, to decline this painful examination that offered no real benefit to me or my baby.

I had chosen to use the birthing pool, and while it was being run I was finally offered some gas and air. I breathed this in deeply, and initially it truly dulled the intensity of the pain, and it was wonderful! My midwife walked in and introduced herself, and, inexplicably, I responded with “I’m off my face”, then immediately felt embarrassed at my utterance and the initial effects of the gas on me (in my defence, I really did feel as though my face had left my head). Left alone with Ben again, I clutched his hand and told him for the first time that day, “I can’t do this, it’s too painful – I need an epidural”. On cue, I was told that the pool was ready. By this time it was 1pm.

The warmth of the water and the feeling of weightlessness was blissful, and I quickly relaxed into it. Our midwife dimmed the lights in the room low, and left Ben and I alone. Contractions came in thick and fast, and the pain at the peak of each was excruciating and all consuming. I sucked hard on the gas, which no longer gave me any relief, but did serve to keep my breathing long and slow through each surge. I entered a trance-like state again and was aware of very little, except Ben’s presence next to me the whole time, offering sips of cold water. Although this was the most painful stage so far, strangely I enjoyed the experience. I felt in control, focused, empowered. I knew that I was progressing well, I felt proud with myself for coping with the pain, and this encouraged me.

As I entered transition I began to struggle; the intensity of the pain felt too much to bear at the peak of each surge, and I said to Ben for the second time, “I’m serious this time – I need an epidural”. He looked at me and said, “I know you can do this, but if you want an epidural, of course you can have one. Do you want to me get the midwife?” Again right on cue, she knocked on the door and came through to ask if there was anything I needed. I looked back at Ben for a few moments, and then shook my head.

Soon afterwards, the pains began to feel slightly different; less intense, and although I didn’t feel a very strong urge to push I heard myself letting out a low pitched, guttural sound with each out breath. I instinctively knew what this meant, and I could feel the top of Oscar’s head, which was sitting very low. It was now around 3pm, and only 2 hours after being admitted to the labour ward (when I was told I was 4cm dilated) I was fully dilated, and it looked like we would meet our boy very soon.

It was at this stage that things began to unravel slightly. Oscar’s heart rate was dipping with each contraction, and after a period of continuous monitoring in the water I was told it was best that I got out of the pool, and reluctantly did so. A quick examination to reassure the midwife that I was indeed fully dilated resulted in my waters being broken, inadvertently. Out of the water I felt heavy, and the cold air brought me back to reality and out of the trance-like state, and I felt both uncomfortable and irritable, as if someone had woken me from a deep sleep too early.

It was time to start pushing, and strangely the only position that Oscar’s heart rate remained stable was with me on my back, partly upright. The pushing went on and on, and it felt as though nothing was happening, which was incredibly disheartening. I was told by the midwives (her senior was in the room as well now) to put my chin down on my chest, hold my breath and push; I did so, and it didn’t feel right, nothing was moving, and there was new pain in my back which, although not severe, felt very unpleasant. I think, in retrospect, this sensation was putting me off pushing too hard — the only way I can think to describe it was a feeling as though my bum was going to explode! Two hours passed. I was completely exhausted at this point, and began to truly doubt myself for the first time in the labour. I simply felt that I couldn’t get him out.

A doctor was brought in, who suggested that as I was at the limit of time recommended for pushing, but as Oscar’s head was very low and visible (as it had been for the past 2 hours!), she would help deliver him with a suction cup. I was exhausted, frustrated, in pain, desperate to meet my baby — and what I said next took everyone in the room, including myself, by surprise. I looked at the doctor and asked, “Is there a greater risk of me tearing if you use the Ventouse?” She answered, directly, “Yes, there is”. “Ok, I’ll have another half an hour to try to do this myself”. She nodded and left the room. With new found motivation, I listened to my body and found myself pushing differently, now arching my back with each push, and as I did I felt Oscar’s head move down, and heard cheers of encouragement through the room. I felt searing pain as he crowned, and with a few more gentle pushes his head was out, and I felt an overwhelming sense of relief, both from the pain and that I had managed to birth him alone, without needing the Ventouse after all.

But the drama wasn’t all over yet. I remember the moment of restitution vividly (when Oscar’s head turned through 90 degrees); it was such a strange sensation. Ben told me that the senior midwife murmured to her team “It doesn’t look like there’s a lot of room here, we might need the manoeuvre“, although I wasn’t aware of this at the time. When another contraction finally came, I was encouraged to push as hard as I could and I did so as the midwife applied gentle traction to his head: Oscar didn’t budge. His head was delivered, but his shoulder was stuck. Without a second’s hesitation the emergency buzzer was pressed for assistance, the bed was flat, I was being bent in half with my legs pressed against me, and without needing to be told again I pushed with all my might. Oscar’s shoulder was delivered, followed by the rest of his body, and was placed straight onto my chest, into my arms.

There were exclamations through the room remarking what a big boy he was, nods from the doctors to myself and their team as they left, their assistance thankfully not required, and words of congratulations from the midwives. These bits of memory have been built in my mind from Ben’s recounts, as I was in a bubble of relief, shock, and pure love for this purple, puffy, warm, dark haired creature lying on me, and I couldn’t have been happier.

In all honesty, I can’t say that I did experience the profound heart-flip, love at first sight emotions that I had been led to believe that I would when I first held Oscar, especially now that I can see retrospectively how my attachment has grown with each day that we’ve spent together; how now each time Oscar smiles at me and reaches his arms up for ‘mama’ my heart feels as through it might explode with pride and love. What I did feel, however, was an overwhelming sense of protectiveness, and once that baby touched my skin I didn’t want to let him go, ever. I declined passing him over to get dressed and weighed, and instead kept him on my chest as I had my stitches done. Oscar crawled his way over to find a breast and began nursing, just twenty minutes after he had entered the world.

The next moment of surprise came when Oscar was eventually weighed — 9lb 2oz, or 4.1kg! Suddenly it was clear why I had found it so difficult, and taken over three hours to push this baby out of my 5′ 4” frame.

I feel incredibly fortunate to have had such a smooth and straightforward labour, in which I felt largely calm and in control, and managed with only gas and air for pain relief; however I didn’t feel like this immediately following the birth. For a few weeks, I was in shock that I had grown such a big baby for my small frame, and felt more than a little traumatised at the three, long, hard hours of solid pushing, and the shoulder dystocia that was thankfully mild and resolved very quickly, but could potentially have been worse. I worried about what would happen the next time — what if I have an even bigger baby? I spoke to a consultant a week after Oscar’s birth who very confidently reassured me, “If you’ve managed a normal delivery the first time, you can do it again.” What people say about forgetting the pain of labour has been completely true for me, and now I look back on it as one of my proudest achievements.

Thank you for reading this, and if you’ve shared your birth story, let me know where I can read it!

Hannah xxx