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Week by Week

Baby Reed

Sometimes I find myself standing beside her cradle, just staring. Her little arms spread like wings on her pillow, her face full of serenity - a pose befitting the angel that she is. She's two months old now. Two months. Such an insignificant piece of time in my other life. I mourn every day that passes. Every day we are both flung closer to the day when she starts to pull away from me. Every day we hurl further away from that day when she and I became two.

It was a lousy pregnancy. I was in a constant state of temper (bad). Even my midwife did not escape my wrath. Week 30 she called to tell me that I had "the iron levels of an Ethiopian". "Call me back when I have the thighs of an Ethiopian" I snarled, and hung up. Week 32 I developed Pre-Eclampsia, and my whole body developed elephantitis. My weight - 62 kilos at conception, skyrocketed to 98 kilos. My face was unrecognizable to me; my body from the stomach down but a distant memory. My rings had to be cut off. I could never make it to the phone before the answering machine got it. Woe betide me if I decided to lay on the lounge, for there I was stuck until husband came home to roll me off it like some kind of pathetic beached whale. Week 35 I was hospitalized, on and off, for the next four weeks. I begged those doctors for some help from "Peter-Pitocin", but to no avail. Baby wasn't suffering nearly as much as I, and so we struggled on to full term. I had no feelings for my baby. I just didn't want to be pregnant anymore.

Friday. Midnight. I labouriously roll out of bed, and make my way to the toilet. Yuk! What's that? Some kind of clear jelly gunk? I look up any one of my hundreds of text books. Isn't it supposed to be all bloody and mucousy? Must be nothing. I get back into bed. Bang! A contraction. Undeniably a contraction. Just like they promised - a real tightening in the lower abdomen. Like someone's wringing out a sponge down there. Five minutes later another. Then another, and another. All five minutes apart with alarming regularity, lasting 30 - 40 seconds. It was a very private thing. I lay in the dark silently marveling at this process that was going on quite without my say-so. Tightening turned to pain. It is, also as promised, a pain that is indescribable. It's like trying to describe period pain to a man. Just can't find the words to satisfy.

I decided to wake my poor battered husband - who - due to my size (and possibly my moods) had taken to sleeping on the lounge - "To make things more comfortable for you" (he said). He leapt up, and ran into the kitchen to make himself a boxed lunch. He had been planning this day with all the boyish excitement of a five year olds first day at school. He had packed his bag almost as carefully. Swimsuit, newspaper, mobile phone, tennis balls (don't ask), hair gel, travel pillow etc etc. Later, he made me a bath when the pain became toe-curling. It didn't help. I rang the hospital. They told me to come in when I couldn't cope.

Saturday morning. 5.30am. I couldn't cope. I couldn't talk through the contractions anymore. They had been coming at five minute intervals since the first one at midnight. I rang my mother who lives 800kms away, and told her to "Get in the car", promising her a baby by the time she got to Sydney. How little I knew...

6am. Husband raced us across the Harbour Bridge, through the city, and into the gates of the hospital in less than ten minutes. I know this because I only had one contraction on the way. The friendly reception staff wheeled me up to labour ward. A midwife with an accent recognizable only as being from some distant communist country examined me, while husband settled himself into the comfortable chairs. He got out his lunch box and his chopsticks (already), and the smell of chicken and rice wafted through the room. I'm surprised he didn't bring popcorn.

"You are less zan vun tsentimetre dilated" she said in her terse accent. What?? That can't be right. I would have demanded a recount if the examination hadn't been so unpleasant. Not only that, but the baby was sitting "Fery posterior. You vill haff painful labour. You vant drucks? Ja?" Ja! >dd>They wheeled me down to my friends of my old pre-eclamptic days in the ante-natal ward. We broke the wheelchair on the way. I like to think that it was because it was old, and not because of my weight. A lovely redheaded midwife with a cheeky smile like a Raggedy-Ann doll gave me an injection of pethadine to help me rest. I remember mumbling something about all the nursing staff being "far too skinny for my liking" before I drifted off into amazingly satisfying five minute dozes between contractions.

Saturday. 11am. Husband has gone to buy himself another newspaper! He must have made use of that phone too because my friend and her mother turned up armed with massage oils, lotions, powders, soothing words, and, for some reason, quiche. The pethidine wore off. The pain was becoming very intense. None of those breathing methods worked. I couldn't move. I got out of bed once and threw up everywhere. Husband made a few surreptitious feeble attempts at a back rub, and was rewarded with a sharp kick in the chest. With each contraction all I could do was grab the bedhead and moan like, well, rather unfortunately like one who is pretending to have an orgasm - which I most certainly was not!

Saturday. 4pm. My mother magically appears at my bedside! I was so astounded to see her standing there. It seemed like only minutes before I had called and told her to start driving, promising her a baby when she got here. And here she was after driving a distance akin to the length of Italy only to find me writhing around on the bed in the ante-natal ward, and still only two centimetres dilated! Her hands helped though. Amazing how cool and soothing ones own mother's hands can be. She just stroked my wrist. It really helped.

Saturday. 6pm. I start asking my visitors to kill me. The windows in all the wards are nailed shut. Now I know why. It would have been so tempting to throw myself out of one, had I been able to manouvre my body close enough. The contractions were still between three and five minutes apart. The pain unbearable. Raggedy-Ann had long since gone home and been replace by an equally cheerful Barbie type. What has happened to the grey-skinned, grim and matronly midwives of Olde?? She examined me for the fourth time. FINALLY! 3 cms. That magical mark when you can be wheeled back up to the Labour Ward where they have all those lovely anaesthetists floating around.

Saturday. 8pm. After trying the gas, having an hallucination about Mrs Doubtfire (I promise this is true), and not feeling any better, mother managed to persuade my new midwife (and also a bit of a grump) to get me an epidural. I will be eternally grateful to her for putting her foot down. After the epidural was in place everything changed. I was a human being again. Amazing that in all that time I had not given a second of thought to the baby. I could not think beyond the pain. If someone had leant down and said to me in all seriousness that they could magically have wished the baby away, I would have gladly complied. Awful to admit, but true at the time.

Saturday. 10pm. Husband has arranged the beanbags on the floor and is having a bit of a snooze. Poor dear must have been exhausted after all that abuse. Mother and friend's mother are still with me. They ordered pizza. Husband was very happy since the contents of his lunchbox had long since been digested. So they sat and ate pizza while I slept. The grumpy midwife would not so much as let me eat a Malteser. I didn't think to ask why not. I will know better next time.

Saturday. About midnight. 24 hours of full labour. The epidural had left a "window" (meaning a non-anaesthetised bit) over my (ahem, pause to blush) rectal area. I could feel incredible pressure there with each contraction. Although it wasn't painful (I have a whole new outlook on pain by this time anyway)...I really started to feel like I needed to pass the biggest (ahem) poo in history. I argued this fact with my grumpy midwife for at least an hour. She tried to explain that I was almost fully dilated and it was the baby moving down (she was right), but I SWEAR to you it felt like I had to pass a HUGE (ahem) solid. It was about then I got the urge to push. Fantastic when it happens. My whole body got an overwhelming desire to heave out this thing inside it. Unfortunately I was still only 8cms dilated when I got the urge. Grumpy told me not to push. What a joke. it is impossible not to push. It's like throwing someone off a cliff and then telling them not to fall. Even my fingernails were pushing. Mother and friend's mother stood beside me and tried to get me to pant. We all panted like dogs for some time which would have been hilariously funny were it another occasion.

Sunday morning. 1.20am. AT LAST I AM 10CMS DILATED. I can hear the heavens shouting "HALLELUJAH", or perhaps it was me. I pushed with each tightening of my (ahem) rectal area. What a fabulous feeling - working with the contractions instead of against. Grumpy (who didn't manage a smile even at this point), told me not to make a noise and to concentrate on pushing. She was probably right. I concentrated and pushed so hard I thought my head would explode. The whites of my eyes filled with blood as several of my capillaries broke. Three monumental pushes, then a rest, then three more monumental pushes. Mother and friend's mother held my hands. Husband and Grumpy held a leg each up around my ears. I was not winning any beauty contests at this point. After only about ten minutes of this everyone started to get very excited. The head had crowned. Grumpy did something very thoughtful. She put my hand down so that I could feel that squashy little patch of hair and skin. That gave me my second wind. Ten minutes more of pushing and the head came out. Friend's mother had to pinch husbands shoulder because he looked very much like he was about to pass out. I fantasize that this was because he was so excited, but I think in reality it was because my worst fears had come to light and I might have (ahem) pooed a little bit.

With the next push and a big whooshing sound that baby's little body came hurtling out of me with such force that I feared I had catapulted her across the entire room.

Sunday. 1.40am. She's born! Mother and friend's mother run around the room crying, laughing, and embracing. I caught sight of husbands face. It had softened into an expression that I hadn't seen before, and that he still hasn't lost. I think he fell instantly and hopelessly in love. He had shamelessly wanted a daughter from the very first day. They plopped the little blue bundle onto my tummy. She had come out with the chord around her neck, so she was not a good colour. She also had an incredibly pointy head, probably due to me pushing at still only 8cms. A kind old midwife who I hadn't noticed previously whisked bub over to the heating pad and gave her some oxygen. Husband went with them. Mother and friend's mother were still running around in their euphoric state clicking cameras, and bumping into Grumpy, and the like.

And me? I felt...nothing. It was like a strange dream. I had none of those feelings of instant adoration they talk about in the books. I stared at the ceiling while a handsome young doctor with an earring in his ear and who I swear to you was chewing gum, stitched me up. (I had second degree tearing because she was 9lbs/3.8kgs, and I am - or used to be - only little.) After a while when I held her again I could only think how soft and warm she was. I felt as maternal towards her as I would towards somebody else's handbag. I think I was in shock.

Sunday. 3am. Baby and I were showered. Mother and friend's mother had gone home. Baby and I were wheeled down to the maternity ward. Husband kissed us both on the head and left. And there I was. Alone with this baby. I don't remember thinking anything, perhaps I did, but I don't remember.

Sunday. 6am. I woke up. It was the day before my own 27th birthday. that was the first thing I thought about. The dawn light was streaming through the window, illuminating everything orangey-pink. I turned over, and there, in the plastic crib beside me was this little bundle. Her eyes were open and she was staring at me and blinking. At that moment it was like God came down with a big frying pan and hit me over the head. I almost fell out of bed. I was overcome with the most amazing feeling of love, pride, and an overwhelming sense of protectiveness. She was (is) the most beautiful, wise, and dignified thing I had ever seen. I put my hand in the crib and she grabbed my finger. It was without a doubt the clearest moment of my life. My heart raced (races) with the knowledge that she is mine and I get to spend at least the next 18 years in her company.

I have barely left her side since that moment. After nine months of such an awful pregnancy, I have not had a single day of baby-blues, or a second of depression. I feel nothing but elation. My heart skips a beat when I see her even in photos. Her smiles send a grown woman into a frenzy. For years I traveled around the world looking for some meaning, some direction to life. How perfect that I should give birth to it. I could stand at her cradle and watch her sleep for hours.