It seems appropriate at Yuletide that
my last post of 2012 is a birth story. There is something I need to
put to rest, some vivid images sometimes seem to be stuck on a
perpetual loop in my brain. And for the sake of my long suffering
friends I need to ditch the angst and the envy and the sheer and
unadulterated resentment I can irrationally and unkindly (still!)
feel toward the parents of full term singletons with easy births and
babies that feed every four hours, sleep well and aren't violently
sick for a year. Here are some memories albeit probably incorrect,
incoherent and incomplete.
33 weeks and 3 cm dilated – they are
on their way. The Flood – quick, someone bring a mop! I am the last
one in before the maternity unit is closed. A junior doctor pleads
with me to write to my MP to complain of staff shortages. Puking –
why oh why did I have fish and chips for tea? Contractions through
the night. Arctic conditions – dressing gown quick, it's freezing.
Uncontrollable full body shivers. Saharan Summer – too hot, fan,
fan! Midwife, is this normal? “Oxytocin my dear”. Finally the
sunrise brings news of Barak Obama winning a Nobel Peace Prize. Hey
this Entonox is great, am I hallucinating?
A gorgeous Spanish midwife (to be later
rewarded with a bottle of Cava and my eternal gratitude) takes over.
Eventually an examination shows me 8cm dilated, but with meconium to
keep us on our toes – the babies are not as happy as they could be.
Action stations, not long before we rock and roll. She preps me with
the aid of a kind anaesthetist who reminds me of an old school
friend. I am trundled into theatre – an appropriate moniker as the
birth is to be aided by a team of 12* (good job I am an exhibitionist
by nature).
Legs in stirrups, pushing is hard with
an epidural. Am I actually doing anything useful? But laughing and
joking we all get on with the job in hand. Suddenly the atmosphere
changes. Tense. Brachycardia. Controlled panic? Prolapsed umbilical
cord (was I even aware of this at the time?). Ventouse. Fail. PLEASE.
DON'T. LET. THEM. DIE. Forceps. Confusion: one consultant says “push”
as the other screams “don't push”. Unbeknownst to be me the
anaesthetists have been prepping me for a general anaesthetic and an
emergency C section. But then out she comes and is spirited off to
SCBU. And then we have to do it all again...
With all that newly found intrauterine
space he has the freedom to swim. More panic as his heart rate is
lost but the midwife, having monitored them for hours, knows where he
is. I block out the noise and listen solely to her guidance and the
calm and encouraging words from my husband. 13 minutes later out he
comes to a chorus of applause. Euphoria. Relief. Gratitude. A long
awaited cuddle.
A few hours later I am wheeled to the
Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. The intensity of emotion emitted from
its walls is tangible. Unimaginably tiny babies (some born as early
as 24 weeks) lie in the Hot Room. A blue haze from those undergoing
photo-therapy for jaundice. The perpetual noise of machines beeping.
Mums and Dads with babies stuffed down their jumpers (kangaroo care).
The nurses seem superhuman: angels sent to calm, support and care for
the sickest of babies and their exhausted, fragile parents.
Our children are in their little
presentation boxes adorned with wires, cannulas and naso-gastric
tubes. Cpap covers C's face to aid her breathing. It takes us three
days to name her – how can you name a child when you have never
properly seen their face? And so begins a two week roller-coaster of
anguish, joy, fear, confusion and the kindness of strangers.
The Instrument of Extreme Torture AKA
the double breast pump. My promise to turn vegan (as soon as I stop
being anaemic) in solidarity with those poor dairy cattle. My milk
coming in. And not coming out. Engorged takes on a whole new painful
meaning. Excruciating mastitis. Will Reading be found by the
archaeologists of the next Millennium having been buried in an
explosion of colostrum? Milk fever – waking up in the night
drenched and holding nonsenical, febrile conversations with confused
midwives. An infection that confers a John Wayne walk. The Fear: the
post episiotomy poo. The compassion of the midwife who took the time
to run me a lavender bath.
Cannulas frequently become blocked.
Changing them seems an onerous and super-dexterous task when blood
vessels are so small. How can such a minuscule being produce so much
blood? One morning a paediatrician states concern that R is not very
responsive. He won't wake up. There is talk of infections “hiding”
and the need for a lumbar puncture. He is held down, a paediatrician
per limb, like a rat being pinned for dissection. How can someone so
diminutive scream so loudly? No infection, but blood in
the CFS. A later head scan shows there has not been an inter-cranial
bleed as suspected. No brain damage then. Did I actually process
any of this information at the time?
The preeclampsia that refuses to leave.
The cruel irony of a hospital radio that plays Please Release Me.
Blood pressure elevated every time I hear the machine trundling down
the corridor to measure it. Care assistants stop telling me the
reading: “we will come back later when you have had a cup of tea”.
At this rate my kids will be home before me. After a week I lose the
will and run off to the local gastro pub for a rare steak and a glass
of red wine. On return my blood pressure is 100/70. Result!
Their progress in not linear. Ups and
downs are normal but difficult to deal with. Sometimes it feels like
they are taking turns. It can be hard to parent your children when
they are in need of nursing care. Syringing milk into a tube is not
the same as an impromptu cuddle. Incubators can act as physical and
emotional barriers. It is easy to feel like a spare part. Irrational
feelings of failure constantly simmer quietly in the background.
Desperation to have them home: to be on our own as a family without
the constant scrutiny of medics. To walk by the river with our double
buggy and our double babies. But the advantage of one-to-one lessons
in how to bathe, feed, wind, resuscitate our children is invaluable.
Our time comes. We “room in”, on our wedding anniversary, for a
night, alone with our babies. Surprisingly we pass and so begins the
long haul of parenting our two cheeky chappies and that, as they say,
is another story...
The
agony of the alternative outcome: the acknowledgement of other
families' realities. Why us? Why were we the lucky ones? A survivor's
guilt of sorts.
The
ecstasy that, in the end, everything and everyone was
OK. I will forever be in awe of the staff at the Royal Berkshire
Hospital that kept us safe.
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year,
Gems xx
For sources of information, advice or
support regarding twins, premature babies, special care, still
births, neonatal death and bereavement the following organisations
are well regarded:
TAMBA:
improving the lives of parents with twins, triplets or more
http://www.tamba.org.uk/
Bliss: for babies born too soon,
too small, too sick http://www.bliss.org.uk/
Sands: supporting anyone
affected by the death of a baby and the promoting research to reduce
the loss of babies' lives http://www.uk-sands.org/
* the midwife, 2 scrub nurses, 2
paediatricians, 2 obstetricians, 1 senior registrar, 2 anaesthetists,
one anaesthetist's assistant and my husband.
