Emma’s story
You’re doing so well
I can’t say being a mother was something I had always dreamed of. There was always a nagging voice in the back of my mind telling me there is no chance I can take care of a child because I can barely take care of myself. Yet there I was, lying on a hospital bed with a midwife’s hand inside me and a thin blue sheet separating me from the other expectant mothers in the room.
I writhed against the force of the pessary; I felt my whole body tighten as my baby’s head was pushed up into my uterus and the midwife softly muttered the phrase, I’d soon become all too familiar with, “You’re doing so well Emma”. In that moment, all the months of hypnobirthing, breathing techniques and affirmations left my head. The midwife was wrong, I was not doing well at all.
I squeezed my husband’s hand tight to no avail, this induction was a type of pain I had never anticipated. The midwife was reassuring, talking to me to keep me calm, “Does it feel like you’re carrying a watermelon between your legs? She’s very low down” she joked, hand still inside me. I forced a tear-soaked smile, “no” I replied, thinking to myself, maybe this induction process would be quick and easy if she's so low down. Reminiscing now, isn’t it funny that after all this time, after such an intimate moment, I can’t remember that midwife’s name.
After what was a successful induction process, the midwife left and so did Ben and I was left alone listening to the gentle beeping of the monitors. Covid lockdowns meant no visitors after the initial pessary, no support system in a time where I had no idea what to expect and unluckily for me my induction slot was right before a shift change.
Thus, began the longest 24 hours in my 23 years of life.
I had hope, a desire to be in control of the situation but doubted that I could do it on my own. I knew it would have to be this way until I was in established labour but there was no telling how long that would take. No matter how much I wished, it could be hours, days, even a week before I saw any progress, despite my daughter being low down, and during this time, I would be confined to my tiny paper box with just a teddy bear for company.
Hours passed with no human interaction and eventually the evening light faded and all I had to light my space was the soft glow from my Amazon tablet as I played candy crush. The reassuring yet angry messages from my sister continued to fill my phone, I hadn’t told her I was being induced and someone had let it slip to her where I was. She wasn’t happy I kept a secret but didn’t want me to feel alone so she messaged me for as long as she could stay awake for. I was grateful for the distraction but longed for my family to be here in the room with me as my contractions were coming stronger and faster.
A quiet knock made me jump; it was my husband standing at the window armed with my perfect midnight snack, Jammy Dodgers. I cracked it open so he could post the biscuits through the gap. Everyone else was asleep and the silence in the room was overwhelming, it let my mind race becoming consumed by doubt, “I can’t do this” I whispered, “You can, Em. You’re doing so well already,” a sympathetic look in his eyes. He squeezed my hand and let it go and I found myself vulnerable and alone again.
I battled against the crushing pain inside me as night became morning. I paced back and forth down the hallway staring at white wall after white wall devoid of feeling. The contractions felt like torture, and I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t calm down, the control I desired was fading as I stood in the hallway with my back against the wall begging the night shift staff to give me some relief, to let me go home. The Covid regulations fulfilled her power. “You can’t go home. You’re going to be doing this on your own when your husband goes to work so you need to get used to it. You can have some Pethidine but that’s all I can give you?”, “Okay” I breathed. I slunk back to my tiny bed and curled up into a ball as small as I felt inside. Within minutes, the midwife pushed aside my curtain. “I need to inject this into your thigh” she said sternly and without as much as a look into my eyes she stabbed a needle filled with Pethidine into my leg. She then left me sobbing on my own, pulling the curtain into place behind her as if to save the small ounce of dignity I had left. I felt less and less human every second that went by.
Time had become meaningless; I have no idea how long I restlessly squirmed in bed, clenching my teeth so not to scream. I was conscious of the other mothers, I didn’t want to disturb them, but I was in agony and no amount of deep breathing calmed me down. I tried walking around the ward, but my stomach tightened as I tried to stand, causing my knees to buckle beneath me. I grabbed hold of the bed next to me and stretched out my arms, turning so I could rest my head against the soft surface. I grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut, a painful moan escaping with each deep breath. “Are you asleep?” a voice asked. My body was on fire, I was trying to concentrate all my energy on not throwing up, how could I possibly be asleep? I mustered enough energy to stand up, both hands pressed on the small of my back. “I need to get out, I need fresh air” I whimpered, “I can’t let you leave until you have been examined” she barked. I needed relief, I couldn’t breathe, I was losing control. I had to leave.
I saw my husband arrive, but the midwife ran to block him at the door. I saw my one chance to leave, and I took it. Waddling over to them both I mumbled something about needing fresh air as Ben put his arm around me, leading me out of the antenatal ward like we were two convicts escaping a prison. The doors opened and I stumbled over to a short brick wall as another contraction came, I doubled over and let out a gut-wrenching scream. I’d been holding in all the pain and fear then I felt a hand against my back. “I won’t go back in there without you” I sobbed to Ben “I can’t do this on my own”. I sank slowly to the floor with Ben’s arms around me for support, but I couldn’t see anything anymore.
That’s the last solid memory I have from that day.
The events that occurred during my induction made me feel so afraid and threatened that my brain shut down meaning I can remember moments from the six hours that followed but most of my daughter's birth is a blur. The control I so desperately craved was gone completely and I struggled for hours to get my brain and body to connect but I just couldn’t do it. I could hear the voices of my mum, husband and the midwives saying my name, reassuring me, “You’re doing really well”, “Well done Emma” or “that’s great, keep going”. I couldn’t do anything but listen and feel. Feel the contractions squeezing then releasing, causing my brain to be present for a split second before I disappeared again.
I eventually gave birth to a healthy baby girl on the afternoon of August 11th, almost 24 hours after being induced.
Today, I am a 25-year-old mother to a beautiful, smart, albeit reckless 20-month-old who loves to draw and stick stickers on everything she sees. I have trauma from a moment that shouldn’t have been traumatic because of one person’s ignorance and lack of empathy. I am trying to heal, and I want to forgive but I am angry that my birth story can only be told by those who were in the room with me. My days now are filled with unconditional love and even though I don’t remember how my daughter arrived, I am thankful she is here. My initial doubts about being a mother were wrong because perfection isn’t possible, and parenthood isn’t easy. Despite all this you do everything you can for your child even if it means not showering, staying in bed and living off crisps.
I guess the midwives were finally right. I am, in fact, doing well.
