No one knew if I was giving birth to a healthy baby or not.
There are some things that doctors cannot be certain about (in both the pregnancy and the birth).
The sonographer paused and shifted the ultrasound tool. She frowned at her screen again. I was 20 weeks pregnant.
“OK” she said, in a tone which was neither comforting nor explanatory.
“His limbs look normal…” I knew there was a ‘but’ coming. “But there is some excess amniotic fluid and I just want to check his other measurements again….”
“Please visit the Fetal Medicine Department…”
This was the beginning of fortnightly scans and various tests that continued until the end of the pregnancy. I was monitored by an consultant obstetrician who was incredibly nice and good at her job, made clear by the mountain of thank you cards stacked behind her. But even with all the scans and her wealth of experience the best information they could give us was “he hopefully will not have any issues, but…he could have severe issues.”
At 30 weeks pregnant the obstetrician told me she was not happy with the baby’s scan and booked me in for an early c-section if he didn’t show the change they wanted in the next 2 weeks. According to one study the rate of false positive results for fetal malformations is 8.8%. The idea that the doctors’ cause for concern had about a 8% of being wrong was not comforting. But at the same time I still had not been given a ‘positive’ diagnosis. It was more of a ‘possibly positive, possibly negative’.
We waited. I stuffed my face with food in preparation for the next scan. I wanted to at least feel the baby’s lack of growth was not my fault even though the doctor had assured me the amount I ate would have almost no impact on the baby.
A few weeks later the consultant decided the baby had changed a little and the early c-section could be cancelled. Given the uncertainty and a previous tear from my first child it was decided I would still have a c-section anyway, but nearer the due date. It was still no clearer whether our baby would be ‘normal’ or not. I read that about 3% of babies are born with congenital defects. 3% seemed either very low or a bit too high depending on how I was feeling that day. I would love and cherish him regardless but no parent wants their child’s life to be a huge struggle from the get go.
A Dramatic Arrival
In the end, one evening at home my waters broke a week before the booked c-section. Staring in surprise at the damp patch on the floor I called the hospital. I was asked to go to the ante-natal ward. We got a friend to come and babysit our 2 year old who was immovably convinced I was going for pizza (still in denial about the imminent arrival of her sibling).
Following mixed opinions on the best birth from various doctors I decided to go for a vaginal birth. I had my daughter that way so it felt less daunting than a c-section.
I ended up being induced with some hormones and a sweep (don’t google it) performed by the doctor, with my hand held by a midwife with the most appropriate name ever — ‘Comfort’.
The induction worked, maybe too well. Within 3 hours I was in quite intense pain but it was thought that the party hadn’t properly started so I couldn’t go to the labour ward. I had not slept properly for two nights and felt my first wave of self-doubt — I wasn’t sure how many more hours I could do this without sleep or drugs.
I got over my British ‘don’t want to be a pain’-ness and got my husband to find a midwife to check down below to tell me roughly how much longer until the final event. I could hear the midwife behind the curtain telling my husband that I’d have a while to go yet. I groaned inwardly.
The midwife appeared in my cubicle and had a look between my legs. Her expression of calm confidence changed to one of controlled panic.
She silently walked out into the corridor and I heard her shout-whisper “Alex, call the lift! Jenny, come and help me! We need to get her in the labour ward NOW”.
The midwife returned and said “We need to get you to the labour ward, don’t walk and DON’T PUSH”. All I wanted to do was push. I concentrated on keeping things in — the baby as well as my growing fear.
The ante-natal ward is a sort of waiting area from which you calmly make your way to the labour ward when things start getting gritty. This process had gone a bit wrong in my case. My abiding memory is of my partner, white-faced, frantically trying to open up ancient doors which looked as old as the C19th hospital itself, in order to move my bed and then running with a midwife, pushing me along corridors to the lift.
Finally my bed, with me kneeling on top of it, was pushed into a lift. I could feel the baby coming and briefly reflected on how bad it would be if the lift broke. I put my hand down to try and keep him in which just resulted in some swearing from me and a bloody hand. The baby stayed put, perhaps put off by his potty-mouthed mother, and I was wheeled into a labour room as soon as the lift doors opened.
The end of a long wait to meet my son
To cut a long-ish story short, the wonderful and reassuring midwife handling the birth realised the umbilical cord was wrapped around the baby’s shoulder. But for this he would have arrived in the lift or in a corridor. She untangled him, he arrived and was whisked off to be checked.
Due to luck and the midwife’s care, I tore less severely than last time. When my husband realised our son was out and I was not too badly injured down bel ow, he ran over and hugged the midwife in gratitude. Later I saw him tentatively walking over to our new baby and looking him up and down. We knew we would love him without question, but I could tell my husband was wondering whether he was alright and how hard life might be for his new son.
After a while a doctor came to give us the result of initial tests. Aside from an extraordinary mono-brow and vast sideburns level of hairiness, he was ‘without abnormalities’.
I later sent the obstetrician and team a gushing thank you card to add to their pile, not because my son had turned out to be without congenital issues but because of the empathy and cheerfulness she had displayed every time I nervously visited her for another scan. I have realised that pregnancy and the birth itself can sometimes be a bit of guessing game. But whether early on in your pregnancy or in the final dramatic moments a smile and a few kind words can mean so much. That’s one thing any doctor or midwife reading this can be certain of.
