My Birth Story – A 3 day labour (of love)

Trigger Warning: Emergency C-Section, Fetal Distress, Maternal Sepsis, Malpositioned Baby.

APRIL FOOLS BABY, YOU’RE OVERDUE!

My much anticipated due date arrived and I was disappointed that labour hadn’t begun. I wasn’t going to have an April Fools baby like I had hoped and so I reluctantly headed to my 40-week midwife appointment for a sweep. Lo and behold, I shortly lost my mucus plug and knew things were happening. On Sunday 3^rd April 2022, I woke up to slight period pain. Understanding the importance of keeping UFO (upright, forwards and open) my mom and I headed over to Borough Market for some sightseeing and a much-needed distraction. The day progressed and my surges started to get stronger, and so ensued my breathing exercises and the hypnobirthing techniques I had so diligently spent nine months practicing for this very moment.

At home, my husband Mike prepared a roast and as we sat around the kitchen table with my loved ones, my oxytocin and happy hormones flowed. The joy of family and food caused my surges to get stronger and within a few hours, the pain began to ramp up. I had created an intimate and soothing space, with dim lights and candles, healthy snacks, and calming scents to make me feel at ease and safe. I bounced on my trusty blue ball and was amazed that my body knew exactly what to do as I rocked to and fro. As night approached, my surges were getting closer together and much more intense. I felt more comfortable being stark naked and so I dipped in and out of the hot bath which seemed to offer some sort of relief. I had my Christian Hypnobirthing podcast in my ears at full volume and my eyes were firmly shut as I focused on breathing. My contractions were now 45 seconds long every 3 minutes and just as midnight struck, my Freya app alerted me it was time to head to hospital. Mike called the maternity ward at St. Thomas, but as I was a first-time mum, they wanted me to stay at home for another 5 hours to make sure this was really it. I was horrified, but continued breathing through the pain and focusing solely on getting my baby safely down the birth canal. I continued to labour steadily and furiously, drenched in sweat and tears until dawn.

GETTING TURNED AWAY FROM HOSPITAL

The uber to the hospital (Monday 4th April 2022) was a blurry haze, but I recall the driver saying he was an ex-paramedic and could deliver the baby himself. He took one look at me and said I was nearing transition. Spoiler alert – I never got there! I arrived at triage and a midwife did an incredibly painful vaginal exam which I screamed through. She looked at me with pity as she said the dreaded words. ‘I’m so sorry, but you’re only 1cm dilated’. I was in utter disbelief and beyond devastated as I had already been labouring for an entire day. My worst fear was realized, and I was sent back home. Through tears and genuine anguish, I begged to stay. I was on my knees at this point and I was vigorously shaking. It was a firm no from the staff and after literally screaming for pain relief, I was finally given Dihydrocodeine – possibly to shut me up. The rejection (and medicine) slowed down my labour significantly and my surges tapered off, which meant I could catch up on a few hours’ sleep at home. By mid-morning, I knew I needed to get moving again and reframe my mind as labour is very much a mental game. I walked to Boots to get a TENS machine and as I reached London bridge, my surges came back in full force. Amid all the tourists and hustle and bustle of the city, I was laboring very loudly in public. Every two minutes, I would stop and gasp in agony, breathing through the surges which literally took my breath away. I was clutching onto the sides of London Bridge and vibrating viciously while making “Aaaaah Maaaaah” noises. The tourists’ parted like the dead sea and a few begged to call an ambulance. ‘It’s no use. They won’t admit me’ I sobbed. By evening, my TENS machine was now on 30, the highest setting, and I was pacing around the house getting in every position imaginable to find some sort of relief. At one stage I was sat naked on my ball, with Mike twiddling my nipples and my mom massaging my shoulders. I lost all inhibition as my focus was solely on getting the oxytocin flowing and my baby OUT. I had now had enough. I had been labouring at home for two full days and my contractions were lasting at least one minute, every three minutes. The pain was ghastly and I honestly couldn’t take it anymore. Surely it was go time?

I’M BEGGING YOU TO KNOCK ME OUT

At around 10pm, I felt a MASSIVE shift of pressure deep within my pelvis and had an urge to poo. The heaviness was so intense and nothing like I had felt before. It got so bad that I was now begging Mike to knock me out. He point blank refused and I felt powerless. I remember wanting nothing more than to throw myself off a bridge. I just couldn’t continue because the pressure was so painful. Mike called the hospital but they couldn’t hear what he was saying as I was screaming, ‘I need to poooooo. Tell them I need to poooo. I can’t poooo but I need to pooooo!‘ At this stage, things turned a bit morbid. I was so sore, I just wanted it all to end. I went into the nursery and mustered up the courage to knock myself out. I was going to run as hard and as fast as I could at the wall. As my feet were about to lift off the ground to end my misery, a massive GUSH released through me and I collapsed to the floor. I was flooded by tears, wee and amniotic fluid. My waters had erupted all over the nursery floor and the brand new Totter and Tumble playmat. Thank goodness it was wipeable. My mom came downstairs to see what the commotion was, and I shouted “nothing eventful happening here – go back to sleep”. Mike called for an uber as we knew it was go time. My waters were now broken and the hospital couldn’t turn me away. I was going to have a baby in the next 24 hours. YAY!

BABY IS BACK TO BACK. IS IT A BOY? THEY ALWAYS MISBEHAVE

The 2am drive to St Thomas on Tuesday 5th April 2022 was hazy, bar for the hideous speed bumps which made me scream in agony. My plan for arriving to hospital with blow-dried hair and nails afresh was not the case. I was wearing an oversized tracksuit, a nappy, a hoodie pulled over my head, dark sunglasses, earphones at full volume and a TENS machine on the maximum setting, sending shockwaves through my back at supersonic rates. I couldn’t care less how I looked. I had another vaginal exam done by the same midwife as the night before, and to my horror, I was only 1.5cm dilated. She said that if it wasn’t my waters, she would have to send me home again. I looked at her in disbelief. I proceeded to projectile vomit into a petri-dish, while simultaneously gush amniotic fluid, blood and other unimaginable secretions all over the Maternity Unit floor.

Imploring not to be sent home and squawking through gulps of pain, I was admitted to Home from Home – the Midwife Led Unit (but not before having a covid swab shoved down my throat and up my nose while gyrating on a bouncy ball). The Midwife Led Unit had the most spectacular views of the Houses of Parliament (which I failed to take notice of). I was now crying out for Diamorphine, (something I was dead against) but the pain was so intense I was willing to have a drowsy baby. As I frantically sucked on gas and air, I was utterly dismayed to find it did not touch sides. I could still feel every morsel of pain as I convulsed wildly in the bed, dreading the next surge. I slowly made my way to the shower and placed the scalding water over my bulging belly, apologizing to my son as I knew it was way too hot. I was in a drugged-up state of disarray, slurring my speech and trying my hardest to be present and ride the waves, but I was so sleep deprived and physically / emotionally / mentally spent. My pleas of getting into the birthing pool were denied as I was still in latent labour. A sonographer was then called down to scan my stomach. She looked up perplexed before exclaiming “Hmmm… baby is back-to-back. Is it a boy? They always misbehave”. No wonder my labour was so intensely painful, as nothing is more unpleasant than a stubborn sunny-side upper. Nonetheless, I was told he would definitely turn.

SCREW THE WATERBIRTH, I NEED AN EPIDURAL STAT!

Forgetting all pleasantries and cursing through clenched teeth, I insisted that the ever so lovely Laura transfer me to the Labour Ward and find an anesthetist to administer an epidural immediately. My shouts of “screw the water birth, I need drugs NOOOOWWWW” echoed through the corridors until I was finally taken pity on and transferred to the ‘Labour Ward’. I have to admit I did feel a bit of defeat as I knew my dream birth was not going to be realised. This time, I was under the care of a midwife whose name escapes me, but we shall call her ‘Miss Italy’. She popped her fingers inside me and again through furrowed brows, told me baby’s head was in an awkward position that she couldn’t quite put her finger on (literally). She explained he would turn and then she congratulated me as I was now 4cm dilated and FINALLY in active labour (it only took me two full days).

After an age, the anesthetist came and bopped around my back as I tried my best to keep still between surges. He spent about an hour figuring out where to place the needle, but he wasn’t quite getting it right and called for his registrar who managed to finally get it going. The sweet, sweet relief of an epidural is something words cannot do justice and I’m sure every mother who has ever had one is nodding in agreement. For the first time in literal days, I was able to rest and smile. As we were now racing the clock (my waters had already broken) another non-negotiable on my birth plan was thrown out the window. My labour was augmented as doses of hardcore Syntocinon flooded through my veins and my contractions went through the roof. Blissfully, I did not feel a thing besides mild pressure as my uterus expanded and contracted while pushing my baby down. 

HANG ON, I’LL JUST STRETCH YOU TO 6CM MYSELF…

My mom arrived bright eyed to spend the day with us. Miraculously, I was able to stand and walk around the room even with an epidural. I also had the gusto to brush my hair and add a bit of mascara, while clutching onto my epidural and catheter pole. The next few hours were filled with excitement as I eagerly awaited the moment I was told to push. A few doctors would randomly enter the room, exchange pleasantries, and then stick their fingers up me to see how far along I was. One doctor got a bit fed up with my Failure to Progress and told me she would stretch me herself. ‘There, you’re 6cm now’ she smiled as she whipped off her gloves and threw them in the bin. The doctor’s were watching the clock and reiterated that I would need to dilate to 10cm by the evening. So the pressure was on. My body needed to do it’s thing. And fast. As the CTG machine did its thing, I maneuvered around and experimented with positions as best I could, trying to get off my back. I was donning compression socks and a hospital gown at this point and was astounded by the amount of blood, fluid and gunk flowing from below. Miss Italy was a charmer and cleaned me up so discreetly with a smile on her face, as she chatted about life in Sorrento and her love for Limoncello.

MUM’S IN SEPSIS, BABY’S IN FETAL DISTRESS

After a few hours enjoying the blissful respite of modern drugs, the atmosphere in the room changed. I had still not dilated passed 6cm, which was frustrating but common with a malpositioned baby. Nontheless, we were told that he would turn. Doctors barged in and out, and I was poked and prodded and fitted with a cannula on each hand and devices I had never seen before. It was clear that baby boy was now becoming distressed, and his heart rate kept dropping. “Mum is tachy” I overheard the midwife say multiple times, to which I was most offended (until I realised it had nothing to do with my demeanour, but more so my heartrate). And then things went pear shaped pretty quickly. I was told I was now in “Maternal Sepsis” and I panicked because I know just how deadly it can be. I also got really frightened when I heard baby’s heartbeat was getting dangerously low. My blood pressure machine went into overdrive as my anxiety rose. Miss Italy said I shouldn’t worry and I would have this baby within the next few hours. He would be coming out of my vagina. End of. I looked at her and said. “Who are we kidding? Take me to theatre and let’s get him out. I’m happy to have a c-section and it’s written all over my birth plan. Low threshold.” She sneered and said “not under my watch, darling” and that was that. Miss Italy’s shift was soon ending and it was time for yet another midwife change-over. In walked Francesca and I listened patiently as my notes were transferred. I told Francesca I was happy to have one more vaginal examination and if still no progression, I wanted a c-section. Her eyes lit up and she rushed out the door to talk with the Obstetrics team.

THIS IS NOW AN EMERGENCY, WE NEED TO OPERATE

Baby boy’s heart dropped again and within minutes there were about eight doctors around my bed. It all happened so fast. Suddenly, Mike was on his haunches and dressed head to toe in blue scrubs. Hubba hubba! The registrar sat next to me and went through the risks of a c-section. I was told death was possible and I should be prepared. At this stage, I didn’t care. I just wanted my son OUT. I asked the registrar if he had 5 minutes so I could go over my “Gentle C-Section Plan” to which he looked utterly astonished. No-one had ever done this clearly, but I grabbed my beautifully crafted birth plan and started reading out my preferences. Hospital gown open for skin-to-skin, monitors on my back, delayed cord clamping, music and of course – a maternal section where baby finds his own way out of my freshly cut uterus. It was at this exact point he looked at me wide eyed and said, ‘Mrs, this is an EMERGENCY, we need to operate, NOW’ . I hadn’t even had the chance to grab my lavender spray before I was whisked off to theatre and signed my life away on crumpled forms. I then asked the closest doctor if the surgeon was any good. “I need them to sculpt like an artist, because I want to be proud of my scar“.

“I am the surgeon” the doctor replied, to which I almost died of embarrassment.

I’M ABOUT TO MEET MY BABY!

It took several people to haul me from my bed on to the operating table. I saw that one of the surgeon’s had a cross around his neck and I prayed that he was a Christian. A beautiful moment just before surgery was when the entire team introduced themselves. When it got to me, I said proudly. “I’m Ainsleigh. I’m Elijah’s mom”. The anesthetist from earlier (who failed to get my epidural right) was standing next to my ear and I asked him whether he had gotten any rest. I needed someone fresh and alert. He was not humoured. They numbed my legs and stomach and did multiple tests to make sure I couldn’t feel a thing. It was a strange sensation having someone spraying cold water on me, but not being able to feel it. And then I started to wildly shake. I was prepared for it and so I practiced my hypnobirthing technique to calm myself down. It worked. I kept smacking my lips together like a llama because they were so dry. Unbelievably dry. I remember adjusting my surgical cap out of nerves, but also because I needed to look good for my son. I had requested not to wear a face mask and this request was respected. Mike put our playlist on, which was carefully crafted with our favourite Christian worship music. I felt such comfort and peace and started singing. To my amazement and answered prayer, the surgeon started singing too. I was cut open to “What a Beautiful Name It Is” and it was like a choir of angels. I will never forget a moment Mike and I shared. He was sat right at my side and our misty eyes had a conversation of a million words, yet we said nothing at all. We knew this was going to be the moment our lives changed forever. There was a bit of commotion at the business end and the surgeon called for some Forceps. “That’s not in my birth plan I yelled” to which I was of course completely ignored.

ELIJAH WESLEY BRANDLER IS BORN

A few seconds later, the drapes were dropped slightly and I threw myself forward to yank the them away completely. Someone pushed my hands back as the drapes were “sterile”. But I couldn’t care less. At 22h35 on 5th April 2022, my son Elijah Wesley Brandler emerged from my womb as the lyrics “I am a child of God” sifted through the speakers. The timing could not have been more perfect. My most beautiful boy was born. He was silent for some time, but in my ecstacy, I didn’t realize it. ‘He’s a bit startled’ I kept hearing the doctors say and I looked at Mike who was teary eyed and as white as a sheet. And then after some vigorous rubbing and a room wide exhale, my baby yelled and cried, and what a cry it was. “Hello my darling, I love you so much. Mommy’s here, shhh, shhh, shhh” I repeated as I looked at him with equal parts love and overwhelm.

He was quickly taken to get his checks done and Mike proudly cut the cord. Within 3 minutes he was placed on my bare chest, and I cooed and cuddled him. I couldn’t fathom that this was my own creation and the love I had for this little being was something words could never do justice. I handed him over to Mike who placed him on his bare chest for some father-son skin-to-skin, which was something I hadn’t planned on doing during “Golden Hour” but so glad we did. Follow blissful moments of cuddling and staring in amazement at this precious little face. Francesca came over and placed him on my breast. I will never forget that first latch. I was so surprised that something so tiny could suck so incredibly strong. It was as though a little piranha had latched itself onto my nipple. My toes curled on impulse and I breathed the pain away. Soon enough, the sensitivity was replaced with a tenderness and flow of oxytocin, which was utterly delicious.

I was wheeled into recovery, and we passed my mom in the corridor, who was spiraling over with such excitement. I had my first bite of the famous post-birth tea and toast, despite Mike threatening to send it back because it wasn’t dairy-free. Don’t you dare take away my birthright! Francesca came back with my harvested colostrum and held Elijah in her hands. She gently fed him the liquid gold through the syringe I had so carefully filled weeks before. It was mesmerizing to see his little taste buds at work. We got him dressed into his first outfit, which was originally bought for his sister in heaven. Despite it being newborn size, my little 3.5kg cherub was swamped. We waited in recovery for a few hours before I was given the all clear and wheeled into the postnatal ward, with the most incredible view.

Two nights of hospital bed-bound chaos, cluster-feeding and cuddles followed and then we finally took our beautiful bundle home.

And then life truly began.

*I am so grateful to the NHS for the care I received and the staff at St Thomas Hospital. Although my birth did not go to plan, I still love my birth story and in hindsight, would do it again in a heartbeat. Call me crazy, but I think that’s the eternal optimist in me.