Alder's Tone

The week 39 post has a brief report on how things started so we'll begin where that left off.

9pm on Saturday night. In to Simpson’s for a second observation, we didn't ring ahead as we were asked to come in at that time. At 22:35 we were seen, and told off for coming in around 8 when shifts change. An hour an forty-five minutes the Fat Lady was on the monitor, the midwife was only in for seconds at a time. Needless to say some discomfort kicked in, I asked to get her off it, she sent another midwife in who said "10 more minutes" which lasted half an hour before the original came back. Needless to say if we'd had the same midwife that saw us in triage on Saturday for the delivery she would have instantly been deselected.

No contractions starting, back same time on Sunday, please.

Sunday went swimmingly well by comparison. After a wait of only a couple of minutes, then a short time on the monitor, we only got stung for 1 hour of parking as we were in and out in under 40 minutes. Chalk and cheese sprang to mind. Needless to say, with being out again, nothing was happening, so we were told to come back at 08:30 on Monday to be induced.

And at 08:30 the next morning is when the fun began!

The Fat Lady was hooked up to the drip to start the contractions off and on the monitor for baby's heartbeat and contractions. She was mobile for the first few hours, with no pain relief other than the TENS machine. As the contractions were artificial they didn't have the gentle increase in strength a "normal" labour would, they ramp up very quickly (something they don't tell you up front), so the pain came in quite quickly once it started. So, the birth plan is thrown out of the window. No gas & air, no morphine, straight to the option she didn't want to take - the epidural.

There are some things a husband should never see his wife go through, and the epidural is one of them. Sure, he should be there to support her, but his head should never venture round the back to see the needle. I thought the aneathetist was knitting a jumper for junior.

Exams every few hours followed, the baby wasn't too happy at the drip being too high, anything over 8 mls/hour and he was getting grumpy. The doctor was not happy with this, and at midnight the first mention of the "C" word came out. Dilation wasn't progressing enough, baby was getting upset with the drip, so he gave us two ultimatums. Increase the drip and if the baby continues to be grumpy stop and go to theatre. If he's OK go until 02:00 and check dilation progress - no progress and we go to theatre. Either way it’s looking like theatre.

The Fat Lady and junior both did remarkably well. We got to 02:00 with progress, so you can stick your cut and shut up your backside, doc! Claire, the nightshift midwife, did an outstanding job at trying to get the cervix opened up, and made it to 9.9cm by 07:30, just a tiny rim left. The Fat Lady was pushing and he was crowning slightly too, but sat slightly the wrong way, needing a small turn which he wasn't doing. That cut & shut was but a distant memory, now looking to go au natrale at any moment!

08:30 - nothing in the last hour. That rim is still there, and baby's head still turned. The doctor discussed "options", I distinctly remember him say the word in the plural rather than singular context, but the option (singular) was back to the section. Needless to say our worlds fell apart.

A cast of thousands started coming in and out, asking the same questions. The anaesthetist, Claire, turned out to be from God's Own County and was fantastic, both in pre-op and in theatre.

The wait from 08:30 to 10:15 was a long one, we couldn't go straight in as both theatres had emergency sections in, with babies who were in trouble. Ours was happy as Larry and showing no signs of wanting to come out, so we were pushed back. No problem there. The drip was stopped, and the contractions flat-lined instantly, showing us the drugs were doing the work and the Fat Lady wasn't doing any of it on her own.

When the time did come, the walk down the ward was the longest walk I've ever done. Especially when Sara, the dayshift midwife, let go of the bed, stopped, turned to me blocking my path, and ushered me into a side room where the surgeon was waiting for me to show me what to wear. I couldn't get changed quick enough, yet when I got inside the theatre door I was hesitant, frozen to the wall, clutching The Fat Lady's handbag not wanting to go any further. Sara got me over, Claire sat me down, gave me a shot of the cold spray as she explained what she needed to do, and of all the people in there it was Claire who was the primary carer given her location right behind The Fat Lady's head.

The consent form, signed earlier, did have "trial by forceps" as the first option, just in case any progress was made whilst waiting. And straight away the surgeon said it was a no-go, it was a section. So, with The Proclaimers in the background (David, theatre nurse's choice, much to the dismay of Claire), the scaffolding for the screen was erected and away they went. A constant flow of people ensued for the next 20 minutes, during which time Claire, with a perfect view over the screen, asked if we wanted to know what we had. Not until it's out. Then cam the only words I picked up on from the surgeon - "ten fifty-two", then the emotions came flooding in. Sara's "congratulations, you have a...." was exactly that, I missed it completely. She presented "it" to us all wrapped up ready to go to be checked. The Fat Lady was spaced out on drugs,I didn't know where I was, I just wanted to see. It was seconds we got, no contact at all, he was taken away for the checks. Before he was I said I needed to see, Sara opened up the blanket and there it was, the meat and two veg. We have a son!

It took me a total of 5 seconds looking at his face to get to the name, which was on the shortlist anyway. The boy was away for a few minutes getting checked out, and Sara looked positively delighted when she brought him back. With all the tubes and wires the Fat Lady couldn't reach to touch him, so I got the first hold. That was so precious, walking round theatre with my son while my wife was being stitched up. All the fears we both had were banished for me in that moment when Sara gave him to me. He'd come back OK, with his APGAR scores of 8 and 9. Child genius from the first few minutes!

The Fat Lady, hereinafter known as the Mother Of The Son, or MOTS for short, agreed through the haze at Iain, while en-route to recovery. Surely there were no more surprises ahead? WRONG. We had agreed two things - 1) no middle name, it was difficult enough picking one, 2) no plant life (ie Ivy, Rosie, Daisy, all non-starters. So imagine my surprise when MOTS said Iain was OK, as long as he got a middle name of Rowan (as in tree, meaning "little red one" after the berries on the aforementioned tree when in flower). Given he's guaranteed to be ginger it seemed appropriate, and I would have agree to any request she made in there given what she went through, so this seemed like very little.

What a marathon...

At some stage in all that we were told that Ripley was wedged into the Fat Lady’s pelvis, which is why he wasn’t turning. And had that last cervical rim gone he still would not have come out any other way than he had. 24 hours of labour, 2 hours to wait, an hour in surgery when he was only ever going to come out one way, and that could have been 26 hours earlier than he had. I’m gutted for MOTS having gone through all that in vain. But I’m so proud of her for trying so hard, for never giving up, for giving me a fantastic son and heir and for holding it together from beginning to end.