When labour strikes…

Only ten more days to go or so I thought, completely disregarding the little cramps I was feeling early Thursday morning (September 2002). Waking up as my husband left for work, I began washing some baby clothes. The cramps persisted, halting my task momentarily, but were not strong enough to convince me that I was in labour.. I continued washing and soon finished. My husband called me to check if everything was okay. Reluctantly I told him about the cramps but hastily reassured him I was not in labour. But within twenty minutes he showed up with a co-worker.

By then contractions, though sporadic, were coming every 7-10 minutes. Upon hearing this, my husband urged me to go to the hospital immediately. But being the informed, prepared and calm person I was, I insisted that it was too early to take such drastic measures. How embarrassing it would be to rush to the hospital only to be sent back. On top of that my water hadn’t broke.

I calmly sat down and watched my usual television show, “A Baby Story”, while having my hair done. The contractions though closer together were still no more than an average menstrual cramp.

Having spent hours watching and reading everything I could on the birthing process, my next move was to relax in a tub of water for the next hour and a half, much to the chagrin of my husband whose anxiety was escalating. Finally around 3 o’clock after the contractions started coming 5-3 minutes apart and lasting for a minute, I gave in. Maybe this was the real thing.

At the hospital, I was ushered upstairs and shown to a room. My husband brought my bags but was barred at the door, told to put down the bags and go. So quickly did it happen that no words were exchanged. No good luck; no I love you; no everything will be okay. I was interviewed by the matron and told to take a bath as I would be admitted. She then left.

As the evening shadows fell and I looked out through the window at gloomy Downtown Kingston dressed in its rags of despair and depression my shoulders drooped under the weight, which seemed to fall on me. The realization hit me. I was in labour. I was alone. I felt forlorn and abandoned.

Luckily, though, my sister-in-law was a nurse at the hospital. She had specialised in midwifery and I was comforted when she came in and held my hand.

Walking down the corridor to where my bed was, I could hear the screams and moans of soon-to-be mothers. It all sounded so frightening; I tried hard not to think about it.

To keep my mind off my ever-increasing pains – I walked around, checking out the surroundings while breathing through the pain as I had learnt to do in Yoga. The nurses were either at their station or lounging on benches close to the door of the room where I, along with three other occupants lay. None of them came in.

Thank God for my sister-in-law, who held my hand and timed the contractions while checking my dilation progress in a very gentle yet professional way. She even tended the other young ladies as the nurses never looked their way.

As my contractions increased in intensity, I was given an injection in the thigh to help to alleviate the pain. It certainly did not help. Soon I was wheeled into another room to see the doctor — the first time since my arrival three hours before. He instructed to get on the examination table and asked me if my water had broken. I told him no.

Suddenly I had a long, cylindrical tube thrust into me by a man who was obviously unaware of the pain he was causing me and even if he knew, did not care. My screams of pain and squirms of discomfort went unnoticed as he continued his poking in several places. That ordeal ended when the devil in the green gown gruffly told me that I could get up. Too exhausted to walk on my own, I was wheeled back to my assigned bed.

This was when the real pain kicked in. They were coming fast and furious, leaving me barely enough time to catch my breath. Concentrating on Yoga breathing techniques was almost impossible. I lost all sense of time as the contractions hit me in rapid succession like the ocean tide pounding against the rocks. My attendant thought I was close and had me wheeled to the delivery room to be checked. I had advanced from 2cm dilation to 8cm dilation. Only two centimetres left. I prayed it would go quickly.

Left alone as my attendant busied herself preparing for my delivery, I thrashed around feeling the desire to bear down, but knowing I should not as I could damage myself. My throat was bone-dry and my lips were parched. How I longed for just one drop of cool, sweet water. I pleaded for a drink even a chip of ice but to no avail. It was too late for that I was told. Quickly becoming dehydrated, I was hooked up to an IV. After what seemed like an eternity, yet in retrospect was only two hours, it was time to push. My bedside suddenly became a buzz of activity as two other nurses along with my sister-in-law and the doctor surrounded me. Bearing down, I pushed with all my might, except that a nurse with an African accent seemed quite unimpressed with all my efforts and kept shouting, “Push! You’re not pushing!”

This was in complete opposition to my attendant who held my hand or leg and quietly assured me I was doing well. My puny attempts and obvious inexperience appeared to anger the African nurse as she slapped me on the arm and demanded how old I was.

My sister in law told her I was almost 25 but she was unconvinced and continued with her abuse. On top of my agony, insults from a woman I did not know or even like for that matter was just too much. Through clenched teeth I screamed back at her, “I am pushing!” I really wanted to add more but my pain took precedence.

Being a petite woman, I was told that a tiny incision had to be made to deliver the baby’s head. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched in trepidation as my sister armed herself with a huge pair of shiny, stainless steel scissors. Never in a million years would I have guessed what would follow, as I was still caught up in the fantasy of “A Baby Story”, where anesthetics are given and nurses kindly inform you what to expect. With the next contraction I bore down as hard as I could, pushing like I had seen so many times on television.

I screamed in anguished feeling the most excruciating pain as the scissors sliced into my flesh. Before I could recover I was cut again. My screams resounded through the hospital answered by the loud wail of my baby. She was quickly whisked away to a nearby table to be cleaned, inspected, tagged and dressed.

She was shown to me briefly and then placed in a bassinet beside my bed. Placing her tiny thumb in her mouth, she calmly went to work sucking on it. For that moment all pain dissipated as I gazed at her in fascination.

The African nurse, who could not wait for me to pass the after birth naturally proceeded to vigorously massage my belly. I pushed her hand away, loudly protesting about the pain she was causing me. She roughly rejoined that I would die if I didn’t pass it out soon.

My sister-in-law, her work completed, congratulated me on doing so well and left. The other nurses disappeared as quietly as they had come. Once again I was alone with the news that a doctor would return shortly to suture me up. I lay there for close to half an hour, having to be satisfied with just looking at my daughter.

Finally, it was my turn to be sewn up. Injections, a thing I had longed feared but had become quite used to throughout my pregnancy, were no longer scary. So I did not flinch as the doctor administered it in three areas. In any case, this was child’s play in comparison to what I had just gone through.

My baby, who after nearly an hour without being fed or held, began crying her heart out. All I wanted to do was hold her but I had to wait until the doctor finished putting in the stitches. She kindly reassured me that I would not scar and left valuable information on how to treat the site.

For the first time I held my daughter and all the pain and tears of a few hours ago faded, leaving only the wonder and humility of being able to look at the incredible blessing held in my hand. It all seemed worthwhile just to see her beautiful face.