Yet another inspiring story coming from the Invisible Midwives
Our first son’s birth had been a good one, all things considered; in a birth centre, 14 hours of active labour, a rather long pushing stage (3 and a half hours) due to his hand being up by his ear, but all without intervention and resulting in the birth of a big, beautiful boy who we instantly fell in love with.
When I became pregnant again 18 months later, my first instinct was to go back to the same birth centre for this labour. Most of my friends seem to have had a pretty shocking time giving birth in hospital, and I considered myself lucky to have had a positive experience. I can’t say I enjoyed Rory’s birth exactly, but no-one enjoys childbirth, I thought, and simply to have gotten through it without drugs or injury to myself or my baby was as good as it was going to get, surely? But as the months went on and I became more confident that this little baby was sticking around, I begun to reconsider and question some of the things that had happened during Rory’s birth. The car journey, for starters – Hell. Then the painful vaginal examination upon arrival. I had been amazed to discover during a stretch and sweep 24 hours previously, when I was experiencing no labour pains at all, that I was already 3 cm dilated. How wonderful! This was going to be easy, surely. But when I arrived at the birth centre having been in labour for 6 hours, getting 3 contractions every 10 minutes and in a lot of pain, a VE revealed that I was… 3 cm dilated. Still 3 cm? How is this even possible?! At this rate I was going precisely nowhere.
I was also told that the baby was slightly posterior and the cervix was quite far back. The message was clear: you’re going to be here a long time. In fact, let’s send you home. Please no! I begged. I can’t have another contraction in a car! The birth centre was quiet that evening, so eventually they gave in and let me stay. But a shadow was cast over the rest of the first stage. ‘You’re going nowhere, fast’ hung around in the back of my mind and I couldn’t shake it off. The contractions intensified, the pain was worse than I could have imagined, and it seemed to have no end. If only someone could tell me how much longer, was all I could think. I need to know that this will end. I need the certainty of an end point. But of course no-one can tell you when that will be.
Then the second stage, at last! Instantly the pain was manageable. I could do this. The end was in sight. But three hours later I was starting to doubt myself. Could I really do this? It was such hard work, it seemed impossible. Everyone was telling me to push, push, push. I had been ready to breathe my baby out, but now I was pushing so hard, working harder than I had ever worked in my life. I was sweating and straining and shaking with the effort of each exhausting contraction. I was the one suggesting Ventouse! But thankfully I lucked out with a midwife who defied the 2 hour time limit and told me that I was going to get this baby out, and no-one else. And, eventually, I did. The sense of achievement was overwhelming.
Given the intensity of that experience, perhaps the obvious choice second time around would have been to opt for an epidural. Many people do and I have absolutely no argument with that choice. I get it, I really do. But I suspected, deep down, that a better option was available. I looked into home birth, and by the time of my booking appointment my mind was made up. With Rory’s birth I couldn’t wait to get to the hospital, as it seemed to be the place of safety. I was in pain, I was (I now realise) scared, and I wanted someone or something to rescue me. Having heard many friends’ birth stories since then, I now understood that the hospital was far from the safest place to be if your idea of safety is to avoid major abdominal surgery. Or head trauma to your baby, or damage to your pelvic floor. All of these things are more likely if you choose to give birth in a hospital. I could go back to the birth centre, sure, but I learned that they were short-staffed and that many people were being turned away. And although it’s nicer than the hospital labour ward, it still involves a car journey and the risk of exposing my baby and me to hospital bugs (it’s in the same building as the hospital). I wanted to be at home.
Unfortunately though, my local hospital was reluctant to ‘allow’ me to have a home birth. One positive Group B Strep test half way through the last pregnancy meant that fluorescent yellow stickers were all over my notes: “Warning: Group B Strep”. I was ‘high risk’, despite subsequent tests finding no trace of infection, and despite all tests coming back negative during my current pregnancy. I read around the subject of Group B Strep extensively, and came to the conclusion that I didn’t want antibiotics during labour this time. These intravenous antibiotics had been cited as the reason for denying me a home birth, and yet even though I was going to refuse them, they still told me I couldn’t birth at home. I knew, of course, that they didn’t have the right to refuse me a home birth – they have to send someone out to attend a birth, by law – but the whole point of going down this route was to be in a supportive and caring environment, and the impression I was being given was that my NHS carers would be jittery and fearful of the hospital protocol. Hardly the atmosphere I wanted around me for the birth. So I started to look into independent midwifery.
I met with five different independent midwives, but after meeting the first ones, Kemi Johnson and Laura La Roche, I knew that I’d found the women I wanted to be with me during my pregnancy and birth. They were so lovely, and everything about them exuded joy and excitement about birth. Here were two women seriously passionate about their jobs. They were eminently qualified too: their knowledge and training exceeded that of typical NHS midwives. I quizzed them on obstetric emergencies and I knew that I was in safe hands. They weren’t assessing me purely as a series of risks to be managed, and they didn’t have to be scared of hospital protocol; instead they listened to me and saw me as a healthy woman enjoying a healthy pregnancy. I knew that they would give my baby the safest and gentlest welcome into the world.
Getting to know Kemi and Laura throughout my pregnancy was a pleasure. The appointments often lasted 2 hours or more and I got the opportunity to pick their brains about all sorts of things related to birth. During one of these lengthy chats I asked what they would do if the cord was round the baby’s neck. They gave me a detailed answer, including how management of this had changed in recent years. I wasn’t to know then that this would prove relevant to my baby’s birth.
I woke up a week before my due date after a good night’s sleep. Rory woke up and came into our bed for a cuddle, then the supermarket delivery arrived; the fridge was soon overflowing with the huge number of buy-one-get-one-free offers I had been inexplicably drawn to this week. Over breakfast Chris and I talked about how we were going to get the baby clothes down from the loft over the next few days. We also had to road-test filling up the birth pool, and of course I had my hospital bag to pack, just in case. Rory had been 10 days late so naturally we assumed that we had ages to get these things done. And I didn’t feel nearly uncomfortable enough yet to think that labour was imminent.
Chris went off to work and Rory and I got ready to go out to meet a friend at a playgroup. Nearly out the door, then a toddler tantrum starts – Rory does NOT want to walk there, he wants to take the car. I explained that this wasn’t possible, the church where the playgroup takes place is really close and there’s nowhere to park there – we’d end up parking outside our house again. This line of argument doesn’t resonate with a determined 2 year old. We go round in circles, I try cajoling, I try being firm, I try bribery. None of it works. Then I notice that for a while now I’ve been getting vague period-pain type feelings. Nothing heavy, in fact I remember the same feelings for a good week before Rory’s birth. Could be early labour of course. I noted the comedy of the situation: I should be lying in a bath now, I thought, surrounded by candles and chanting. Not arguing with a 2 year old who’s refusing to put his shoes on. Eventually the friend who we’re meeting, Louiza, sends a photo of her son Dimitri playing with a fire engine at the playgroup and this does the trick – we’re off.
It was a beautiful day, cold, crisp and clear. Most of the snow from two days earlier had melted but a few snowmen still lined the route. On the way there I texted Kemi to let her know I’ve been getting very light contractions every 15 minutes or so, and called Chris at work. We got to the playgroup and Louiza, who could barely contain her excitement at being with me during what may or may not be early labour, downloaded an app onto my phone that keeps a log of the contractions. This proved to be a stroke of genius: all I had to do was press a button at the start and end of each contraction and my phone did all the rest. I carried on as normal throughout the morning, playing with Rory, having chats with other mums and nannies, just stopping every now and then to close my eyes and breathe through a contraction. When it finished at 12.30 Louiza suggested we go back to hers for a while, so we all got on the bus, a major treat for Rory and Dimitri. I love the photo I have of the two boys grinning, side by side on the bus – the last photo I have of my little boy before he became a big brother.
Back at Louiza’s she made me a delicious lunch, after which I walked Rory around in the buggy until he went to sleep. By this stage I could still walk through the contractions but there was no way I could talk. Dimitri didn’t manage a nap that day and sat quietly with us watching Dumbo. I will always associate that film with the increasing intensity of contractions and the feeling that this was really happening – the baby was going to be born today. My phone rang and out of the blue my oldest school friend, Tara, who home-birthed both of her children, is talking to me. We’re both amazed that she chose that moment to call, as we haven’t spoken to each other for several months. I can feel her love and support and it’s great. Then I lay down in Louiza’s spare room and closed my eyes for a rest, continuing to push the button on my phone at the beginning and end of each contraction. After an hour or so of this I looked at the log: every four minutes lasting 40-50 seconds! I called Kemi to let her know, and she told me, very calmly and politely, to get home. Now. And to call Chris and tell him to get home as soon as possible. She’d be there as soon as she could.
Suddenly I was in labour, for real. One word kept on coming into my mind: inescapability. You really can’t escape your body during labour. It’s the most ‘in’ your body you’ll ever be. Up to a certain point you can try to ignore the sensations, but at some point you have to face it head on and dive in. It’s just you, your baby and the present moment; nothing else exists while you’re in the peak of a contraction.
There was much excitement as Louiza and I bundled Rory and Dimitri into her car for the journey back to mine. Another car journey in labour! Just what I’d been trying to avoid. But thankfully it was short and before I knew it we were home. Chris was home already, Kemi was round the corner getting some fish and chips, and soon the house was bustling with everyone else: Laura, my sister Bella, and of course Louiza and Dimitri, who were doing a grand job of entertaining Rory. I went to our bedroom and leant over the bed, listening to Rory shriek with laughter as the boys squirted each other with water from his toy fire engine. It felt so exciting, a real party atmosphere. Chris massaged my back through the contractions, and in between them he ran around the house preparing Rory’s tea, making him laugh, getting the birth pool out and welcoming the new arrivals. During my first labour I had been totally focussed on contractions: how many, how often, how painful. At the end of a contraction all I could think about was how long I would have to wait before the next one started. This time around I became aware of the fact that most of your labour is spent NOT having contractions. Sure, the contractions hurt, but during the gaps in between you feel completely normal, and there’s nothing to keep you grounded in normality like having to find the toy police car with the flashing light before the next one starts.
Chris set up the TENS machine and we laboured on with a mixture of TENS and massage. Kemi or Laura came upstairs occasionally to listen to the baby’s heartbeat – all was well. I was far less noisy than last time, making a low “zhhh” sound and swaying my hips. It came home to me once again how important the breath is. I found that if I was ‘wrong-footed’ by starting a contraction on an inhalation, the pain was noticeably worse and I felt out of control. If I timed it well with a long, deep in-breath before the contraction started, I had a full exhalation to work with. The feeling was like surfing – catching the crest of a wave and rolling into shore. I also found that it was very easy to get “stuck” in one position, and that as the labour intensified it was important to change position frequently. Sometimes I felt like I had to pick myself up by the scruff of the neck in order to do this. Even though a position was beginning to be uncomfortable, it felt like some kind of powerful magnet was keeping me there. I understand why women get stuck in the lithotomy position, particularly if people are telling you to lie down. But moving from all fours to a squat, to hanging off Chris’s neck, to lying down on my side, to leaning against the wall, was really the lifesaver as the contractions intensified. Each change of position brought with it a new way to manage the pain, and a new opportunity for my baby to move down.
As we hadn’t expected to be having a baby for at least another week, one of the many things we hadn’t done was to check that the nozzle I’d bought for the hose to fill up the birth pool fitted onto the kitchen tap. Unfortunately it didn’t. I was listening to the discussions going on downstairs and remember looking at the clock – 17.25 – and thinking that they’d better hurry if they’re going to catch the hardware shop round the corner. Luckily they did and soon the birth pool was filling up. Louiza and Dimitri went home and my mum arrived to keep Rory entertained.
I remember asking Laura how much longer she thought I had to go. Her answer was perfect: “I have no idea. But we’re not going anywhere, and your baby will come when it’s ready. You’re exactly where you need to be right now.” So true. At one point I became worried that the baby had turned and was posterior, as I was feeling back pain between the contractions. Kemi came upstairs to check me out. I was wearing a bra and trousers, so my back was visible. Much to my amazement she told me (without any internal examination) that the pain I was feeling was because my sacrum was moving, which meant that I was probably 7 or 8 cm dilated. Such good news! I hadn’t thought I was nearly that far along. And it acted as a catalyst – the power of the good news really sped things up. Kemi invited me downstairs to get into the birth pool.
On the way down I stopped off in the bathroom to use the loo. Then I spent some time hanging off the towel radiator in a standing squat, which felt really good. I could feel the baby moving down with each contraction, it was incredible. It was as though Kemi telling me I was so far along in my labour had given me permission to really let go and let this baby come down. Chris and I went downstairs and everything looked so beautiful: furniture pushed to the side, fairy lights on, and a pool of lovely warm water waiting for me. I undressed and got straight in. Such a wonderful feeling – the pain relief was real and tangible. I got my favourite music paying and I was relaxed and happy. After about 10 minutes I started making ‘pushy’ sounds and my legs gave some involuntary twitches, which Kemi later told me wasn’t quite the 2nd stage starting, but was most probably my baby’s head dilating an anterior lip of cervix and nestling into the perfect position. Too often women have a vaginal examination at this point, which can then lead to many unnecessary interventions when they find that she is pushing before she ‘should’. If, instead, they waited a while, my midwives tell me that things invariably sort themselves out – the baby’s head flexes nicely and the cervix dilates fully.
A short while later I was pushing for real, a deeper, guttural sound. I was on my knees, leaning over the edge of the pool and hugging Chris. At one point I felt a pop and knew that my waters had broken. I laboured in this position for a while but there was no denying that it was all becoming quite hard work; the ghosts of the last labour began to rear their heads. Laura suggested – and what still amazes me is that this was the only time that either midwife suggested anything to me during labour, as the rest of the time they simply let me get on with it or said “you’re doing great, listen to your body” – that I try a different position. I moved around a bit and then found, much to my surprise, that I wanted to be lying back with my legs outstretched and my arms extended along the top of the pool. It was a position of total surrender, a bit like I was on a sun lounger, and it was perfect.
Rory wanted to come down for a cuddle at one stage, and it was easy and natural to have him come downstairs and check in with us both. “What you doing mummy?” he asked. “The baby’s being born” I told him (he’d watched lots of birthing videos with me and knew the score). “Oh, okay. See you later!” he said before toddling back upstairs. The baby continued to move down with each contraction, and I felt that we wouldn’t have long to wait. I was pushing, but only because it felt totally right to do so. When I tried not pushing and just “breathing the baby down” I found the contractions to be painful. When I pushed it felt good, and I could feel the progress. At the moment of crowning I worried a little that I would tear, as I thought that maybe I was pushing too much – but then suddenly the head popped out! Such a relief. And then an incredible feeling as the baby turned and wriggled. I remember thinking “wow, babies really want to be born”. Then Laura calmly told me that the cord was round the neck and she was going to do the somersault manoeuvre. I was so pleased we’d had that discussion earlier, as I knew what she meant and felt totally calm. We waited, and then she skilfully and easily guided the baby out with the next contraction. Then came the magical words, “reach down and pick up your baby”. I scooped up a vernixy, slippery bundle and hugged it to my chest. We were so happy. The water was clear, if a little white from the vernix. No blood and, I deduced, no tearing. The second stage had lasted one hour, and he was born at 8.14pm.
It seemed like ages before anyone thought to say “what have you got?” and I lifted the bundle away from my chest – a boy! He had been quiet and calm up to that point, but when I took him away from my body he wailed a strong lusty cry, a pattern that continued for many weeks! He does like a cuddle. Chris went upstairs to get Rory and my mum, and they joined us round the pool, Rory saying “there’s a BABY in the paddling pool!” over and over. My mum was very surprised that he was born so quickly – she thought I was being far too quiet to be near the end of labour and was getting ready to camp down for the night. After a while I got out of the pool with the cord still attached, put a dressing gown on and sat on the sofa. We waited a good hour and a half before cutting the cord. Then we weighed him – a healthy 8 lb 5 oz. The placenta came out a little later. No clocks ticking, no deadline to get it out – all was well and the placenta came out whole and healthy.
We’d done it, a beautiful home water birth. After all those months of anticipation it had all been so straightforward, and so calm. And yes, I’d go so far as to say that, this time, I actually enjoyed childbirth. I realised afterwards that it hadn’t even occurred to me to think about pain relief. I had total faith throughout that everything was going to be fine – and that to me is the power of surrounding yourself with people who trust in the process of birth. It rubs off on you.
Rory took it all very much in his stride and I was so pleased not to have had an enforced separation from him. 2 months on there’s no sign of jealousy, and I’m sure that’s in large part due to the fact that he was very much involved on the day his little brother was born, and mum was always available to him. He regularly plays at giving birth to his teddy bears and finds it very funny. It’s lovely that he sees it as a completely normal event.
By midnight everything was clean and tidy, Kemi, Laura and my mum had gone home, and we were snuggled up in bed together. So civilised! I couldn’t sleep a wink as I was too excited, looking at my beautiful little boy. The two of us didn’t leave the house for 5 days. Physically I felt fine. Better than fine – I felt great. But all I wanted to do was rest, eat and cuddle my boys.
The first few weeks were happy but challenging as I found breastfeeding Milo difficult. Having had no problems feeding Rory, this time around it was painful and I had cracked nipples, and later mastitis too. Having Kemi and Laura at the end of the phone and popping in frequently was wonderful and an unexpected bonus of choosing independent midwives, and without their support it would have been much more of a struggle to get breastfeeding established. Now Milo’s a gloriously fat and happy baby and I feel so thankful that he’s had such a gentle start to life. It gave us the best possible start to life as a family of four. I emerged from his birth physically and emotionally stronger. It’s an experience I’ll treasure forever.
