At 3cm dilated I was admitted but advised to keep active to hurry things along. My husband and I slogged up and down the hospital stairs to rock my pelvis, with me clinging to the railing when things got rough. I was beginning to tire but remained upbeat - this was my moment to shine and I'd soon meet my long-awaited daughter.
Eventually, at around 2am, I was fully dilated and it was time to push. The contractions were hellish. But worse than any pain was the realisation that my baby's heartbeat became very irregular every time there was a big contraction. At one stage I remember looking over to my midwife who was examining the foetal monitor graph - I could see concern all over her face, quietly calling a nurse over to confer.
My baby was in distress, I was told, time to hurry up. I persevered for two more excruciating hours with no luck, all the while listening to the very erratic sound of my baby's heartbeat.
At about 4.30am an epidural was inserted. I was exhausted and the staff thought a ventouse would be the best bet to help get the baby out. I remember telling someone the epidural felt like God's finger in my spine taking away all the pain. I suddenly regretted my "no drug" stubbornness and wished I had taken up the offer of pain relief hours earlier. By the time I arrived in the theatre for the ventouse, my baby's heartbeat was so faint it was hard to detect on the machine. When I experienced a strong contraction, it flatlined.
That was one of the worst moments of my life. Instead of a ventouse, an emergency C-section was performed, quickly.
There was not much time for any neat surgery, it was a case of get in quick, and get the baby out.
My long, ugly scar is testament to the urgency. Neonatal intensive care nurses were called in, as well as some very fancy and very intimidating machinery. Hospital staff were talking frantically to each other, as they battled to get my daughter, who was now firmly lodged down the birth canal, back up and out through my abdomen.
I clung to my husband's hand, silent tears streaming down my face, praying that my baby would be alive. It was hugely traumatic.
At 7.03am my baby girl was born, long and skinny measuring an unbelievable 58cm and weighing 7 pounds.
She came into the world screaming which shocked and thrilled everyone. The ordeal was over and my little girl was okay - the relief was immense. The umbilical cord had wrapped around her chest and neck and, every time I had a contraction or tried to push, it would tighten and choke her.
Of course I am grateful to live in a country where emergency operations can be performed and I know there's no better prize than a healthy baby.
But, for some reason, I still felt robbed because I hadn't birthed naturally. I had wanted to have a natural birth so badly - I'd read the books and attended the classes. I felt like I'd failed in my first task of motherhood.
C-section deliveries are sometimes made out to be "the easy way out". I received a few comments alluding to this and, after the marathon effort I'd undergone, they made my recovery even tougher.
I know it doesn't really matter how we give birth, as long as the end result is positive, so why is it common to feel cheated after having a C-section?
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