It's probably impossible to speak of the birth of Samuel, without some mention of what we went through to conceive him, and a little of the pregnancy itself.
It was pretty close to three years to the day he was born since we had started trying for a baby... 18 months of IVF, 3 miscarriages, 2 quite nasty bouts of OHSS, 4 frozen embryo transfers, one fresh transfer... and we have Samuel. And a pregnancy plagued with early morning sickness, anemia and which was just generally horrid.
Being an IVF pregnancy, our first scan took place at 6 weeks and 3 days. Our first Obstetrician appointment took place at 8 weeks and 6 days, which was a day further than our first and longest pregnancy to date. We were sent off with official scan requests for a dating scan (not necessary, but for my own reassurance) which we had around 10 weeks, and our nuchal scan which we had around 13 weeks... Then the morphology scan at 18 weeks... and already we'd had more scans than most people would have in a pregnancy, but with the discovery that Samuel only had a single artery in his umbilical cord, and that he was quite small for dates, we had two more big scans booked. At 24 weeks he had caught up to be absolutely spot on for dates. At 32 weeks we were told he was now looking quite big. So many scans! An appointment with the obstetrician the day before I hit 36 weeks saw us have another scan booked to determine whether he would be too big, whether I would need a c-section or whether I should be induced at 39 weeks. That was Thursday, the scan was booked for Monday.
Most of Thursday had been spent collecting a change table and chest of drawers that had been on layby and completing the Christmas present shopping. We unpacked all of his clothing that evening, planned for me to wash his clothes, wraps, sheets, etc on Friday, to pick up the car seat and pram on Saturday... I was also stuffed into support stockings for my swollen feet and told there was absolutely nothing to be done about the extreme pelvis pain I was experiencing but to rest.
Friday the 19th of December at around 4am... I woke, and felt damp... and panicked that Samuel was now so heavy and exerting so much pressure on my bladder that my pelvic floor had finally given way. I jumped out of bed. Yes, jumped. It had previously been a huge effort to even roll over, but it was suddenly VERY easy to get out of bed. Within two steps I noticed that the pain had gone, I could walk, and assumed that Samuel had moved and was no longer pushing painfully on my hip joints. I also realised that I'd either lost all urinary control completely, or that this sudden gush of fluid wasn't from Samuel pushing on my bladder... three steps later I was at the toilet, underpants and PJ pants absolutely saturated... urine's not pink, is it? Uhoh... I'm only 36 weeks! This isn't meant to be happening now!
I got cleaned up... fresh PJ pants, fresh underwear, held a wad of toilet paper firmly in place as I climbed the mountain of Samuel's washing to find the sole pack of maternity pads in the house - blessing my sister in law for having put them in a basket for me at my baby shower.
I started reading all sorts of articles about "how do you know your waters have broken" and "am I really in labour?"... Around 4:30 I decided I should try to get some sleep. Not happening. I started to feel vague tightenings in my belly, accompanied by back pain... I was wondering why on earth I was having posterior labour when I had a posterior placenta and Samuel was meant to be facing it. They came every 10 minutes or so and I recall thinking that if this was what contractions were then labour was going to be easy peasy - I had worse period pain!
Around 5:30 I woke
DH... Still panicking that it was too early, still in vague denial that it was actually happening NOW, and worried that he was supposed to be onsite for work at 7:30 or something silly like that. I got a confused look and was told "it's ok, I've set the alarm, I can get to work on time, I don't need to be awake now"... Um, right... you're not going to work today...
6am saw us on the phone to the hospital and instructed to eat breakfast and head on in... We figured we should pack a bag first... Managed to remember the phone charger after my last hospital experience, but forgot the camera and forgot the antenatal card... 6:30 in the car, and my contractions are now 5 minutes apart and I'm getting a little panicky.
7am and we're settled in delivery suite and hooked up to monitors... I'm calmer now, things have slowed a little, perhaps, or they are at least not hurting so much. My obstetrician makes a brief appearance and tries to book us for another scan that day... I figure she's really worried about the size of this baby and start to stress. The midwife argues that I'm having contractions every 4 minutes and that I won't make it to the scan, but she's told to do it anyway. She tells us she'll book it, but she knows she'll end up cancelling it. My obstetrician expects to see us again in about 12 hours for the pushing stage...
I think it was around 8am, and my obstetrician did the first (and pretty much only) internal. 3-4cm. I'm tired, but still coping, but start to think that this will take forever.
The midwife tries to get a canula in my right hand... no idea why she went for that spot, but she failed. I later end up being bruised from the base of my fingers half way to my elbow from that attempt. They say they'll need to get the registrar to do it and they are summoned... but it takes forever.
I'm finding the back pain getting worse, and finding the monitors frustrating. With each contraction I need to move, but each time I move, the monitor slips off Sam's heart beat and stresses me out. They offer me gas, which helps for a bit - even if it's just something to focus on during each contraction. I opted for the mask, and I'm continually listening for the rattle to see if I'm breathing in hard enough... I start to regret ever laughing at the woman in the birth video that our antenatal class dubbed "gas lady". I am becoming gas lady... hell!
The canula is eventually located in my left hand around 11:30 or 12. I'm not looking at the clock by this stage, but I can figure out the time when I'm later told I was found to be GBS positive (had the swab Thursday afternoon) but as my GBS status was unkown during labour I was given antibiotics as a precaustion - I'm later told that we had an hour or so of antibiotic coverage before Samuel was born. I'm scared of seeing how high the numbers on the monitor go with each contraction and I'm really struggling with back pain... The midwife starts suggesting other pain relief options... I reject the pethidine and ask to be helped into a position that may help with the back pain. They set me up on my knees bending over a bean bag, and all I can say is that at that point in time all hell broke loose. Before they flip me over, they attach a scalp clip to Samuel and I'm told I'm around 5cm dilated and again think that this is going to take forever!
As soon as they flipped me over (which wasn't too long after the canula was inserted), Samuel flipped over and we went from being posterior to anterior... and with the "correct" form of pressure being applied to my cervix things really got fired up. I recall two contractions where I probably sucked harder and longer on the gas than gas lady ever did... At this point I'm really starting to panic and lose control and think there's no way I'll ever cope with this... Then there's another 2-3 contractions where I become really vocal with each exhale. I can feel my body pushing and I'm filled with thoughts of it being WAY too early to push, my cervix will swell and I'll need to have a c-section because I can't get him out... Not a nice feeling at all. I can remember gasping at
DH to offer me some bloody water after each contraction, dammit!
The midwife comes in... I guess the vocalisations were something she recognised and she asked me if I needed to push. I admitted that my body was pushing whether I wanted it to or not, and next thing I know, my obstetrician is back, I'm flipped over again and they take my gas away - mongrels! I don't recall much of the pushing stage at all. Just being told off because I could only get two pushes with each contraction instead of the three that they wanted. I recall intense pressure on my hip joints and feeling like they'll dislocate completely. I recall screaming and being told off for it and told to use the scream to push quietly, don't push in my throat, push through my bottom... I have no idea what the hell they are talking about, but try to comply anyway. I know I've got
DH supporting one leg, my obstetrician and/or the midwife supporting the other,
DH is told to support my head with each push... I remember repeatedly asking for help, to get him out, screaming that I can't do this, it's too hard... Really not something I want to remember at all... It was bloody hard work!
Eventually I feel burning pain with each push, and it gets even harder to push as they want me to - it hurts too much! Finally my obstetrician utters the horrible words "if you don't get him out with this contraction, we're giving you an episiotomy". The fear of being cut (you keep those bloody scissors away from me, cow!) outwieghs the pain of pushing and the exhaustion and with two (I still couldn't do three!) mammoth pushes, I finally feel the pressure and the burning subside... I've done it!
I look down and all I can say is "oh my God!" I see a little blue head, arms, body... There's something going on that I just don't understand, but all I can see is MY baby... I'm aware of
DH, and he's very quiet... not like he should be... there's something wrong... but before I can fully process things, I have a warm little (he's so LITTLE!) body placed in my arms and he starts to cry... I've never heard a sweeter sound in my life, and I can finally recognise the chubby little cheeks from our last scan, I'm astounded at the moulding of his head, the whiteness of his skin (at least he's not blue any more!) and the fact that he's crying. It felt like an eternity with him in my arms, and just an instant at the same time. They tell me that they had to cut his cord before he was fully delivered as it was wrapped around his neck twice and quite tangled, and I finally realise what the panic was about the episiotomy and what was going on and why everyone was so quiet. They offer to let
DH cut a section that's left and he declines. Next thing I know, Samuel is whisked away by someone and
DH follows. As much as I want
DH to stay with me, I need to know that he's with our son and that Samuel's not alone... Samuel was born at 12:49pm, and by 1pm he's been whisked away to who knows where
The gas is cranked right up, local anaesthetic injections are given (and I'm yelping in pain with each one) and my obstetrician starts the process of stitching me up. I'm yelping in pain with each stitch, but can't cope with how strong the gas is and toss the mask away. My obstetrician tells me that she was trying to distract me with the gas as I've torn forwards and some of those stitches are going in very close to the clitoris... I have panicked thoughts about sex being ruined forever and the PAIN... I think that was the worst part of all of it, pain-wise at least. I get given a suppository - indocid, and have a conversation with the obstetrician about how I was given that when I was hospitalised with OHSS... the things you remember at odd moments!
And then there's the hell of "afterwards"... I have the midwife pressing on my belly, pushing great huge clots out of my uterus, revolting feeling, revolting sight, huge pile of clots... but mostly I'm left alone, except when the midwives are bugging me about whether I can pee yet. I find I start shaking at this point - uncontrollable shakes through my whole body... I recall the paediatrician coming in to talk to me about giving formula to my son because his blood sugars are extremely low and they need to feed him to get them up. I ask if we can breastfeed and I'm told that it's unlikely that he'll be able to suck because of the low blood sugars. I'm essentially told that it's formula or a glucose drip for him. I can't stand the thought of needles being poked into my son when he's so new so I agree to the formula. It crosses my mind vaguely to wonder why nobody suggested trying to express, but I'm still shaking, still extremely tired and just feeling generally too traumatised to be able to ask.
I recall asking a midwife how big my son was and get told "2.48kg" and that's it. I send a few text messages to people letting them know he'd arrived, and then get one from the church SMS prayer chain. They'd told
DH all of Samuel's stats - head circumference and length as well as exact time of arrival, and they'd sent those details out in a prayer request for us. I found out the time of his birth (12:49pm), his length (48cm) and head circumference (33cm) in a text message from my church... I laugh slightly, but inside I'm breaking apart because they should have been telling ME this stuff!
They bring lunch in to me, and I have to ask for a cloth to clean the blood off my hands and arms before I can eat. I'm finding the loneliness hard to cope with at this stage, so I ask them to bring
DH back to join me to eat, and discover that despite the assertions that Samuel wouldn't be able to suck, they did attempt to bottle feed him formula before they put the NG tube in to tube feed him. I'm sad at the feeling of not only being allowed to try breastfeeding him, but at not even being the first person to attempt to give him a bottle, but I'm just too out of it still to be able to process things fully. Suddenly my brain wakes up to the fact that even though we forgot the camera, we both have mobile phones with cameras, so I send
DH off to the special care nursery with his phone to take a picture for me... My second sight of my son is a picture of him in a humidicrib on
DH's mobile...
I recall threats of catheters if I don't manage to pee soon... and my protests that I was peeing constantly during labour fall on deaf ears. I remember peeing everywhere when my body was pushing and I was trying not to, but that's still not good enough for the midwives. I did manage to get myself there eventually, and find to my relief that it doesn't sting too much... but I'm leaning well forward. Not that leaning forward helps a great deal when you tear in that direction, though!
I'm still shaking a little at this point, and end up having a midwife help me shower and change into a fresh hospital gown, fresh pair of disposable "one size fits nobody" undies... and collapse back onto the bed exhausted. It's not until the next day that I remember my soap got left in the delivery suite shower. I express my sadness at not being strong enough to walk to see my son and they help me into a wheelchair to go see him. I remember at our first antenatal class seeing a woman similarly clad and just as dishevelled as I probably look being wheeled into SCN to see her baby, and suddenly the expression on her face makes perfect sense. I see a tiny baby, now much cleaner, in a humidicrib and wouldn't have recognised him if it weren't for his chubby cheeks. I'm allowed to open the little hatch and gently stroke his foot and no more. As much as I want to stay there, just the sheer effort of sitting in a wheel chair is exhausting me and I eventually have to ask to be taken back to our room and need to be helped back into bed.
Around 7pm we're moved from delivery suite to the ward, and to my immense relief I discover that I have a cool (if not even cold) room. My OHSS stay had me in a room that could only be described as HOT!
DH and I are fed once again, and as I'm still feeling weak and shaky, I send him off (this time with my mobile as his battery is going flat) for another picture and this time I'm rewarded with the sight of my son dressed in tiny hospital gown, swaddled in piles of blankets and wearing a singlet on his head as a hat... sleeping so very peacefully, and even got a profile shot where you are barely aware of his NG tube at all. I flop back and watch TV in the absence of anything else to do and the days events start to slowly slide through my brain and I become extremely sad that
DH and I are HERE, and Samuel is THERE and there's no way I can get myself THERE. I feel stuck, teary, tired and just generally a mess. The minute
DH asks me if it's ok if he goes home, I collapse in tears... My ever-thinking husband, once he can extract from me what the problem is, quietly presses the call button and requests a wheel chair when the nurse arrives.
And then I experience something that is only slightly less traumatic than having Samuel taken away from me so soon after birth. I see my tiny baby sleeping in those horrid plastic bucket bassinettes the hospital uses and the nurse frowns at me when I rest my hand on him, so I just don't dare to touch his face. I ask if I can hold him and get told no - he shouldn't be disturbed after a tube feed... As nice as it is to be able to see him, having to ask to hold my son and being told no... I almost feel as though I'd have been better off not even going to the nursery. I'm wheeled back, helped into bed,
DH leaves and I try to sleep... I think it's about 9pm at this point. Around midnight, in desperation, I call for the nurse and ask if there's anything that can be done to help me sleep. I get told they don't give new mothers sleeping pills as it will pass through breast milk and I have frustrated thoughts of "what breast milk?"! Nobody's letting me hold my son let alone feed him! But I'm offered pain relief (oh the bliss when the pain you didn't know you were in finally goes!) and a glass of warm milk, and eventually settle to a few hours of sleep. Every nurse call alarm wakes me, and I hear sirens of ambulances heading into the public hospital and I long to be able to go home...
Saturday morning, and breakfast is brought to me - with a small banana fiasco as my allergy details hadn't been fully filled out on things, but the kitchen staff are fantastic about it. They are more bothered by the error than I am, and instead of just removing the banana as I requested, they get me a whole new tray. I wake feeling like I've been hit by a truck, and just in case it's an arthritis flare instead of just post-birth exhaustion, I take some extra prednisone. I vaguely recall seeing my obstetrician that morning, and thinking that she was more excited about me being a mother now than I was.
I get myself through another shower, and finally dress in my own clothes rather than the ever so sexy blue hospital gown, and find myself once again exhausted by the effort of showering and dressing. I rest for a while, and then
DH talks me into going to see Samuel in the nursery. I'd have gone earlier, only I have no idea where everything is in relation to my room... then kick myself as the corridor to delivery suite and the SCN is practically opposite the door to my room. We finally get to have our first cuddles, and the only thing spoiling the moment is the fact that my sister in law has arrived, along with my niece and a complete stranger and they join us in SCN for our first cuddles and first bottle feed. I develop even more resentment towards my niece as she keeps popping up between me and my son (just like going shopping with her, and just like at my baby shower, except this time I can't just grin and bare it and have to move her). I get cranky with her for commenting on the "white dots" around Samuel's nose... I take it as an assertion that he's less than perfect, less than beautiful, and become extremely resentful towards my sister in law as she begs a cuddle so he goes from me to her and back down, completely bypassing
DH. What should have been a special family moment with the three of us had way too many intruders, and I get grumpy with the SCN nurse for not enforcing the "immediate family only and siblings only if they are under 16" rules and letting non-immediate family, non-siblings and even non-family in at that point in time, however I do appreciate their relaxed attitude much more in the days ahead.
Sunday sees our first bath... and once again, what should have been a special moment with the three of us is spoiled by interlopers. This time, my parents. Our next suck feed, when I'm desperate to finally try to breastfeed my son, becomes yet another bottle as I just can't face the first breastfeeding attempts with an audience. More grumps and grumbles as my parents stay for ages. They arrived at 1pm - in the middle of the "compulsory rest period" but the nurses let them in. They stay until 5pm, when I'm finally so tired I have to ask them to leave so I can rest. Another visitor that evening, and finally... at 10pm on Sunday night (after being born on Friday afternoon), one of the SCN nurses finally suggest we try breastfeeding... However, by this point in time I fear that the damage has been done and cannot be repaired.
Monday - A few more visitors, but fortunately none at feed times. We have a few more breastfeeding attempts, and I'm now allowed to be more involved with Samuel's care and become much more confident with nappy changes. After the hell of having strange midwives attempt to help me hand express (and feeling like nothing more than a dairy cow), the SCN nurse who got us to try breastfeeding the previous night introduces me to the horrible torture device known as a breast pump and we begin increasingly frustrating and futile efforts to be able to pump more than a few drops... I never manage to get more than 5mL from one breast and only ever tiny droplets from the other.
We get told we can try two suck feeds to one bottle feed, and start out well, but crash... Somewhere in amongst all of this... I can barely remember now whether it was the early hours of Monday or Tuesday mornings, I'm awoken by the phone ringing in my room around 1am to go pump and feed Samuel... and I walk in to the sight of Samuel being back on a monitor (he'd not been on one since the day he was born) and the words "your baby turned a funny colour". There were two more episodes of this during the next 12 hours or so... We eventually figure out that it was caused by an NG tube that was too short and that had allowed milk to dribble back through the other nostril at one tube feed, and being such a young baby, when he found that he couldn't breathe through his nose, he just stopped, rather than breathing through his mouth. In that time, I get word that the paediatrician had gone from "breastfeeding only under supervision" to "no breastfeeding at all, just tubes and bottles", and a little more of my confidence is eroded away and I'm made to feel as though I'm harming my baby by trying to do what the world says is the best thing for him. In the middle of that hellish night I remember watching my baby screaming and desperately wanting to pick him up, but having the words "they shouldn't be handled after a tube feed" ringing through my head, so I don't... and have to be told by the nurse that I should... and the little boost to my confidence of having my son quiet in my arms... it's lovely, but just not enough.
We trundle through Christmas day on alternate suck and tube feeds, but always the bottle, always the frustration of the pump, and always having to rush things as there's others waiting to use the pump after me. There's three babies in special care, all on three hourly feeds, two on alternate tube and suck feeds and one that has two suck feeds per day... An example of the problems associated with this... Samuel's suck feed is due at 7am. Lara's suck feed is due at 7:30am, and Carter's first suck feed of the day is due at 8am... I need to have Samuel's bottle down by 7:30 and be off the pump by 8am, but need to race back to my room to eat breakfast (delivered to my room around 7), shower, dress, and it's just not possible to fit it all in. If I'm allowed to try to breastfeed, I can't get the attention and help I need as the nurse needs to be getting things ready for the other babies and helping those mothers.
On day 9, we finally see the paediatrician again, and get told that as there's been no funny episodes since and Samuel's doing really well, we can finally take him off the monitors, he can room in with me, and just return to the nursery for feeds... and we can try all suck feeds with him now, and I'm allowed to try breastfeeding again. Sadly, having been in the hospital myself for all of this time, I'm now going a little stir-crazy and feeling desperate to get out.
DH stays with us that night and it becomes like some sort of competition or game... Race to the nursery, change nappy, feed bottle, get me on the pump, get off the pump, breast milk dribble labelled and stored in syringe, get out of everybody's way before the next feed, the next pump... It becomes an absolute hell of feeling like we are force-feeding Samuel and pushing him too hard, of rushing and not getting to spend the time with him that I'd like, of being frightened to breastfeed in case it tires him too much and he has to have another tube put in... Of absolute frustration and tears from the pain of pumping, of trying to push the vacuum on the pump higher and higher to get more from me, of hand expressing the right breast to try to get what I can... and I can get droplets, but only if I'm bruising myself to do so...
On day 10, we get to see whether Samuel has passed the test... he's managed the suck feeds fine, but now we just need to see if he's gaining weight. On day 4, he'd lost 60g. On day 6 he was back to his birthweight. On day 8 he'd gained another 20g and there was concern expressed about his slow rate of weight gain. On day 10 he'd gained another 40g and I was in tears thinking it wouldn't be enough, and sadly dressed him in his hospital singlet and gown again as I just couldn't bare to think of putting him in his clothing only to have to leave him behind. My sanity was crumbling, and as much as I didn't want to leave him, I knew that whether he could go home or not, I would have to. I just couldn't take the hospital environment any more. I couldn't cope with another feed feeling like I was bouncing around in a pinball machine. The only thing that would have us allowed to take him home was our willingness to formula feed him. The only thing that kept me in hospital with him for so long was my insistence that I wanted to breastfeed him... The nurses were very strongly pushing the breastfeeding thing and even got me started on motillium, but the doctors - two obstetricians and the paediatrician - were all advising me that formula feeding was more than likely the way to go considering my medical issues, low supply and medications...
After three days at home... days of tears and pain on the pump... I finally gave it away. The hired breast pump was returned, formula feeding routines were established and no more breast milk dribbles were added. I began to swim out of the fog of depression and anxiety I was finding myself in, and began to enjoy my little boy so much more...
I'm happy, he's happy and settled and sleeps brilliantly... and importantly, he's being fed, isn't starving, I'm in no more pain than the arthritis deems necessary to inflict upon me and coping... and watching Samuel develop a wonderful relationship with his father as
DH gets to be so much more involved in his care than he would be if we were breastfeeding.
I still have moments of sadness about never being able to get breastfeeding established, but understand that it isn't my fault. The hospital could have helped more, the SCN nurses could have juggled feeds a bit more to give each of us more time and help that we needed, if it weren't Christmas and the paediatrician and my obstetrician were around more often, if he weren't born early, if those early visitors hadn't been so intrusive, if I'd spoken up a little more about what I needed... then we may have got there. All we can do for now is accept where we are and move on, and perhaps plan a little more in case we have another child and know what to do next time to give us a better chance. But it's the words of my obstetrician that loom largest in my mind... After all the technology that you guys used to get him here, why are you reluctant to use a little more technology to ensure that he is fed and healthy?
BW
Samuel's birth and our hospital/SCN experience 
16/7/07, 23/10/07, 25/1/08
DH 44 
IUI #7 - Success!!!! 
its such an important step to "get it out" of you, so it doesn't hurt you anymore that it already has. I found when I wrote my birth story out with Matilda, it freed some space up for me to start healing from it.
. I'm so sorry things didn't go how you would have liked after Samuel was born, I hope writing it all down is the start of your healing process.
TANDEM FEEDING my boys
mummy to 5 beautiful girls
arrived @ 33wks 
Linear Mode
