IT HAPPENED TO ME:Having experienced one highly managed and medicated birth and one with no intervention at all, Claire O'Connellrecounts her tales of labour
THEY MUST have thought I was an April Fool's joke. This day last year I speed-waddled through the front door of the maternity hospital, burst into the emergency room and flung myself up onto a (thankfully empty) bed. I started to squeal something about the baby coming. The two midwives on duty looked perplexedly at me and my husband.
"Okay, let's just have a look," said one of them, kindly. Even I, consumed by the final stages of childbirth, could hear the slightly dubious tone in her voice. I managed to wriggle out of my shoes and trousers just before the next contraction arrived. "Oh," the midwife's tone changed to excitement. "I can see the head."
Immediately, the midwives swung into serious action, guiding me through the best way to ease my baby into the world. There was a slight, momentary sting; that was the head. I waited patiently for the next contraction, scarcely believing it could be so straightforward. Another squeeze started to wash over me, so I mentioned it to the midwife.
"Push a little," she said, and I pushed for the first time in this labour. I heard a roar. A baby's roar. I looked down. There he was, my second child and first son, born a whole three minutes after we had raced past reception. I had done it. We had done it. The midwives put this gorgeous, bewildered bundle on my tummy and wheeled us past the smiling woman in the bed opposite, who mouthed her congratulations. We went up to the labour ward to cut the cord and generally check and clean us up.
I was euphoric and texted family and friends that he had arrived speedily. "How did you have such a close call?" a colleague from The Irish Times texted in response. The answer was too long for a simple message back.
It had been so very different when I had my daughter at the same hospital, years before. It was a worrying pregnancy; I had a threatened miscarriage and the fear of losing someone so precious never left.
But my concerns generally fell on deaf ears in the hospital. I must have been an irritating, awkward patient, and I was certainly made to feel that way.
Labour and delivery was highly managed from the start, and challenged both me and the obstetrician. To his credit, he spared me a last-minute Caesarean section and managed to deliver my daughter with a forceps. And after all the drama, she was perfect, peachy-skinned and wide-eyed.
Unfortunately, I came off worse. Labour may have been blocked out by the epidural, but nothing could tame the recovery. Or the feeling that the birth had been so externally managed. Yes, I was lucky to have a healthy and perfect baby, and medical intervention had helped keep us safe. But could I have done more myself? It dogged me.
Something didn't feel right, but I didn't know what or whom to ask. I suffered from lengthy post-natal depression, but it went under the radar. Perhaps people just thought I was being awkward again, and walked on eggshells as I fiercely dug my way through motherhood.
When I turned up at the same hospital four years later, 14 weeks pregnant, I was told the nature of the first delivery made me a bit special. They immediately asked if I wanted to have an elective section this time. "No thanks," I breezed, a little astounded at the question. I felt fine; my body was well able for this.
As the pregnancy progressed, I was glad to see the hospital had too. People seemed to be more receptive to mothers who asked questions, who wanted to understand what was happening to their bodies.
But I felt an undercurrent that no one trusted me to be able to give birth without intervention. No doubt they were coming from a position of medical experience. But they seemed to forget I was an individual, not a statistic. And I felt that this time was different, it was going to be okay for me.
I wanted to stay at home for as much of labour as possible. Nothing stupid now, I'm not reckless. I would heed the medical advice on signs to go into hospital. I retained a doula, a lovely woman who would support me emotionally, and be there so my husband could freely look after our daughter.
The contractions started to twinge at 7.30 in the morning, bang on the due date. By 9.15am, the doula was beside me. The pains were getting stronger and I figured I'd need some drugs soon.
At 10.15am, my daughter ran excitedly upstairs to kiss me goodbye before my mother took her, so we could go to the hospital. I thought I was about halfway through, but then, a minute later, the pains melted away.
Suddenly, I needed to push. What a shock: I wasn't halfway there, I was nearly there. I climbed into the back of the car, backside up, head down to try to keep the child in. The doula followed us as far as the hospital, and drove on as she saw me race through the doors to safe hands.
I have had two births in the Irish maternity system. One highly managed and medicated. One with no intervention at all. I know which one hurt more in the long run.
We are of course lucky to live in a country and at a time where infant mortality is low. Obstetrics has a valuable place where difficulties arise, and many mothers and babies are alive thanks to skilled medical staff.
I'm not saying that whalesong and breathing will be right for everyone. But perhaps the Irish maternity system needs to ease off a little on active management, and start giving women's bodies more of a chance to do what they are capable of doing.