Labour of love - Part 2

I woke up at 4 a.m. on the ward, ravenously hungry.  Luckily TheBloke (TM) and I had planned for such eventualities, and I snacked on a handy cereal bar.

I dozed until 6 a.m. when I got another good fingering by the midwives, who still couldn't get my pesky cervix to open.

I'd never been that impressed by Whipps Cross Hospital; antenatal appointments had occasionally run two hours late, their admin systems were ridiculous, and once I waited seven hours for a doctor, whom I was repeatedly told "would be here in a minute".  So I was disgusted, but not entirely surprised, to notice as the dawn broke that my undersheet was covered in dried blood.  I wasn't bleeding.  It was not my blood.

The next time the midwife came over, I pointed it out to her in a haughty tone of voice.  She apologised, said someone would be along to change the sheets, and promised they were clean on... and then questioned, "Hang on a minute, could that be chocolate?"

I remembered the Tracker Bar I'd wolfed down at 4 a.m., then noticed (a little too late) my pillowslip and nightdress were similarly festooned in chocolate.  I apologised and resolved not to be any more trouble for that shift.

TheBloke (TM), on my insistence, had gone home for the night; nothing was happening, and chances are he'd be up all night at some point in the next few months, whenever the naughty little monkey decided to grace us with her presence.  So he was due to come back in the morning.  Which he did, after spending a good hour driving round and round the carpark at the hospital, utterly failing to find a parking space.  Stupid other people.  I hate other people.  In the meantime, I'd been moved to a private room on the labour ward.

We met our midwife, who ran through our wanky birth plan.  I shan't detail all of the wankiness, but essentially it involved:

• Music to be played throughout the labour.  I had created my own birth playlist, filled with music I knew TheBloke (TM) hated, mostly just to irritate him.
• Give me drugs.  Lots of drugs.  Fuck off with your "natural birth".  Keep me away from your stupid water births.  I want drugs.
• TheBloke (TM) to cut the cord
• Delayed cord clamping to ensure the sprog got all those lovely nutrients
• Just to reiterate, I would like drugs.

They meant business!  Induction time was go go go!  Except it wasn't.  Because suddenly the labour ward got really full of people who were giving birth naturally (or as I like to call them, queue-jumping bastards) and they didn't have enough staff on hand to induce me.  So I read The Remains of the Day and TheBloke (TM) commandeered my iPad and set to work destroying piggies in Angry Birds.

For the second day running, I was offered a choice of lunch - exactly the same lunch as I'd had on the same ward when I had labyrinthitis.  They clearly have the same lunch every day.  It's like Groundhog Day.  Cheese and tomato sandwich or tuna and cucumber sandwich.  I chose cheese and tomato.  TheBloke (TM) ate it.

The next step was to put a cannula into my hand for a saline drip to keep my fluids up.  Now, I have seen enough junior doctor programmes to know that cannulas are tricky beasts.  I made the mistake of mentioning this to my midwife.  "So long as you don't take nine attempts to do it," I quipped.  "Oh no," she replied. " I'll just have one go, and if I can't get it in, I'll get someone else to have a go."

I tried not to worry - after all, when I'd been on the ward before with labyrinthits, they got it in first time, painful though it was.

The midwife had a go.  She didn't manage it.  She brought a second midwife to have a go.  She couldn't do it either.  At this point I looked something like a failed suicide attempt.

So they called on Dr Duffy.  Dr Duffy was Welsh.  And - to give him his due, he got the cannula in first time.  But it hurt.  A lot.  And he put it in my forearm, which was a really stupid place to put it.  And did I mention it hurt?  So much so that I might have threatened to punch him.  "Oh," said Dr Duffy, "the last person who did that is still paying me compensation of £5 per month."

This interested me.  £5 a month?  I shouldn't have opened my mouth.  "That sounds totally worth it," I said.

"Yeah," said Dr Duffy, "but look at me, a six foot Welsh hard man.  I think I can take you."

And that, dear readers, is how a nine-and-a-half month pregnant woman ended up being threatened by NHS staff.  I will be writing a letter shortly demanding my £5 per month.

Labour of love

This story has a happy ending.  SPOILER ALERT - we have a child.  A lovely little girl who is - as far as you can ever know - healthy and happy.  And we are delighted.

The process of obtaining said child isn't quite as straightforward.  Over the next few Plogs, I'm going to share with you, dear Ploggers, The Truth About Giving Birth.  Oh, also, I had two hours' sleep last night, so if you're feeling pedantic, feel free to correct grammar errors.  I would in you're position. (See what I did there?  It actually physically hurts a bit to leave that error there.  Ugh.)

At nine days overdue, last Wednesday TheBloke (TM) and I toddled off to the hospital to have the labour induced.  I had been doing everything to get the labour started.  Every old wives' tale you could imagine.  Eating more pineapple than I wanted, drinking pineapple juice, bouncing up and down on a gym ball, going for a long walk, drinking raspberry leaf tea... the other suggestions involved a) sex and b) blowjobs as apparently there are enzymes in ejaculate that get labour started.  I think "b" was definitely suggested by a man.  Oh, also hot curries, but I'm not a fan of spicy food, and think that actually, hot curries are more unpleasant to my palate than option b  (Hello Mum and Dad.  Sorry.)

None of it worked.  So we arrived at the maternity unit at 9 p.m. to be induced.  They hooked me to a monitor to measure the baby's heart rate... and told me to my surprise I was already in labour.  The machine had a handy little function to tell them when I was contracting - and apparently I was contracting at 100% strength every ten minutes or so.  This was something of a surprise, as I couldn't feel it.  Well, I could feel a slight tightness.  But I wouldn't have noticed it unless they pointed it out.

It was round about this point that two midwives fingered me.  One of them thought she felt a polyp.  I don't know what a polyp is, but the second midwife disagreed with her and said I was polyp-free.  Polyp is a funny word and I shall definitely be using it in Hangman the next time I play.  One midwife was called to help out another patient as she was feeling my cervix.  "Hang on," said the midwife.  "I'm elbow-deep in clunge here."

OK, she didn't, but it would have been funny if she did.  In the meantime TheBloke (TM)'s little eyes lit up, as two (admittedly quite attractive female midwives) took it in turns to fondle me, one of them even stroking my leg.

"Look at this," said Hot Midwife 2.  "Her contractions are at 100%!  Do you really not feel that?" she asked me.

"Not really," I said.

"Wow," she said.  "You must just have a really high pain threshhold."

"No she doesn't," said TheBloke (TM), thus in just three words making himself sound like someone who beats his wife.

I felt smug.  Contracting and not even feeling it?  This labour was going to be a piece of piss.

"We won't induce you as you're contracting at the moment - we'll give you 12 hours and see how you get on naturally," said Hot Midwife 1.

On the ward that night, I got a measly five hours' sleep - or as I now call it, "That amazing night when I got a whole five hours' sleep."

Things change.  Stay tuned for Part Two...

Pissed off

So the baby is now eight days late.  This is unfortunate, as both TheBloke (TM) and I pride punctuality as an important personality trait.  Let's just say our daughter is not making a good first impression.  We will bring it up accordingly at her quarterly performance review.

Anyway, today I got to have my, "Oh shit, you're more than a week late" appointment at Whipps Cross Hospital.  This may not be exactly what they call it, but the sentiment is the same.  Last week I had my, "Oh dear, you're a day late" appointment, which involved the midwife fingering me in what was apparently a medical procedure called a "sweep", but what was actually more like a late night at the Curzon Cinema in Loughborough.  Rubber gloves, lube, severe discomfort, and no telephone call the next day.

So the appointment today, like every other appointment I've had so far, has required a urine test.  Fine.  I can plan in advance, drink some fluid, produce wee on demand.  Excellent.  And in my past, I am sure - nay certain, that urine sample tubs have looked something like this:

These are fine.  Nice and wide and spacious at the top, allowing us ladies to cover the entire urine-producing area with the bottle and fill up the little tub with our golden delight.  So far, so good.  Yet I have noticed a worrying trend over the last few months.  Ever since I got pregnant, the urine sample bottles have changed to look like this:

Notice anything?  Pretty small opening, hey?  Well, no matter, surely?  Well actually, yes.  A bit of a matter.  As it happens, I can no longer see my own foo-foo area, and haven't been able to for several months.  This means it's mostly guesswork where exactly the wee-wee will come out.  Guesswork that has to be proved by trial and error - starting and stopping, if you will, until the right location is happened upon.  And - brilliantly - it's not actually possible to do this, without ending up with the pregnancy symptom I like to describe technically as "pissy hands".  In order to find the right position, you literally have to piss all over your own hands.  Lovely.

So, in addition to acid reflux, chronic backache, piles, carpal tunnel syndrome, acne, spotty boobs, achy hips, random itchy rashes, constipation, diarrhoea, labyrinthitis, vomiting and being a massive fat whale, pregnant women also have to put up with pissy hands because the NHS refuses to order slightly larger beakers.

Well not today, ladies and gentlemen.  Today I took a stand for all pregnant women.  On finally getting to the front desk, and being handed the above tiny beaker, I loudly and proudly stated for all to hear, "No!  I am eight days overdue and I will not tolerate any more pissy hands!  Please provide me with a receptacle large enough to cover my urogenital area!  I am completely unable to observe my urine flow as my tummy is too big and I am sick of pissing over my own fingers!"

Well, it worked.  Kind of.  In the end I was handed a polystyrene drinks cup and told I could decant.  Like a fine wine.  I will not miss being pregnant.

Vile Kyle

Generally my view is that maternity leave would be a lot more enjoyable if I wasn't heavily pregnant.  Slow waddling (usually to the bathroom or kitchen) is pretty much the highlight of a day for me, and daytime TV has become a regular fixture in each day's schedule.  Yes, I was supposed to be using this time to write a novel.  Let's just say it's in progress.  If "in progress" means I haven't even thought about starting it.  Still, I expect I'll have lots and lots of time once the baby gets here.

Now, accidentally, I found myself watching an episode of The Jeremy Kyle Show.  For international readers, or those who have day jobs, Jeremy Kyle is a bit like a British Jerry Springer - but a lot more unpleasant.  Rather than "take care of yourself, and each other", he actively harangues his guests, who are all from the lowest possible social strata, and most of them seem to have mild special needs.  And acne.

I'm currently watching an episode called "Stop trying to turn my sister into a prostitute", and last week's was, "I'm here to prove that I'm not sleeping with my partner's daughter".

Almost all of the guests have had a truly horrific upbringing - usually in and out of care, drugs or alcohol involved, very often a history of abuse.  And they've poured themselves into their best lycra chav suit for the day to come on the show.  They almost always have to do a lie-detector test, which seems to be the default way of settling arguments.

Jeremy Kyle himself acts as the middle-class voice of reason, shouting at the guests, "You disgust me!  You're lying!  People like you make me sick!"

There is genuinely a social class of people believing that "going on The Jeremy Kyle Show" is the best - nay - the only way of solving their problems.  There is a premium-rate phone number provided at the end of each episode so that you too can apply to be patronised by a prick for the nation's entertainment.

So, I'm trying to work out why I hate this show so much.  Partly it's a Roman Circus - throwing the stupids to the lions for the entertainment of other stupids.  Partly it's the vileness of Jeremy himself and the unfair match of intellects - it's a bit like watching a lawyer callously pick apart an argument between toddlers.

But when I'm really honest, I think it might be jealousy.  I think he might actually have the best job in the world - shouting at stupid people.  For money.  If only he also had a pointy stick he could poke them with, then I might actually go and apply to work on his show.

Making a tit of myself

Being pregnant has opened up a whole new world of complaining for me.  Not just about the myriad of minor niggles that come with the discomfort of having a giant beach ball shoved down your top, but with some of the strange idiosyncrasies that seem endemic to pregnancy.

Firstly - maternity clothes.  It's a familiar niggle that the range of maternity wear - especially maternity office wear - is extremely limited.  But even when you do find something you can just about wear to the office, guess what?  Bet you can't.  Maternity clothes have no pockets.  None.  Not a pocket.  Because obviously, as soon as you're pregnant, you can't be trusted with car keys or loose change.  You need to stay home, ideally in the kitchen, ideally barefoot.  Ironically, I'm writing this in the kitchen, and I'm not wearing socks.  But that's not the point.

Additionally, baby clothes, baby clothes often come with pockets.  Pockets!  For babies!  Silly mummy can't be trusted with the car keys, but two-week old Chardonnay needs change for the parking meter.

Secondly, and I guess this isn't really as much of a complaint as a challenge... Apparently legally speaking you're allowed to breastfeed anywhere you want.  And even more interestingly, it's actually illegal for anyone to ask you to go elsewhere to breastfeed.  This is exciting to me, as it poses endless opportunities to irritate other people.  Here is my current list of places I'm planning on breastfeeding:

• The Vatican
• MCC Enclosure at Lord's Cricket Ground
• Fundamentalist mosque (not sure where to find one of these.  Might need to ask around)

Any other ideas gratefully received.  (Baby due today.  No sign yet.  Bored.)

Vision Express

A few weeks ago, TheBloke (TM) and I went to a weekend of NCT classes.  For those of you who don't know, NCT is the National Childbirth Trust, and the idea of the classes is ostensibly to teach you everything you need to know about labour and looking after a baby.  Really, the only reason I've ever heard people give for shelling out £250 for the classes is to meet other middle-class mums in the area, so you've got something to do during your maternity leave.

Anyway, on the hottest weekend of the year, we toddled off to a local library with no air conditioning and met seven other couples who are expecting a baby round about the same time as us.

I had heard several horror stories about NCT - from knitted vaginas showing how the baby comes out, through to being pressured not to have any pain relief during childbirth (the clue for me is in the term "pain relief" - relieving pain - what's not to like?).  I'm happy to report that actually, there were no woolly foo-foos on display, and the tutor was very even-handed whilst describing the different types of drugs on offer.  (ALL of them.  I want ALL of them.)

However, there was one part of the day that didn't work for me so well.  The tutor was talking about hypnobirthing, and specifically around visualisation.  This is apparently where your partner talks to you about a happy place you've enjoyed together, and you focus on relaxing through the contractions.  (I think this might be easier if I've had ALL of the drugs.  ALL of them.)

So the tutor starts speaking:

"I'd like you all to close your eyes, relax and just let the pictures come into your heads.  It's a lovely warm sunny day, and you're driving in the car.  You pull your car up and park it by the side of the road, and take a path into open parkland.  There are two paths, one leading into woods, and the other leading into the park.  As it's a hot day, you decide to take the wooded pathway for some cool shade.  Above you, birds sing and the scent of fresh grass is in the air."

I feel my heart rate go up.  This is London.  Where on earth have I left my car?  Did I check the parking restrictions?  Last time we parked where we shouldn't, the car was towed and we had to pay £260 to get it back.  I had to go to Bromley-by-Bow car pound, which is like a run-down version of hell.  Also, where was I driving back from?  Won't people be worried about me if I just disappear when I'm expected home?  Plus, I go most places by tube; if I'm driving, I've probably got a boot-load of groceries in the car; if it's a hot day, the frozen items will be ruined by the time I've got back.

My breathing increases.  I'm really worried about that parking ticket.  I can't focus on the tutor, who's saying something about the lovely cool woods, and lying down.  LYING DOWN?  How could I lie down at a moment like this?  The car's being towed, the groceries are ruined, and as I've disappeared on my way home from work, there's probably a search team out looking for me.

"You can open your eyes," says the tutor.  I need to go and get a drink; I feel stressed out and a bit faint.

I'm not sure visualisation is the best sort of relaxation for me.