Too Late for Regrets

At 2pm, a male doctor (senior SHO) came and asked for my permission before proceeding with an assessment. I could not help but break into a smile when told I was 7 cm dilated. Finally, this was going to happen. My happiness was short-lived. He quickly performed an artificial rupture of my membranes, after which everything progressed swiftly. By now it was too late to request for an epidural, but I accepted a second offer of a pain relief injection and a standby supply of Entonox (laughing gas).

Once the opioid effect kicked in, I could relax and sleep in between contractions. Yet when the contractions were at their peak, nothing seemed to be able to ‘take the edge’ off it. Was I regretting not having an epidural? Perhaps. I made a mental note never ever to underestimate the labour pains of my patients. I had seen countless patients in various stages of labour, given many epidurals/spinals and seen the almost immediate calming effect of pain relief, but I was also guilty of the sin, on many occasions, of a tired doctor writing off a patient’s complaint as trivial on a long night call. Never again.

Experience of a Lifetime

The next couple of hours were the most unimaginable ever. In the background I could hear another lady moaning and screaming in pain, apparently stuck at 9cm for several hours. Her room must have been across the corridor from mine, but her voice carried far and loud. My room-mate was still in early labour, but had followed my cue to refuse epidural and was no doubt getting worried at my increasing distress. My contractions soon increased in frequency, reaching a stage where a second contraction would mount before the first had completely subsided. Nothing could help – the pain relief felt non-existent, the Entonox only helped regulate my deep breathing, and my midwife offered very few words of comfort. “Breathe in deeply”, was all she could repeat, over and over again.

Nature took over at 10cm. I felt an unbearable urge to push all of sudden and knew instinctively that I must be ready for the next stage of labour. Yet, to my horror, another senior SHO came along and announced that I was still 7cm and should not push! By now, I could scarcely care what I said or did, as the contractions were all-consuming. In fact, I hardly remember what I moaned, and hope I did not say anything offensive! My medical student (I had consented for him to be present at my delivery – after all, I was a student once) was probably the most consistent in offering words of encouragement and comfort, but could do little to relief my distress.

God Bless the Midwife

Finally, my midwife (thank God for her experience!) did an unscheduled assessment and pronounced I was dilated at 10cm, just minutes after I was supposedly at 7cm. She quickly notified the Specialist-on-call and positioned me for delivery. Despite the pain, I could not help but marvel at God’s amazing design of the human body. Having no epidural to numb my sensation, I could tell exactly when to push and was surprised that it was easier than expected. Each contraction helped to propel my little baby from the womb out into the world, and the pain seemed to have a very specific purpose now. It all seemed to fall into place, the body doing what it needed to do to complete this miracle of life.

My Obstetrician must have given me an episiotomy, but I never felt it. I only remember a feeling of immense relief and release when Hannah fully emerged from the womb at 4:58pm. She cried immediately at birth (such a clever girl) and was placed in my arms immediately while her cord was cut. In my exhaustion I could hardly inspect her carefully, but made sure she was tagged correctly before the midwife took her away for cleaning. My placenta was delivered uneventfully and the wound repaired accordingly. I could still feel my uterus contracting intermittently, but knew this was normal and expected.

It's All Over, or Is It?

Within the hour, Hannah was back in my arms and breastfeeding. I was still mildly sedated and could just about hold her against me. Being all wrapped up in cloths, all I could see was a very chubby face with long eye-lashes. Ah, so you are the one who has been causing Mummy all this trouble. I smiled and talked to her, but she was obviously too hungry to notice. Before long, the midwife reappeared and announced that Hannah had been visited by Daddy and Grandma in the nursery earlier, and whisked her away again to afford me some well-deserved rest. Later, I was transferred to a general ward for recuperation overnight, and discharged uneventfully the next afternoon.

Hannah’s story doesn’t end here, it merely begins. Our lives have been turned upside-down with her arrival, but we treasure her as a gift from God. All stories must end somewhere, and this is where we will leave it, for now.