The birth story of
Juniper Valentine begins not with labour, but the incident that would
ultimately forbid it from happening, and alter the course of the remainder of
my pregnancy.
I was 21 weeks
pregnant. Chris had been in Melbourne for the day on business, and returned
jubilant after positive steps in a new venture. Our daughter Rosie was asleep and
for once we were both awake and relatively operative at the end of the day, so
we burrowed under the blankets to make the most of the situation. Afterwards –
straight afterwards – a massive gush of warm liquid flooded out of me, and although
the room was dark the contrast on white bed sheets was evident. It was
unmistakably blood. Seconds later more came streaming out, and moments after that,
more again. Chris called the ambulance and went downstairs to let them in,
Rosie continued to sleep in the adjacent room and I sat paralised on the bed,
diverting my gaze from the blood for fear of seeing the baby amongst it, even
though I felt nothing that large pass through me. When the paramedics arrived and switched on the light it was
a horrific sight, and the thing I remember the most – so much blood.
Despite not wanting to
be separated we decided not to wake Rosie to bare witness to the situation, and
I went alone in the ambulance whilst Chris stayed home to clean up, and
eventually soothe a distressed little girl who would wake to spend her first
ever night away from her mother. Up until this point the baby had been
uncharacteristically still but just before the ambulance door slid shut it gave
me a nice solid kick. Through sobs and laughter I delivered this news
triumphantly to Chris, who was standing, heartbroken, on the footpath.
I was wheeled into the
hospital horizontally, watching the cheery face of the paramedic and Christmas
decorations flying by overhead. The
whole thing was surreal. I felt calm. I knew in my belly the baby was safe.
When I arrived at delivery the monitors confirmed this, and an ultrasound reinforced
what my scan showed the previous week – the placenta was sitting low. The
conclusion was made that the act of sex had irritated my cervix, which is what
caused the bleed. I was monitored for 2 days and nights, relentlessly bullied
about transferring my care from a private midwife to the hospital program and eventually
discharged myself and returned home.
We met with our
midwife, Robyn, and discussed the possibility of the placenta – currently
sitting about 1.4cm over my cervix – moving enough for a natural birth. It was
highly likely, although the increased risk of hemorrhaging after delivery may
affect our want for a home birth. The most probable outcome was a natural birth
in hospital. No one was saying the C word yet.
In the following weeks
I noticed occasional heavy smears of blood, and tried to restrict activities
not to irritate my cervix. Yoga was off the cards, and when I finally felt well
enough to swim again I did so cautiously, with a pullboy between my legs so as
not to move them. My belly was expanding and it was summer, and despite mild
frustration at not being able to frolic as I wished, I relished in my pregnant
state.
I was 28 weeks when
the next bleed occurred, working at the computer late one night. After my
previous experience in hospital I was reluctant to rush there again, and as the
bleeding stopped quickly and the baby kept moving, Chris and I felt we could
manage the situation ourselves. We returned to bed and arranged a private
ultrasound the next day. The scan showed the placenta still positioned well
over my cervix, and in fact, moving further across it as my uterus expanded.
Relief was had in the news that the baby was doing a fantastic job of growing,
dodgy placenta or not.
Whilst Chris remained
positive that we still had ample time for the placenta to move, I had lost some
of that spirit. A couple of days later we met with Robyn, who gently told us we
should be preparing for a caesarean birth.
The days following
this news coincided with excessive rain and leaking ceilings, and saw us
bunkering down on the living room floor. It was strange week, sombre and heavy.
I cried a lot, and woke each morning to a split second of respite before
reality came slamming down for the remainder of the day. In retrospect I
conceive these feelings as grief and their related actions as mourning – for
the awesomely intense experience of natural birth, and everything it entails.
It took about three
weeks to begin to come to terms with the caesarean. I tried meditating to calm
my mind but the noises of the street only amplified, piercing my ears and
suffocating my breath. One afternoon I had an inspired visit from an artist
friend who creates from her subconscious, and that evening I attempted the
same. The drawings were terrible, but the act of moving my hand across paper
calmed me. I practiced this meditative state every night for an hour or so, always
stopping before I became judgmental of the images I was producing. Initially I
drew shapes and lines and eventually they became big-bellied women. Through
them I manifested my fear and pain.
By the time our first
meeting with the Obstetrician came, at 32 weeks, I was much more at ease with
the direction this birth was taking. I had another scan, and with the placenta
now covering 3.5cm of my cervix – medically referred to as Grade 4 Major
Placenta Praevia – any last scrap of hope I secretly held for natural birth was
abolished. Our doctor – recommended by Robyn – was a kind and gentle man and
through his subtle gestures we felt comfortable. He was open to the notion of a
natural caesarean and supported our requests; of which formed a modest list to
ensure the experience was kept sacred. Chris and I left the hospital feeling
positive and confident in our birth team, with an appointment to see our doctor
again in a fortnight.
Ironically, I woke
that night bleeding. This one was heavier than the last, and continued longer
than what was in our range of comfort. As we now had a cohort at the hospital,
we didn’t hesitate in going there. It was a short drive and this time we woke
Rosie to come with us so we could all stay together. The bleeding stopped
shortly after we arrived and my doctor visited me first thing the next morning.
Despite everything we were both able to have a quiet laugh about meeting again
so soon. I remained in hospital convalescing for two more days and after an
iron infusion returned home.
I had completely let
go of a natural birth, the thought of not having one no longer stung my eyes. I
surrendered to the caesarean, embraced it and visualised the moment I would
meet my baby. But, I was nervous about further hemorrhaging, especially as the
last one happened in my sleep. No activity was safe. My greatest fear was a
bleed which didn’t stop, and eventually ended in an emergency situation. It’s a
given that the main objective is that the baby and I are safe, but the thought
of having a general anaesthetic and not being present during the moment in
which my child would take its first breath out of my body, filled me with
dread.
On March 14th,
Chris turned 33. He commemorated the occasion with a day of hard work and a
small store bought cake adorned with Smarties. Rosie celebrated her third
birthday nine days earlier (albeit with a much more elaborate cake) and our
baby’s birthday was scheduled in three weeks. I realised we were just missing
out on welcoming the third Piscies into our family. Or so I thought.
It was almost 1am that
night when bleeding disengaged me from my sleep. I was 35 weeks pregnant. Quietly
I made trips from the bed to the shower for thirty minutes before worry set in.
I gently woke Chris, who was up in a flash and ready to go to the hospital,
Rosie in tow. We arrived to the familiar routine of drips, monitors and on this
occasion a group of night staff gravely lacking in bedside manners. One midwife,
annoyed at having to assist me and my entourage of monitoring equipment to the
toilet every half hour, chided me for poor bladder control. The night registrar
appeared and reappeared with unhelpful comments about major medical
catastrophes and grave outcomes of placenta praevia in third world countries. His
readiness to take the baby out was clear and the thought of him delivering my
child brought me to a state of despair. I feared not for our safety, but an unnecessary
early delivery by a man who lacked compassion towards a birthing woman and her
family. Luckily for us, as quickly as the drama arose it subsided, and
eventually everyone left us in peace.
Over the next hour or
so I noticed an increasingly strong correlation between the bleeding and my Braxton
Hicks contractions, which had intensified over the last week and had now moved
even lower and deeper into my cervix.
Although the monitors weren’t picking it up, instinctively I knew this
was the beginning of labour. I was grateful to be receiving some of the
birthing hormones, but also knew it could result in a large amount of blood
loss at any moment. We had accepted that we wouldn’t be making it to full-term,
and excited to be meeting our baby soon. But first, we had to make it to the
morning safely, when the staff changed over and our own doctor would arrive.
By 5am we were all
exhausted. Chris had awkwardly fallen asleep on the small sofa in the birthing
suite we were in and Rosie, having spent the majority of the night adventuring
in the hallway entertaining passing staff members, was nestled in next to me on
the bed. I tried to sleep but adrenalin kept me from it, and I lay on the bed
silently and secretly labouring, watching the clock above my head and willing
it to go faster.
Robyn arrived at 7am
and less than an hour later we were gifted with Amanda, the most beautiful,
kind and considerate hospital midwife we could have hoped for. My own
Obstetrician came shortly after and the three of them combined assuaged my
fears. I was tired and ready to birth, but it would still be some hours before
I could get into theatre. Despite bleeding consistently since my arrival I was
stable and the baby was happy, and we would remain in the care of these two
amazing women until it was time. I had said my goodbyes to Rosie who was now with
her uncle and a family friend, and between short bouts of almost
unconsciousness I contracted and bled through early labour. Amanda had rallied
strongly to get me moved up the list, and finally, it was our turn for theatre.
We had made it to our conscious birth.
I had visited the
operating theatre previously and was aware of the procedure, but nothing could
have really prepared me for the inhuman velocity at which the staff around me moved. Chris and Robyn waited outside the door
whilst I was taken in for my spinal. I felt no pain from the injection, but the
coldness of the room made me shiver violently and my doctor held my hands as it
was administered. I tried to oppose the numbness as it enveloped my lower body,
but found it too distressing. I let go and surrendered every muscle I didn’t
need and knew I couldn’t move. Watching what was happening in the reflection of the giant
operating light above me, I waited, and when I was prepped and ready, Chris and
Robyn entered the room.
Chris stood above my
head, crying. We spoke of love and pride and birth, but mostly he just held me
tight as we looked at each other. I felt intense tugging and pulling in my
belly, and within minutes heard a newborn cry. As I saw the red screaming
bundle get lifted over the screen I also heard the anaesthetist announce, very
matter-of-factly, it was a girl. At the time I was too elated to care, but I’ve
since had mixed feelings about it. Nevertheless, when she was placed on my
chest, tiny and perfect, nothing mattered, and I loved her with all my heart.
In recovery the mood
was joyous and elated. The whole team was thrilled with such a positive
outcome. We carefully examined the poor, sad-looking placenta and discussed the
incredibly healthy and enormous umbilical cord. I nestled in with my beautiful
new baby, who took to the breast immediately.
Juniper Valentine was
born on a Friday and we took her home the following Monday. I had lost 2 litres
of blood during the birth and needed a transfusion. Although in hospital, we
tried to keep those first few days of Juniper’s life sacred, holding off on
visitors and enjoying the new dynamic we had as four. Robyn would call on me
every morning and for her dedicated continuity of care we will be forever thankful.
Despite everything Juniper’s birth was as sacred and beautiful as it could have
been, and Chris and I will never forget the people that made that possible.
