My period properly returned one year after little gosling’s birth. I had felt some cramping from six months post-birth and some light occasional spotting from 9 months post-birth onwards, but it was around 12-13 months that it came back in all strength. 

At around 9-10 months post-birth I had seen a GP. He advised a general ultrasound to check that all inside of me was ok. I had an ultrasound of the abdominal cavity, including ovaries and uterus, and everything was deemed in order. As I had expected, he suggested extended breastfeeding could delay another pregnancy. I had no intention of altering our breastfeeding journey, so I plainly ignored that part. 

I had (and still have) a very positive recollection of my birth experience (shared here), but the negative emotions, the anger and anxiety that surrounded the post-birth complications and the way in which they were medically dealt with (my story here), took a while to fade away. I still remember conversations with my husband the weeks and months after it was all over.. He was seriously considering avoiding a second pregnancy and opening to the idea of adopting instead, just to avoid the risk of reliving the first post-birth experience. The idea of giving birth again brought me to tears.  

I did not see a gynae for a while after the birth experience. The doctor who had followed my pregnancy had not answered my messages after the birth of my little gosling and that had made me feel disappointed and distrustful. I kept recommending her to other women around me, but I did not feel comfortable seeing her again. Neither me, nor particularly my husband felt comfortable going back to the gynae who had managed by post-birth complications. We blamed her for having to go through a second curettage and an abdominal surgery. The expat women around me saw one of these two doctors and I felt uneasy about seeking advice from strangers. I kept postponing seeing a gynae and felt reassured with my GP’s advice.  

With all these in mind, we felt ready to try again. We were quite laid back about it, much like the first time, when we had just stopped using any contraception and let it happen (which it had fairly quickly, with no stress, just a few months later). This time we kept a closer look at the calendar. I was expecting it to happen as easily and naturally as it had then. It did not. 

I remember seeing my GP at around 13-14 months post-birth. He made me pee on a stick, can’t remember why. What I do remember, however, is the deep sense of hope, followed by a huge disappointment when it came back negative. He suggested again that breastfeeding would be an obstacle to a second pregnancy and advised me to start tracking my ovulation to actively help my chances. We did that for a couple of months. I was ovulating each month, but no pregnancy ensued.

I got curious and stumbled online upon the concept of secondary infertility. This is the inability to conceive a child (or carry a pregnancy to full term) after previously giving birth, assuming the previous birth occurred without fertility treatments. Secondary infertility typically is diagnosed after trying unsuccessfully to conceive for six months to a year. No idea whether this timeline holds for parents of all ages (we were both 35+). None of the medical professionals I saw in the past year used that term concerning my situation, but I could not have been very far. It appears to be a phenomenon as common as primary infertility. It was a surprising discovery for me. The fact that it was a medical condition labeled as such somehow reassured me. It was something that happened. I also just had a colleague giving birth to her second child completely unexpectedly in her early 40’s, more than ten years after the first child and without purposefully trying to have a second child. So, we continued trying, more or less organised about tracking the ovulation periods. 

A few months later we moved back to Brussels. Little gosling was 18 months old. I had the intention to see my regular gynae, but kept postponing for until after little gosling was settled into the nursery; after we came back from my grandpa’s funeral; after the one month Christmas holiday with my parents in Romania; after we had settled into our newly rented apartment…. Then the pandemics came upon us and somehow, going to the clinic and seeing a doctor for non-urgent matters became close to impossible for the first months. Ten months passed before I actually got to see my gynae. Little gosling was 2 years and a half by now.  

The check-up was routine-like to me. I shared my story with the gynae – the expression of cautious disbelief on his face upon hearing how it all had happened! I asked whether there were any obstacles preventing me from getting pregnant again, as we had been trying for many months with no result. I remember asking this more out of curiosity and to check a box (since I was there anyway…), than out of serious concern that something could be wrong. We kept trying, without any pressure on us; we wanted a second child and gave ourselves time until we turned 40, but put no pressure on ourselves. 

The gynae very calmly explained the ultrasound revealed something on one of my tubes that needed to be further checked. He had also noticed adhesions in the uterus, a rather common occurrence following surgical interventions like those I had experienced, he explained. He recommended both a hysteroscopy and a hysterosalpingography, which he described as specialised medical imagery tests, one resembling an ultrasound with a telescope going inside the uterus and tubes, the other a localised X-ray of uterus and fallopian tubes with a contrast substance. He also prescribed some blood tests. His tone and demeanour were calm and not a bit alarming. He said we would figure it out. As always, he would only call me if there was a problem with the results. I left the office without any alarm bells ringing. 

I gave blood the same day. The following evening the gynae called me. The blood tests had detected the presence of the pregnancy hormone, but in a quantity that signalled an unhealthy pregnancy. I was shocked and froze on the spot (I had come out of the supermarket to take the call), trying to process it all. I had just had a normal period two weeks before. Gynae said it must have been a false period; the pregnancy was several weeks. And the embryo must have been what he had detected in my tube during the ultrasound. He called me back the next morning to redo the blood tests. If the hormone levels were going up, an intervention could become necessary in order to remove the ectopic pregnancy. If hormone levels were going down, there was a chance I could get away without an intervention. 

I shared the news with my husband. He was equally taken aback. We had not seen this coming. We were dismayed. All I knew about ectopic pregnancies was the experience of a colleague who had undergone interventions to remove both her tubes following two consecutive ectopic pregnancies and had been left unable to conceive naturally. I found the prospect of another curettage daunting. It brought back all the anger and frustration from the post-birth times. It was all I could think about. I felt guilty and blamed myself for waiting so long before seeing a gynae. If only I had seen my gynae upon returning to Brussels! I blamed the gynae who had dealt with my post-birth complications for not alerting us to the risk of uterine adhesions and insisting on regular, frequent follow-ups. She must have known uterine adhesions were a common occurrence and a strong possibility in my case and that they could lead to possible difficulties for a second pregnancy, if left unchecked. Why didn’t she take the trouble of even mentioning this to us? If only she had… 

I shared the news with a couple of my mummy friends for support and alerted my mom – in case of an intervention, we planned on flying her over to help with little gosling. One thing we had learned from prior experience is that one knows how you go into the theatre, but there is no guarantee on how one comes out and how long the recovery takes. 

The next morning gynae did another ultrasound, to check whether there was any change with the tube. Everything looked the same it had days before. He explained the risks carried by an ectopic pregnancy as advanced as mine – more than six weeks. Rupture of the tube, internal bleeding.. And there’s a limited timespan before it ruptures the tube. An intervention, if required, would need to take place within days, to avoid the risk of the pregnancy rupturing the tube and provoking further damage. 

I redid the blood tests. That same evening the doctor called with “good” news. The hormone levels had gone down (from 20 to 1), meaning the pregnancy was dying on its own. No intervention was needed. I felt relieved. And I still had my tube. The embryo would be expelled by the body at the next menstruation that would take place in 10-14 days. He insisted for me to make the appointment for the two medical imagery tests immediately after that. And I did. 

A couple of days before the date for the tests, I started developing COVID symptoms. That week, little gosling’s nursery had been quarantined for a week upon detection of the virus among the carers. It was a Sunday. The on-call doctors told me to continue monitoring symptoms and see a GP if they persisted/got worse. The night before my tests, I developed a light fever. I called the hospital the next morning and was advised to cancel my tests and call back the following month. Both tests need to be performed within a certain interval at the end of the period, so one can’t really plan much in advance. Add to the uncertainty I felt about a COVID infection the frustration of having to delay the tests and wait another month. Luckily for us, we sailed rather easily through COVID, with only mild, albeit disconcerting symptoms. 

35 days passed without any period. No, I was not pregnant. I was worried. What did it all mean? I went to see my gynae again. He confirmed the situation was unchanged, as well as the absence of a pregnancy. He revealed a bit more on the occasion, saying the tube where the ectopic pregnancy had been was dilated and I really needed to do those imagery tests to have a better look at them and decide the course of action. Particularly so if I wanted another baby. But even without it, it would need monitoring. There was the possibility of a rupture of the tube, in which case I risked an internal haemorrhage. According to him, the period delay could have been due to COVID and prescribed me some pills (Lutenyl) to bring about the menstruation. One pill and one day later, there it was. 

It was a difficult period for both myself and my husband. We were feeling discouraged. Angry that all this should have happened to us. My husband was quite affected by the ectopic pregnancy and the idea of pregnancy loss. A chance lost. At the time, I was so shocked and so anxious about the possibility of yet another curettage and losing one tube, that I didn’t even fully realise there was a pregnancy in the middle. My knowledge of being pregnant was too-short lived and overtaken by other kinds of fears and thoughts, that it hadn’t really sunk in. We felt disheartened, lost. Anxious that we were losing so much time to get those tests done and have it fixed. We started thinking of all the other times my period had taken longer than the post-birth average of 28 days, wondering whether some of those had been ectopic pregnancies that just died on their own. After all, if I had gone to see my gynae a few days later, we would have never known about the ectopic pregnancy. 

I had the tests done less than a week later. Another gynae. More shocked looks upon hearing the story of my post-birth complications. Another vaginal ultrasound prior to the tests, to make sure there was no pregnancy anywhere and to have an idea about the baseline. He said something to me that felt reassuring: I still had plenty of ovules left. At least that.. 

I had the hysteroscopy first, in the morning, on the last (6th) day of my period. I had taken some painkillers, as instructed, one hour or so before the intervention. The setup was very much like during a regular consultation, although it was in a special room. I was on my back, legs in the stirrups. Something was placed inside to keep the vagina open whilst the gynae worked his way up to the uterus with the hysteroscope (a tube with a telescope at its end), while watching everything on the screen. It wasn’t pleasant, but it did not hurt. I kept looking at the screen. All I could see was a pinkish tunnel. The gynae was having trouble advancing and said something about the cervix having an unexpected bend. Can’t remember much of the sensations really, apart from a general and gradually stronger discomfort with the tube moving inside me. Finding a way to make the tube advance took a while, maybe one or two minutes, maybe more. It felt very long to me, especially as I was feeling myself fainting. My blood pressure, quite low usually, got lower and both gynae and nurse started fretting a bit, the nurse rubbing my face and hands with something cold, holding my hands and talking soothingly, the gynae trying to speed up the procedure. I was almost out of it, when the doctor said he was wrapping up. He could not see much. Hopefully, the hysterosalpingography scheduled for a few hours later would feel better. In any case, he said, that would go much faster. He insisted not to forget to take my painkillers beforehand. I felt weak, but colour was coming back into my cheeks and a few minutes later I made my way back to the restroom to get dressed. Out of reflex, I locked the door after me, with both doctor and nurse instantly crying I should unlock it. What if I fainted in the bathroom and I needed help?! 

I went back home, weary about the second procedure. Bought the exact painkillers the doctor mentioned and went back in the afternoon. It was during the second COVID-19 lockdown, so patients could not be accompanied to hospital appointments. The hysterosalpingography was done in one of the X-ray rooms and I laid down on my back on one of those big tables, with my feet up. It was super quick, it was done in no time. The contrast substance did not have much space to spread. Same doctor as in the morning told me one tube was completely blocked; the other one was also partially blocked and the uterus was full of adhesions. He spoke in a way that let on that the most likely course of action for a second pregnancy would be a laparoscopy, possibly followed by IVF. But my regular gynae would get the images and his report and would talk me through the options. 

I left the hospital in tears. I felt anxious and hopeless, fearing the laparoscopy and losing my tubes. I could not make out what it all meant for the uterus. I called my gynae a few days later and he confirmed we needed to schedule a laparoscopy to see what could be done about the tubes and uterus. However, due to COVID constraints, he could not be definitive about the date. He was super prudent, not venturing into any speculations about the outcome. He’d only know once he got inside. It did not feel reassuring at all. We were in a state of constant anxiety about it. And impatience. It felt like it was dragging on and on..  

I started reading about IVF procedures, thinking it would help ease my weariness. In hindsight, it was premature and only added to my anxiety. It sounded intrusive (needles would be used), uncomfortable, if not outright painful, the result was by no means guaranteed. It did not sound like something I was prepared to do.  

The laparoscopy was scheduled for a few weeks later. A couple of days before it was moved back a week – the Friday before Christmas. I asked the gynae to give me a call and walk me through the intervention. I was very weary. I wanted to know more about what he expected to be able to do. One of the tubes was dilated a lot and full of fluid, a condition called hydrosalpinx. It was over 6.5 mm in diameter (compared to its original 1 mm) and the chances of saving it were aleatory, according to medical literature. The second tube was also in a bad state, a few mm dilated, but in a better shape than the other one. He would do his best to save them. The uterus was half closed, covered in adhesions. He would clear them and put on a coat of gel to protect it against further adhesions. 

I recounted my laparoscopy experience here. The outcome was probably the best one could reasonably expect. One tube was lost, the second one was saved. He had also managed to recondition the uterus. 

I went back to see my gynae a month later. He walked me through the procedure, showing me photos. I don’t recall much of what I saw, only the distinct sensation that it wasn’t pretty. The next thing he said startled me. He asked whether to send me already to start the IVF procedure. I was not ready to go down this road and my husband was fully supportive. I felt discouraged that conceiving naturally appeared less of a chance than IVF, or so I deduced from the doctor’s advice. I asked him whether it was really necessary at that stage. He said I was in a better condition to fall pregnant than back in August/September, before the ectopic pregnancy. Advised to give it a try for 3-4 menstrual cycles and prescribed pills to help with ovulation. He was also very clear that given my history, it was wise and important to detect the pregnancy early, to make sure it was fixed inside the uterus. 

At this point, I was really discouraged. I saw no reason to hope and thought it unlikely that we would be able to conceive naturally. We decided to try for a few months and then see again whether my feelings about IVF changed. We talked about IVF and decided we were both ok with not going down that road, if I still felt uneasy about it. 

It was end January. I had already had my period that month and lost the window for the pills this time. I tracked my ovulation, but none was detected. I took the pills in February and again in March. Afterwards I stopped. The pills coincided with the surge of painful pimples all around the vaginal area, vulva and area, which lasted quite a long time and were uncomfortable day to day and particularly dissuasive for any sexual activity. In my mind I established a quick causal link between the two – it was hormone-based and the only other time in my life when I had experienced something similar had been in the weeks immediately following the birth, when hormones are supposedly still running crazily wild. Ovulation happened those two months, but I suspect I had started tracking it too late, albeit following the tests’ instructions. 

After my April period, I started tracking my ovulation earlier. After two empty tests, the third one showed the start of the period with optimal chances to conceive (a few days in advance to the calendar). Three days of ovulation in which we applied ourselves to the job :). On the day that should have been the second one of my following period, I did a pregnancy test. It was positive. 

Both my husband and I were cautiously happy. We did not want to get our hopes up before confirming that it was a viable pregnancy. Our thinking was: first make sure it was fixed in the right place; then make it through the first trimester; then wait for the pre-natal genetic screening to come back ok. Only then would we take a breath and allow ourselves to truly enjoy it. 

What followed were two weeks of feeling pregnant in a completely different way than the first time. Small, but constant discomfort was the norm. Tiredness. Anxiety. Imagining all the different ways in which things could go wrong. Finally, a healthy baby girl is growing inside my tummy, with a family of three waiting to meet her when she is strong enough and ready to come out. 

The post My Unexpectedly Bumpy Road to a (Viable) Second Pregnancy appeared first on Mommy Goose Chronicles.

Labour did not start as I had expected. Although I couldn’t tell what it is I was expecting, I was convinced I would recognise it when it started. I didn’t…. I gave birth on the first day of the 41st week, hours before our appointment for the sweeping of the membranes, something I was uncomfortable with, but our midwife had suggested as the first and less invasive way to accelerate labour… I remember conversations with friends via wapp the night before: no, no sign yet of the baby. I couldn’t even identify any Braxton-Hicks during late pregnancy, so it was all quiet. 

I woke up shortly after midnight to go to the loo. I had cramps and felt the need to empty my bowels. I thought I had an upset tummy, that I must have eaten something funky. In retrospect, it was similar to my pre-menstrual cramps, but I could only feel annoyed it interrupted my sleep. It went on like this twice per hour. Finally, my husband asked what was going on and suggested I tell our midwife. At that point, I was still only concerned about my sleep and thought it unnecessary to contact her in the middle of the night.  

I wrote to her at 3:02 am: “I’m having cramps that come and go (quite strong), strong pressure on pelvis and for the past two hours have continuously emptied my bowels, harder stool becoming softer and softer; slight sensation of nausea and cold shivers.. It’s quite uncomfortable and I’m having trouble relaxing and calming my breath during shivers; it also comes with some radiation of pain in my hips and lower back. And for the last two-three times, I noticed some vaginal excretion when wiping, brownish traces on the toilet paper, like early menstruation.” She said: “That’s good news; sounds like labour is on its way”. 

There was a sense of surprise and excitement. Didn’t know how this was going to unfold. She said getting rest was more important than anything else at that point, so I followed her advice. I got into the bathtub at home and started listening to my hypnobirthing tracks. My husband was running around the house; mom and baby’s luggage for the hospital had been ready for weeks, but my husband’s was not. He was to be in charge of feeding me healthy snacks and energising beverages, of having all the phones and tablets duly charged and to install the baby car seat. If all went well, we planned to come straight home afterwards. If we had to stay in the hospital, he was to stay with me, we had reserved a family room overnight. In between his running around, he was soothing me, timing my surges and communicating with the midwife. 

At 5:26, we had three series of contractions every 10 minutes. He told the midwife I was “looking good. The contractions last under 1 min and she is suffering; in between she is calm. The pain in the hip is continuous with spikes at contraction time”. That must have been the moment I got out of the bathtub; I needed to lie down. Our bathtub was rather on the smallish side. The only thing that comes back to me from those moments is the hip pain; it was intense. When surges came, however, I found it impossible to lie down, so I struggled to stand up and felt like going to the loo all over again. Somehow the hip pain felt stronger lying down. We gave ourselves 30 min to see whether I could manage it at home. In less than 10 minutes, my husband told the midwife we were getting ready to go to the hospital. We agreed to meet there at 6.30. Last message to the midwife just before we left home was about “little dark bleeding”. I have no recollection of that whatsoever, maybe I didn’t notice it, but my husband did. 

I don’t think I’ll ever forget the drive to the hospital. A 25-30 minutes drive with traffic, of which Pretoria had a lot at that hour on a Tuesday morning. First we had to get out of our residential jacaranda lined streets neighbourhood – with plenty of speed bumps. Uhhhh, how I felt those bumps, deep down inside me and down to my heels and toes. Didn’t matter how slow my husband was taking them… Tears were coming to my eyes every time. It took forever to get to the hospital; I had the impression all the streetlights had been on red and the traffic was not moving. I kept munching this thought in my head: “If the midwife tells me I am only 3 or 4 cm dilated….” and was getting worked up and emotional about it.  

We got to the hospital just before 7. Somehow I managed to walk down the ramp to the midwives unit. I had this funny sensation that I was holding something big and heavy between my legs that may just fall down if I took bigger steps. The labour room was lit up with candles and the bathtub was on and the big bed had clean sheets on. It felt welcoming and peaceful. There was no paperwork to be done, no conversations or explanations to be given. I laid down and the midwife did a quick check-up. I was fully dilated; I could go into the bathtub. What a relief! Had it not been the case, I might have been tempted to ask for some kind of pain management. I recall her kneeling down on one side of the bathtub, with gloves on and a couple of towels at hand, almost holding her arms out like waiting to catch the baby popping out. It felt reassuring; it wasn’t going to be long now. It was only the three of us in the room; there was a second midwife that until the very end took notes in a corner of the room. 

I kept on listening to my relaxation tracks. My husband sat down on the side of the bathtub, with his feet in the water. He held me, patted me and caressed my forehead and hair throughout. His presence was so comforting. It just felt easier expressing myself in my own language in those moments, most of the time anyway; he was doing the talking with the midwife over my head. 

I must have spent at least 1h30 min in the tub. That was the hardest part. It was not a constant pain; it came and it went in waves and there was enough time to catch a breath in between. And I was feeling it all in my hips and in my lower back. Somehow, it took me unprepared every time for my hypnobirthing “breathe baby out technique”. Consciously, at least, it didn’t feel like I was doing much in terms of helping my body bring baby out. I tried different positions in the bathtub and the midwife was letting me be, regularly checking the baby’s heart rate with a stick-like thing from a couple of centimeters distance. She also had a tiny sieve that she used to fish floating debris I was expelling with every contraction.  

At a certain point I remember her telling me my water had not broken and asking whether she could break them. I asked whether that would hurt (!!!! in hindsight, what a ridiculous thing :P). Seconds later I asked whether it was over. Yes, of course. 

I was not aware of the time; even so, I had expected it to be over more quickly. I was exhausted. Next thing I remember is the midwife telling me not to hold baby back, but let him come out; she told me I needed to start pushing then (instead of my gentle help it flow out approach). Apparently, they could see his head appearing and then withdrawing. My husband told me he was there, he could see him! I felt nervous and lost. I was not doing any such thing. 

At some point, in a very calm tone, the midwife told me the baby’s heart was getting tired; it was obvious the bathtub positions were not working and we needed to change. I was ok with getting out and asked for a birth stool; I found that it was the position in which I could best bear the hip pain. Ok. It must have been at that moment that she realised something was not right. 

I was not told this in the labour room, but my husband knew it. The baby was not progressing because he had the cord wrapped twice around his neck and one hand next to the ear. The midwife took one loop of the cord, but the second one was tight. The second midwife stepped in to help. In a matter of seconds I was told first that they would need to suck the baby out and immediately after that that was not an option anymore and that they would do an episiotomy. I laid down on the bed on one side and my husband held the upper feet up in the air. I could not bear being down on my back. I saw the midwife getting ready to open a kit of some sort for the incision and I thought “no way!” and pushed the hardest I had done until then. I felt a burning sensation for a moment. The baby came out and it felt good afterwards. 

It was 9:02 in the morning. About six hours after realising I was in labour, six intense hours that flew by. Eight hours and a half after the first signs of labour that I failed to recognise. 

My husband followed the baby across the room for the measurements. He was fine. First apgar score was 8; 10 after ten minutes. He was 3,27 kg and 51,5 cm. The midwife took the samples that we needed for the stem cells bank and the baby was put on my chest covered with a towel.  

He looked like a tiny grumpy old man; so very tiny, upset and all wrinkled. He was squeaking in a low tone, like a kitten. I was given a shot to accelerate the expulsion of the placenta – I was bleeding too much. After a very short while, baby was given to dad, who laid down next to me. He stayed on his dad’s bare chest, nuzzling and looking for the breast, poor baby, for more than an hour.  

I had torn in all kinds of different ways and the midwife needed to sew me. I laid on my back for what felt an eternity. It must have been 45 minutes at least. It felt uncomfortable; in my head it was all over and this was pure torment. The midwife kept saying she was almost done to reassure me; at one point I snapped at her that it was taking too long. It was a big tear, where the episiotomy should have been, and then many tiny zig-zag tears all over. At some point I was given suppositories and subsequently put on a drip. The uterus was not contracting; I was still bleeding too much and they were trying to make it stop.

When sewing was over, I wanted to go to the toilet. The midwife suggested to use a catheter and I insisted on going on my own feet to the toilet. It was a bad idea, but I could not be convinced. So I got up supported by her and my husband and directly plummeted unconscious on the floor  – in a puddle of blood, my husband later told me. When I got back to my senses, I was told the doctor was on her way to take me to the theatre; they had done all  things possible, but the bleeding wouldn’t stop. It felt like a defeat and scary. I’m certain my husband was also worried. But we were calm; the situation was out of our hands and we had to trust our medical team. Can’t remember whether I was sobbing, but I’d be surprised if I wasn’t. 

When the doctor arrived, she explained she needed to do a uterus evacuation; it turned out pieces of the placenta and membranes had stuck inside, causing the bleeding. There was no other alternative, but an intervention under general anaesthesia. As with any intervention, it involved risks and the most serious one was hysterectomy, but chances for that happening were minimal. It should be a quickie; in 30 min I would be out of the theatre, she said. 

I remember meeting and answering the anesthetist’s questions on the way to the theatre. A needle was put into my right hand and in a couple of seconds I was out. Next thing I remember was being transferred to ICU after the intervention. I felt heavenly; no sensation of pain, discomfort of any kind, anywhere in the body. My husband came over with the baby. It was so emotional seeing them together. I had all sorts of wires on me, so my husband was doing most of the holding, as baby was mostly asleep. His look was constantly going beyond me to the screens above me and he kept my mom informed of my blood pressure levels – lower than my generally lower ones. 

I stayed in the ICU two nights and a bit longer than two days. I got two rounds of blood transfusion and my iron levels were checked regularly. I was told I had lost around 2 l of blood in between the birth and intervention and I kept on bleeding, at least for the first day. I was monitored at all times. The night nurse took me for my first post-birth shower and stayed with me;  she probably knew what to expect. The moment she took the catheter out, a big puddle of blood rushed down on my legs onto the bathroom floor. I was shocked. She wasn’t impressed. I preferred to keep the catheter a little while longer; with the stitches burning a bit and a sensation of heaviness between my legs, I played it safe. I had huge pads between my legs and under me that nurses changed a couple of times a day with amazing speed and dexterity, just shuffling me around. 

My husband spent the day with me and the night in the family room we had reserved in the maternity ward. Baby was with me at all times. When I slept, the nurses were looking after him and only woke me up when he gave feeding cues. On the first day, the midwife, a paeds and another nurse from the baby clinic stopped by to check on me and the baby and start with the vaccinations. They also showed and helped me latch the baby to breast. The nurses in ICU kindly helped me latch baby every time.  

We spent the third night in the family ward, as I got extra iron through a drip, and the following day we went home. I felt weak and out of breath when going up the stairs of our house. When breastfeeding, I felt the cramps that accompany the contraction of the uterus and with them, a mild version of the back and hip pain during labour. 

We finally had all the time to be together, just the three of us. The midwife visited us at home for the first two weeks after birth. I still remember how she used a portable scale to weigh baby, much like the scale that is used at the market back home to weigh watermelons. Hilarious! Until my mom came over, more than a week later, my husband took care of us on his own. And he did it wonderfully. 

All things considered, I am happy with my birthing experience; the only thing I would change, if I could, is to allow the episiotomy to be performed, instead of getting torn all over. One doctor explained to me that it would have been a clean cut, easy to sew it would have avoided the other tiny tears. Which sounded reasonable enough for me. Plus, the driving force behind my resistance to it was the fear of pain (getting cut without any anaesthetic), ignoring that in that situation, I would have probably felt very little. I don’t regret not having opted for pain management; it was challenging and intense, but nothing that I could not bear. 

Should I have another child, I would look for a similar experience. Having my husband close to me throughout was the best thing. The calmness and gentleness of our midwife was just so amazing. Being in an environment that allowed the three of us to be together in the circumstances, that was not invasive and did not stress us about how we cared for the baby whilst in hospital, but instead enabling us to care for him, including breastfeeding related, helped us get a good start, my post-partum situation notwithstanding. 

It marked a first time for me in many respects: being put on a drip or going under general anaesthesia, going to theatre, having blood transfusion, spending time in ICU; having a catheter and being cared for as I was, as an adult. Still, in all likelihood, it was harder for my husband than for myself. I was unlucky; and I had further complications later on, but that is a separate story.

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