"It was a Friday morning, May 8th 2009. It was unseasonably warm, as I remember, but at the time of my caesarean section I had not seen the outside world for over 24 hours. Two midwives came into the room, the delivery suite of our local hospital, and asked me “Would you like to walk into theatre, or would you prefer to be wheeled in?” I sat up high on the bed, looked at the drips in each arm, the catheter tube between my legs connected to a bag, and said “no I will walk”.
As I was led up the hall, I swallowed back tears. I was 27 weeks pregnant. I had signed a consent form for my unborn child to be treated, to do whatever it took to help him survive. My heart was heavy. Had I done the right thing? If I didn’t have surgery today, death would be imminent. I felt so angry. No one tells you that in 21st century Britain you can still die in childbirth. I was cross. And I was frightened.
My husband had already gone, the consultant had taken him to scrub up and put his gown on. As I got into the theatre I was struck by how cold it was. My friendly anaesthetist sat by my side. “Please, Kylie, reconsider. I do think a general anaesthetic would be safer for you, you are quite big and I am not sure I can do the spinal”. Those tears that I’d forced down now were stinging my eyes. “Would you try, please, I really don’t want a general anaesthetic”.
My reasons were simple. My baby could die. I didn’t want to be asleep, for my husband to wake me to have to tell me, I wanted so desperately to be awake. Everything else had been taken from us. Pre eclampsia had stolen my natural birth, my third trimester, all I wanted now was to be awake.
Reluctantly, he agreed to try, I’d seen enough medical programmes to know what I had to do. I practiced my hypnobirthing and I pretended to be a cat. I curled my back. I thought about Atticus, our dear cat at home, how her spine curved. I stayed rigid. I heard a little “whoop” behind me. The anaesthetist came around and grinned! “Mrs Hodges, you are fat at the front but thin at the back, it’s in!”
I lay down and they started prepping me for the procedure. My husband appeared by my side, obviously trying to stay as positive as possible. He squeezed my hand and we started talking about our honeymoon. The team decided not to tell me what was happening. I couldn’t feel a thing. I had two surgeons, Charlie to my left and Dr K to my right. Dr K had the business end, I had felt my baby kick and swirl and move all night long. I had not been permitted to sleep the previous night, due to risk of seizure.
I saw a flurry of activity, and some people surge forward. I heard hardly a sound. The baby had been delivered and sent to the room adjacent. After a few minutes I heard a noise. I was angry. I turned to my husband “I am so sick of this, I heard labouring women all night and now babies crying. It’s too much”. I looked up and several pairs of eyes were smiling at me over the masks. My husband smiled. “That’s our baby sweetheart”. My baby. I hadn’t seen him, I didn’t even know his gender at this point, but he was alive. He was crying. My heart sang, and sank again. It would be a long time before I could see him, and an even longer time until I could hold him.
The mood in the room had totally shifted. People started telling jokes and talking about football. They completed sewing me up. The room emptied. I was taken to recovery. My husband finally appeared again, he’d gone into the ante room. He had seen our baby boy. He was buzzing with excitement. I was terrified. After a time I went back into the delivery suite room and got reattached to my drips. The risk of eclamptic shock lasts for at least 24 hours after delivery.
I sat that day, in my bed. There was no television or radio allowed. I couldn’t move. Our NICU was too small for a bed, and I wasn’t well enough to be put into a wheelchair. I was unable to read as the pre eclampsia was still affecting me, and I couldn’t focus. Thoughts turned to my baby. I began to cry. Charlie, my beautiful assistant doctor, came in to see me and in his big Ghanaian voice said “What is the matter?” I tried not to cry “I’m just hormonal, post-op blues, I will be fine”. He smiled. He said “You are not fine. You need to be with your baby”. I stared at him, my eyes open wide. “I will do something, if I have to carry you myself, you will see your baby today. You must”. He walked out purposefully.
I don’t know what he did, but by 6pm I was wheeled into the NICU unit in chair, with my drips and my catheter. I had walked past that unit so many times in my short pregnancy. And whenever I walked, I said a prayer for the babies and staff on the unit. Never in a million years did I think I would be one of those mothers, who waited, who worried, who cried. Never in a million years did I think I would be the mother of a 1lb 7oz miracle baby.
As I got to his side, I was amazed. I didn’t see machinery, I didn’t even really notice the plastic walls. My heart reached out to my baby, to Joseph.
I looked at him, I told him I loved him, and I smiled.
10 weeks later we finally went home.
And now, 2 years on, you would never ever know that my walking, talking, smiling, laughing toddler was that tiny little baby, so small and frail.
Sometimes I read birth stories and wish. I think “I wanted that story, the water birth, the home birth, the vaginal birth, the skin to skin, the breastfeeding”.
But I own this story, and it’s a special one. I may not have been the one I wanted, but it’s the right story for our family, and it has a happy ending, for which I am eternally grateful."
Kylie, Not Even A Bag Of Sugar
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