My birth story by Larissa

Although much of my pregnancy had been challenging, I was entering into the final weeks with excitement. Navigating significant pelvic pain, working as a nurse on a COVID ward, and enduring PUPPPS rash - all in an oppressive summer heat wave - had left me eager to feel those long awaited first pangs of labour.

I had read all the books. Listened to all the podcasts. Thumbed loaned copies of countless books about birth. I had long held dreams of a natural birth, with a protected golden hour, everlasting skin to skin where we would swim in unbridled love and oxytocin. I trusted in my body and her innate wisdom to bring my daughter into this world, and having worked in the western medical system for close to a decade, understood its pitfalls intimately. I had this covered!

I had expected to go past 40 weeks, as both my mother and sister had with their multiple pregnancies, and booked my routine checkup with my midwives at 40 + 5, Thursday afternoon at their request. My CTG was normal. My baby was happy. I then got asked to stay for a “routine” ultra- sound. It was during this ultrasound I was told by a concerned looking doctor, that my amniotic fluid was low. Her recommendation was that I have an immediate induction. If I didn’t, I would be risking my baby’s life.

“Your baby might die”.

How could I have been so wrong about my own baby? After a sleepless night, I called the hospital to book in my induction for Saturday afternoon. My birth affirmation word had been “surrender”, and although I was completely horrified at the thought of an induction, I had to choose my baby and her life over my own needs. I was a GOOD mother, after all.

Over the course of 24 hours, I had a balloon catheter inserted and had my waters manually broken. I had heard these things described by some other women as mere inconveniences, however I found the process both incredibly painful and violating. I felt as though I already “wasn’t coping” and whispers from my care team only served to further this narrative that I didn't have what it takes. Once my contractions were manually started with the drip, I had such extreme and unrelenting back pain, that I begged my midwife for sterile water injections.

“No one ever asks for them!”

I had heard them described as bee stings, but they were barely whispers on a breeze compared to the back pain from my labour, and they unfortunately did nothing to numb it. We carried on. I watched with dismay as my midwife turned my drip up. And up. And up.

“Could we not turn it up for a little while?” I whimpered.

 “No, we need to get this moving”.

On reflection, I can see my fear and resistance to the process of a medical induction likely contributed to the events that continued to unfold over the Sunday night. It felt like they were attempting to pry me open when my entire body was clamped shut. I had laboured with back to back contractions unmedicated for around ten hours when I asked to be checked. I was not dilated at all, but perhaps slightly more effaced. I was crushed. The epidural I swore I would never want or need was a relief for a short time. However, multiple top ups kept failing and the medication kept wearing off.

By Monday morning and 40 hours after we had commenced; the pain had enveloped me. I had managed to dilate fully, however two hours of pushing had achieved nothing. My still very content baby hadn't moved. I was “ineffectively” pushing; and I had nothing else to give.

“It’s just not working Larissa”.

I remember howling, begging for a cesarean, which is again something I had never thought would be part of my birth story. I felt like I was on a nosediving plane, plummeting towards the earth; as though I had absolutely no ability to control my fate. It was a powerless and deeply upsetting moment; to feel like the birth of my daughter was being done to me.

I distinctly remember thinking, I just need to see her, then everything will be ok. It will all be over. As they lifted my daughter from my uterus, the pain of the surgery came searing up through my body as my second spinal block wore off and the sound of the suction catheters trying to stem my haemorrhaging pulsed in my ears. I didn't understand what was happening to me, and I felt like I was being washed down a sink; draining away. The anaesthetist hovering over me declared I was going to sleep now.

My final thought before going under, was at least I got to see my daughter before I died.

I lost a part of myself that day. The part of me that yearned to hold my daughter’s tiny perfect body to mine. To drink her in and delight in the ways we both had just been born. It was hours later when I finally got to meet her properly, and another five days or horror in the hospital before we were sent on our way, battered and bruised. My husband has had his own trauma to navigate from these events. He isn't from a medical background, and had been previously told the only reason I would need to be put under general anaesthesia would be if something had REALLY gone wrong. As he was ushered out of the theatre holding his baby daughter with no explanation, he too thought I was going to die.

The synchronicity of when I carried my daughter inside me had been lost; I felt completely hollow and bereft. During a debrief shortly after, I learnt that the ultrasound that diagnosed my low amniotic fluid was actually not routine, and had I been at a different hospital, I may have been sent on my way with a normal CTG . My feeling of complete void retreated, to be replaced with an intense rage. My birth had been stolen from me. And it was my fault. My thoughts during this time were incredibly dark and I truly believed my daughter was better off without me. My daily tears could have filled the bathtub that encased my swollen feet. My grief was so intense some moments it really did feel like I was drowning.

“But you have a healthy baby!”

I heard this a lot during this time. Like the outcome was all that mattered. This only served to make me feel more guilty; I was selfish for wanting it all.

I sit here now with damp eyes, with so much compassion for that new mother. Many therapy sessions and debriefs later I can now reflect from a higher ground. I am still angry our birth was stolen from us, but I have forgiven myself for being complicit in the robbery. I am extremely proud of the bond I now have with my daughter. From here, I can see that my intense love for her catapulted me forward every moment of every day in my postpartum period when every part of me was screaming to give up.

I can look to the future knowing that we are capable of surviving hard things, and knowing that my daughter has unearthed a version of me that will not be silenced or complicit. I know that if I get the chance to birth another baby, these experiences will serve to empower me.

I have now chosen to take my intense passion and support other postpartum mothers. Transitioning from nursing to becoming a postpartum doula has been an interesting journey, but I feel brave in the face of my experiences, like perhaps my life was leading to this.

A very wise woman once said to me that we are often given the birth we need. I now choose to see my daughters birth as the awakening of my inner strength and determination. The lighting of the proverbial fire within, to help me light the way for my daughter. And for that, I am extremely grateful.