So it’s over. Thank the imaginary gods above. And yes, dear reader, as predicted, it was total and utter hell.
Clearly the female brain is hot-wired with denial when it comes to all things childbirth-related since it’s not until one reaches the second stage of labour that the slow recollection descends ‘ah yes, I remember this; I’m experiencing the equivalent of being sawn in half without the alleviating ability to pass-out half-way through’ but of course by then it’s all too late.
The hospital in question was faultless and consummately professional aside from the comedienne of a nurse who, two days post-partum, eyed my still-swollen stomach and commented ‘tee hee are you sure you’re not still pregnant?’ which frankly went down like a lead balloon as indeed, I still had all the appearance of a woman 5 months into her pregnancy (I’d like to say it was an isolated incident, but sadly more than one Filipina shop assistant has since made the same hilarious comment, much to my amusement.)
The anaesthetist performed her role beautifully, filling me with enough drugs to cheer-up an NA meeting, thus sailing me through labour stage-one quite blissfully. Sadly, when this wore off the replacement wasn’t so effective and it was at this stage, as the contractions tore through my body, that I began to consider in earnest the possibility of unhooking myself from the various drips and machines around me, staggering across the room and flinging myself from the 5th floor window.
In my naivety I had reasoned that this birth would be quick and relatively easy considering the fact that it was to be my fifth.
A wise man once said ‘madness is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result’; in other words, having had four agonising births to date, I'm now at a loss to explain how I could have ever entertained such foolish fantasies that this would be any different. The ordeal lasted 13 glorious hours and by the time the little mite was finally born all I could think to say to the assisting midwife was ‘why on earth would anyone opt to do that without pain relief?’ to which she slowly shook her head as she considered it and replied ‘I really don’t know’.
To put this in perspective, I had four root canals last year, two at a time. Although excrutiatingly unpleasant, I kept my cool and managed to get through the ordeal without crying, and had I expressed my wish to experience the procedure fully au naturelle, I'm sure my dentist would have discreetly made a phone call to the local loony bin and had me admitted forthwith.
What they don’t tell you about the epidural is that it doesn’t actually do anything once you’re into the last leg of the event. Nothing. Zero. You’re on your own.
And I couldn’t help but think that all those weeks of effort to look presentable and unflappable at my appointments with my obstetrician; being every inch ‘the experienced mother of four’, was all for nought when I was lying there, legs in stirrups with no idea what vision of hell was being displayed below, crying like a baby and begging him to hurry up and just ‘END IT, PLEEEEEEEEAAAAZZZ!’, all dignity on the floor along with half my internal organs.
But I was rewarded with another little clone and that makes me happy. I seem to deliver the same baby repeatedly since I am unable to discern any difference between him and all the others I’ve delivered, with the only variable being the quantity and shade of hair they arrive with.
By Friday morning I was 4 days post-partum and woke to find I had had the mother of all boob-jobs during the night. This is another thing they don’t explain to you on your first pregnancy. Obviously, this being my fifth baby I was expecting the arrival of mega boobs, but following the birth of my first child it was quite a shock to wake to find my C-cups replaced by double H’s, thus heralding the arrival of milk.
DH always bemoans the cruel irony of this stage; fantasy boobs but completely and agonisingly untouchable. Since this is definitely the last time I will experience this, I took a photo for posterity, like an after-picture for a cosmetic surgery advertisement in the back of a magazine. That's one for facebook! Well, perhaps not.
They say you can relieve the pain of ‘breast engorgement’ (which is the correct term for mega-boobs) by putting cabbage leaves in your bra. I tried it once, but walking around with a brassicas vegetable in my underwear did little to counteract the pain and much to repel other humans from me. And I couldn't help but feel that I was the victim of a male practical joke: 'just how gullible are women?' If they said stashing broccoli in our knickers would alleviate period-pains would we do it? Actually, we probably would.
One thing that always perplexes me after having a baby is how mere aquaintances feel entitled to ask for intimate details which, in normal circumstances, would never be asked.
-'Are you breast-feeding' asked the woman behind the counter in my local supermarket.
-'Er, well, I'm combining...well, trying to...I really can't decide...er (why am I answering you?)...it's complicated'.
OR
-'A boy! Congratulations' said the Indian security guard at my local mall. 'Did you have a normal delivery?'
-'Err...(what??) yes thank you' I replied, wondering how he'd react if I continued 'yes, a normal VAGINAL delivery....13 hours of contractions, no stitches thank god, text-book stuff!' while I watched him shuffle away wishing he'd never asked (and as aside, I resent the term 'normal' delivery; to my mind there is nothing 'normal' about what I've described above.)
Actually, I might try that response next time.
But it's all over now; Junior is with us and the house just got busier. DH has grudgingly agreed to be dispatched to the local vet to be neutered within the coming weeks to ensure that this sort of 'surprise' doesn't happen again while in my dreams I contemplate the view from that fifth floor window, and the long drop below.
