Six months

The little man

Six months ago today, a midwife looked at the CTG recording of my induced labour and exclaimed sympathetically, ‘Wow, you have really shit contractions.’ The laugh was just what I needed, because the triple-peaks of pain were indeed rather trying, and they only got worse from there.

Finn’s due date had come and gone a week before without a hint of his arrival, so on the 19th my husband and I collected our bags and took the tram down to the hospital (so different from the anxious dash I’d been expecting). Labour was induced by the application of a gel, and the first dose barely got the contractions started; the second dose at 3pm did the trick however, and there followed seven and a bit hours of me trying every pain-alleviation technique known to midwifery. Sitting on a gym ball, lying down, standing up, walking around, getting into a hot bath, getting out of the hot bath, hanging on to the top of the bed and emitting a sort of primal grunting scream… All of them helped a bit; my theory is that it’s actually the change from one method to another that helps more than the method itself. Of course by the second stage of labour nothing can distract you from your body’s determination to get that baby out, and you’re just hanging on for the ride.

Earlier in the day I was told an epidural was impossible because my red blood cell count was too low. They could have said it was because the moon was in Aries for all that meant to me, but it was a relief not to have to think about having a needle inserted in my spine. I did have a dose of a painkiller called Buscopan when I was 4cm dilated on the promise it would both promote dilation and help with the pain, but I couldn’t honestly say if it succeeded on either score. If it ‘took the edge off’ I can only observe that there was plenty of edge left.

My memories of labour are strobe-like flashes: of the first hospital room, lying on the bed having CTG scans taken; getting into the bath, which was such a relief at first and then, after a few more contractions, somehow unbearable; of the second stage starting and the urge to push taking over; of leaning on the side of the bed in the birthing room, my arms shaking with the effort; the sensation of Finn’s head crowning (just when you think things can’t possibly get any more uncomfortable…); Finn being born, and his pale little body lying on the mat below me, as I desperately asked ‘Is he okay? Is he okay?’ because when I looked at him he wasn’t moving. The relief when it’s all over..! Indescribable. And as I lay down on the bed exhausted, I remember thinking, ‘People do this more than once?!’

And now he’s six months old! Callou callay! His SIDS risk is reduced. He can roll over, and giggle, and make a noise like a sound effect from Jurassic Park (‘Veloci-Finnster’ or The Pterodactyl). On almost every outing a nice lady tells him how cute he is (“So eine Süsse!” if I’m hearing correctly). And most hours of most days I think I know what I’m doing.