‘Hello?’ a familiar voice queried from behind the curtain.
Marg pulled it back. Jon and Justin stood there, bright-eyed, refreshed, Jon holding up a plastic bag filled with bananas, almonds and coconut water. He knew me well, too. ‘I got you some snacks for today,’ he said, placing the bag on the bed. ‘The bananas are even organic.’
I chuckled. ‘Thank you. This is Marg, she’s the midwife on today and was my Calmbirth teacher many moons ago.’ I had already told the boys about Marg and her course. The boys grinned, shaking Marg’s hand.
While the boys spoke to Marg, I checked the clock, anxious to know my fate, when I’d be moved into the birthing suite. Ashleigh would be arriving soon.
‘Now, Shannon, in a moment I’ll be sending Dr Singh in to examine you and baby,’ said Marg. ‘She’ll make a decision about the time for induction. We have other women to consider in the birthing suites as well.’
‘Does Shannon even have to stay? She’s clearly not in labour, so why do we have to push the issue?’ Justin piped up, taking a seat by the window.
‘Well, the doctor feels there could be a growth restriction to the baby, so he’d like the baby out as soon as possible. But it’s hard to say if there really is a growth restriction. In saying that, we can’t make Shannon stay. She can leave whenever she wants.’ Marg cupped her hands together, shifted her gaze to me.
I stared at Marg then at the boys, uncertain. I couldn’t bring myself to make the decision.
She nodded. ‘Look, I’ll go and get Dr Singh and we’ll go from there.’
As I watched Marg leave the room, a sense of wellbeing lifted me – the universe had given me a present. Marg wouldn’t let things get out of control; she had my best interests at heart and she knew the kind of birth I wanted, as natural as possible, no drugs. There was no bullshit with Marg, I knew where I stood.
‘I don’t know what to do. I could go home, but then what? I’m three centimetres now. It could be days of hanging around at home, and you’re all here, ready and waiting,’ I whispered to the boys.
‘We just want you to know that we’re behind you one hundred per cent. Whatever you choose, it’s your body – and as Marg said, they can’t make you stay here. I think baby Elsie’s fine,’ Justin said, his voice lowered.
I laid my head back on the pillow, a tug of war in my mind. I could leave right now if I wanted to. I could, but if I did and something was wrong with Elsie . . .
Such a big decision left in my hands – my body, their daughter. I had always wanted a natural birth, triggered by the hormonal reactions taking place within me, not encouraged with synthetic hormones. However, the possibility that Elsie could be at risk made me squirm uncomfortably on the bed. I couldn’t jeopardise their daughter’s safety for the sake of a peaceful birth.
A moment later, Dr Singh walked in with Marg, Ashleigh and another woman, who appeared to be an assistant. Dr Singh was tall, with long, straight hair. She asked the boys to leave the room so she could perform an examination.
‘Shannon’s not sure whether she should stay for the induction,’ Marg said, glancing at me before placing her hands behind her back, chest out. Her stance told me, I’ve got your back.
‘Well, we will see,’ the doctor said.
I relaxed, let my legs fall apart. Dr Singh moved her gloved hand, feeling my cervix, staring at the bed in concentration. ‘She is three centimetres dilated but her cervix is still very, very high. But I’ve read you do have an SGA baby.’
Dr Singh removed her glove and rubbed her hands together to summon heat before gesturing for me to lift my shirt. She worked her hands over my belly, measuring, gauging the size of Elsie. She lowered her head, her brow creased. ‘That is a very small baby, very small,’ she said, worryingly. ‘Darling, I really do advise that you let us give you the oxytocin, which will allow us to break your waters and get established labour going. You really need to get her out.’
I blinked, breathing deeply. There was nothing to say – I had no comeback, nor did I have any questions. I knew what had to be done, the whack of my heart in my chest confirming that I understood. Elsie would be birthed today, one way or another.
Marg threw me a reassuring glance. As Dr Singh and the assistant left the room, she stepped closer, her fingers touching the bed. ‘We’ll start out with a little bit of oxytocin and see how you go. We don’t have to leave it on.’ She pressed her lips into a quick smile. ‘There’s a woman giving birth to twins at the moment, so we’ll wait until she’s done before we take you over. It could be hours, so just relax for now.’ Marg left the room.
The boys returned, and Ashleigh and I relayed the information.
‘You’re sure you want to go ahead with this?’ said Justin, standing at the foot of the bed.
I glanced out the window; outside, a silvereye ran its tiny beak over a branch as if to sharpen it, its chest puffed out. ‘Dr Singh confirmed that she’s very small.’ I turned my head to meet their eyes. ‘I’m three centimetres already and I’m in the best place I could be right now. I’ve come this far; there’s no point in going home.’
It felt alien to even think about going home. I couldn’t imagine having another check-up with Dr Wright days later at his rooms, the confused look on his face, chastising me for being irresponsible. I was here now, dilated and on the home stretch. I was ready to press forward.
Ashleigh left and reappeared with a blue fit ball. ‘Here, you can sit on this. Bounce up and down, it should help to encourage your cervix to open and bring Elsie’s head lower.’ She rolled the ball towards me and I stopped it with my hand.
The room was abuzz with energy, urgency; after hours of waiting, something was happening. The four of us were unsettled, no one able to sit still. Ashleigh chatted to the boys while I bounced diligently on the fit ball, panting, determined to move Elsie down, make her ready, even if just a little.
Ashleigh left the room again, to read my file and talk to the midwives at reception, then returned. ‘They still don’t know. The other woman’s still birthing her twins. It could be hours or it could be thirty minutes.’
An hour passed, me still bouncing on the ball, the boys talking and texting on their phones; Ashleigh waited with us. Then Marg arrived, sticking her head around the curtain. ‘We’re ready for you now, guys. Are you ready, Shannon?’
I stopped mid-bounce, quad muscles burning. Ashleigh held out her arm, and I clasped her hand, groaning, lifting myself off the ball, blood surging into my legs. I gathered up my bag and snacks. My legs trembling with fatigue, I walked silently with the boys and Ashleigh around the corner to the birthing suite. As we approached, a yell pierced the air, strained, strong, followed by moaning, long and intense, from one of the suites – a woman giving birth.
I released the breath I’d been holding. You can do this, you know you can, I told myself. Whatever comes your way, just go with it. Think about the end result. Think about Elsie with her fathers.
Ashleigh held open the door to the birthing suite, let me walk in, then the boys. It was the same birthing suite where Dr Wright had examined me the day before. I placed my bag on the floor by the bed and sat down, nerves rippling. Earlier I’d changed into a loose-fitting black dress, a cheap one that could get ruined if need be. I wore my swimmers underneath in the hope that I could get in the shower or, better yet, the bath while in labour. Jon and Justin sat down on two chairs by the wall, Jon running his palms over his jeans before shuffling back, his eyes turning to Marg and Dr Singh as they entered the room.
‘We’re going to give you some oxytocin first and see how that goes,’ Dr Singh said, gesturing to Marg.
‘Yep,’ I said, short, anxious. I lay back, holding out my hand with the cannula inserted, watched as it shook. Marg gripped my hand, held it still and attached the drip, rubbing her thumb over my skin, a tender touch.
Dr Singh smiled. ‘I’m going to leave the room now, Shannon. Just try to relax and I’ll examine you again later.’
The
oxytocin mixed with the blood in my veins and immediately a contraction began – not a raging, cramping pain but a mild twinge that forced me to stop and breathe. Keen to establish a rhythm early, I concentrated on my breath. In between talking with Ashleigh, Jon and Justin, I sometimes closed my eyes, refocusing – my slow, intentional breath was how I had managed the pain with my two previous births.
Marg strapped a waterproof monitor around my belly; it showed baby’s heartbeat along with an indication of the strength of a contraction. Ashleigh watched on, jotting down notes and assisting Marg, speaking in technical terms I didn’t understand.
I stood by the bed, pressing my knuckles into the mattress and swaying my hips. Jon and Justin glanced at the door as Tenille and Andrew walked in; I had texted them earlier about my move to the birthing suite. Their fresh, enthusiastic faces were a welcome sight. I hugged my husband, kissing his stubble, then hugged Tenille, happy that my birthing party was complete.
We filled them in on what we knew; every few minutes, on cue, I’d experience a contraction. All eyes whipped to the screen, checking the numbers. Comments flew around the room about the number registered for each contraction. Only I knew how it actually felt.
‘Ooh, that’s a good one,’ Jon said, one black eyebrow raised.
‘Yes. Much stronger than the last one,’ Tenille remarked, sympathy in her eyes. I laughed, shaking my head, resting my hands on my belly and waiting for another, heat crawling up my neck.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ Tenille said, pulling an envelope out of her bag.
She passed it to me and I opened the flap to find a beauty salon voucher and greeting cards from Tenille, Karen, my sister and another friend, Samantha. Crying, fingers pressed to my lips, I read the individual cards, taken aback by their generosity, their love, admiration and concern for me.
Forty-five minutes later, Dr Singh returned. She wanted to examine me, to ascertain if she could break my waters. With just Ashleigh and Marg left in the room, I slipped off my bikini bottoms as Marg placed a large white mat underneath my rear to soak up the fluid. I lay back, took in a sharp, deep breath as Dr Singh forced her hand inside me. Mounting pressure compelled me to breathe again and again as Marg handed an amniotic hook to Dr Singh. Seconds later a large, warm gush of fluid spilled from between my legs, out onto the bed.
‘It’ll feel like you’re wetting your pants,’ Marg said, rubbing the top of my foot.
I snickered, embarrassed by the uncontrollability of the sensation. ‘It does, it feels so weird.’ I’d never had that much water spill from me before; it poured onto the bed, and every time I moved, more water flowed.
‘Oh gosh, it won’t stop,’ I said, letting out a nervous laugh.
‘It’s okay, it’ll eventually stop,’ Marg reassured me, handing me my bikini bottoms. ‘You can stand up and put these on again when you feel ready.’
I took my swimmers and moved off the bed, more water spilling to the floor. ‘Oh no, it’s still coming out,’ I shrieked, inspecting the mess.
‘It’s okay, just let it come. Don’t be embarrassed,’ Dr Singh assured me as she made her way to the door.
‘I’ll clean it up,’ said Ashleigh, moving quickly to attend to the liquid on the floor. Once I stopped leaking amniotic fluid, Ashleigh advised everyone in the corridor that it was safe to come in. Back inside, they resumed their interest in my contractions and the correlation of them on the screen. After each one, I returned to the conversation, describing the pain to Jon and Justin and how uncomfortable it was to have my waters broken.
For moments at a time the room fell silent, waiting.
As Jon and Justin texted updates to family and friends, another wave of intense contracting caught me. I gave Tenille the eye, indicating that I wanted to get in the shower. When the contraction died, I lifted my black dress over my head, threw it on the bed and tottered to the bathroom, winking at Andrew as I passed. Tenille turned on the water, adjusting it to the right temperature, the heat soothing my body as I rested against the cold wall tiles. Marg moved a chair into the shower but I preferred to stand; I liked to sway my hips in a rhythm that eased the pain. I clutched the back of the chair, dipping my head, letting the hot water massage my back, trickle over my skin as I took on each contraction with a deep breath through my nostrils.
Even though we’d ceased to talk, I was comforted by Tenille’s presence. She’d been with me on the journey from the start and now sat there in quiet contemplation at the end as I groaned and moaned through each contraction then laughed with utter relief when it passed. She knew everything about the pregnancy, every appointment, disappointment and high. She had calmed me, talked sense into me and encouraged me throughout the unexpected exploration of myself and little Elsie – the surrogacy teaching me resilience, strength and the truth of my inner being. I knew I wasn’t alone. I was surrounded by the collective love that had helped Elsie to be.
For three hours I carried on in the shower, murmuring, Tenille sometimes leaving to get me a drink or check in with the boys, Andrew popping in to see how I was doing. Ashleigh hovered, helping Marg, using the experience to learn and observe, and entering the bathroom every now and then to offer words of encouragement.
‘Shannon, we’d like to examine you again, see if you’ve dilated further. It’s been just over three hours.’ Marg spoke softly, standing in the doorway to the bathroom.
I agreed, wearily lifting my hand to wipe the hair from my forehead. Tenille handed me a towel and I wrapped it around my body. As I emerged from the bathroom, I glanced at the boys, noting the mixture of guilt, concern and excitement in their eyes. I wondered how they felt, watching and hearing me go through such pain, worried for me, yet utterly excited, skin tingling, knowing their daughter was on her way.
Everyone left the room except for Ashleigh and Marg, and Dr Singh returned, pulling a glove onto her hand. She sat on the bed and I opened my legs, resting my head on the pillow and gazing out the window, somewhat exhausted. I imagined what she was about to say: You’re nine centimetres dilated. Well done, Shannon. This baby is coming soon.
‘Shannon, you’ve only progressed one centimetre. You’re now four centimetres.’ Dr Singh removed her hand from between my legs and stood up, apprehension creasing her forehead. ‘I think we’ll have to administer more oxytocin to get the labour going.’ Tugging off her glove, she glanced at Marg with a look that said, Get things ready.
My shoulders dropped; I thought I’d done so well. A bubble of worry ballooned inside me. I didn’t want to be hooked up to some drip, pumped with synthetic hormones that demanded my body do something it wasn’t ready to do, but I had to face reality. I was in established labour whether I liked it or not. I could go on for hours, all night, or I could speed it up with the oxytocin. No one wanted Elsie to become distressed, but my hopes for a gentle, perfectly paced labour were fading fast.
Dr Singh left, her job done, my job still ahead. Marg and Ashleigh stood beside me, and a sense of support and power cascaded within me, my mind settling.
Marg inserted the drip into the cannula and my vein ran cold as the liquid mixed with my blood. Again, almost immediately my body reacted, a long hard contraction tightening my belly. I scrunched up my lips and closed my eyes, holding onto my bump as if it controlled the ride. ‘Wow,’ I mouthed.
My birthing party reappeared; when I told them I was only four centimetres, their keen expressions fell. ‘Is that it?’ said Andrew, stepping closer. ‘But you were doing so well.’
‘If she can talk while having a contraction, she’s not in true labour,’ Marg joked, helping me off the bed.
‘How long do I have to have this drip on . . .’ I paused, breath seizing as a wave of pain moved over my belly again.
‘Ooh, that was close together,’ Ashleigh said, her voice high.
Marg rubbed my back. ‘We’ll leave it on for a little while and see how it goes.’
I bit my bottom lip, half closed my eyes and nodded, already on my
way to the place I knew I had to go – my happy place, a white sandy beach, cool turquoise water at my feet, palm trees and sunlight, somewhere on a dot of an island in the Maldives.
I couldn’t tell who was with me in the bathroom when I returned to it. In a world of my own, I stood in the shower, pressed against the wall, hot water flowing over my body as I negotiated the monitor around my waist and the drip attached to my hand.
‘A towel, I need a towel, please,’ I said, holding out a shaky hand. ‘I’ve got to get down on my knees.’ My head lolled around as I held myself up on the back of the chair, my legs failing. Tenille rushed for a towel, folding it over and over to create a thick cushion. I slid it under my knees, the heavy weight of my body forced down through my legs as I slumped. The sound of water hitting the tiles competed with the voices in the adjoining room.
‘Shannon, the monitor’s not working, can you shift back a bit,’ Marg asked, raising her voice over the background noise.
I jolted my body up, adjusting the monitor and turning my head as another contraction ripped through me, gripping my uterus, squeezing.
‘I can’t,’ I said, confused. ‘I can’t . . . I want to get in the bath.’ My knees were hurting, the towel drenched, compacted under my weight. I needed buoyancy, a body of water to ease my body in pain. Earlier, Tenille had run the large spa bath and it was now full.
‘Okay, let’s help you up, but remember she can’t be born in the water,’ said Marg. ‘SGA babies aren’t allowed to be birthed in the bath, it’s too risky, and she might get stressed and try to take a breath when the head’s out. You can labour in the bath, but that’s it.’ She helped me to stand, guided me over the edge of the spa and down into a sea of water.
As I lowered my body, the relief I experienced was instant. The water buoyed me, its warmth soothing my conflicted muscles. I propped my elbows up on the edge of the spa bath and moaned – a noise from deep inside. I couldn’t think about anyone but myself, not the fathers, not Andrew, only the pain that pulled me into my subconscious. As another contraction closed around my uterus, a guttural groan spewed from my throat.
Labour of Love Page 27