by Mia Freedman
Him: ‘What about Freke?’
He says he’s sure it’s a girl so there’s no point in talking about boy names. ‘Naming a baby is like going to an auction—all the action happens right at the end,’ he insists. I manage to burst into tears to make him feel bad. Happy.
Week 30
Thankfully, Luca takes the naming situation very seriously and is constantly coming up with suggestions, which so far include Reverend, Paralisa, Bomber and Chilli. At least he’s trying.
Week 31
It’s a bitch getting dressed for a black-tie event when you’re the size of a small planet. I have to go to the Magazine Publishers Association awards and I have nothing to wear. I stand in front of my wardrobe with the cab tooting outside, ankle-deep in a sea of utterly inappropriate frocks. Some I can’t get over my shoulders. Some are too short once my stomach is shoved in. And some are just a hundred shades of wrong.
In the end, I decide to wear a black Morrissey tuxedo jacket with matching pants that I hold together with a hundred safety pins. Underneath, I’m wearing a black Bonds singlet, which doesn’t quite cover my belly, but whatever. Dolly wins Magazine of the Year and Bron and I climb up to collect our award. My pants don’t fall down. That’s two wins right there.
Week 32
The baby is bottom down, head up. My doctor would like it to turn any time now so I don’t have to have a caesar. I’m strangely calm at the thought of whatever type of birth I need to have. I remind myself it’s about the baby, not the birth experience.
What will I do all day at home with a newborn? I can’t believe I’ve totally forgotten what it’s like. I’m in the headspace of someone who’s never had a child and thinks she’s going to have lots of spare time to take cooking classes and learn French.
Week 33
Now I get it. When second-time mums are asked whether they want a girl or boy and they reply ‘I’ll be happy with either,’ I used to think they were lying. Surely everyone wants one of each, right? Not necessarily. Jo, Karen and I are all slightly unnerved at the idea of having a different sex child. We know how to do the gender we’ve got. The fear of the unknown is real and the nappy-changing issue is top of mind. I know how to do a boy’s nappy, it’s easy. The thought of a girl’s terrifies me. My friends with girls are the reverse. No idea what to do with a penis. Maybe we’ll have to swap babies for nappy changes.
Week 34
Our first trip to Babies Galore. Overwhelmed even though we’ve been through all this eight years ago. Hugely amused at the sight of the shocked faces of the fathers traipsing around the store several steps behind pregnant women. I feel a bit like them. Jason decides he needs to leave immediately to find a hardware store and re-orient himself. I wander around in a daze. I’d forgotten how much STUFF babies need. I finally lose the plot while standing in front of the breast pumps and abandon my mission in search of a doughnut.
Week 35
I’ve officially entered ‘look at the freaky lady’ territory when I’m out in public. Depending on what I’m wearing, I can look five months or ten months pregnant.
Some strangers smile (usually mothers); others gape openly.
Week 36
Baby is head down but now Dr Bob is concerned that my fundal height is a bit smaller than it should be. Sends me for ultrasound to confirm baby is thriving and placenta is okay etc. Jason is away so Mum comes with me. Thankfully all is fine, baby is just really low down, which can make tummy appear smaller.
Low-down baby sometimes feels like it may fall out when I walk. Pubic bone feels like mush.
Week 37
I’m starting to mentally withdraw from the world. And I’m getting more intolerant—at work, at home, in shops. I think it’s nature’s way of focusing you on the task at hand. All I want to do is watch birth documentaries on the Discovery health channel. This is because they don’t show any of the gory stuff and everything always turns out fine. However, am disturbed by how big babies seem when they come out. Jesus.
Week 38
I spend an hour in the chemist standing confused in front of the baby stuff. I call a friend with a six-month-old. ‘What do you wash babies with? What do you use when you change their nappies?’
I am a total novice. Again. Stock up on maternity pads and a million different creams for nipples and bottoms.
Week 39
I’m in that weird headspace where it feels like I’ll be pregnant forever. I’ve left work and I’m at home trying to relax, but feeling uncomfortable and impatient. I don’t want to leave the house because I keep having to have conversations with strangers. Why do you lose your personal space when you’re pregnant? Can’t I just buy some bloody ice cream without having to talk to five people about when I’m due, whether I’m having a boy or a girl, blah blah blah? I adore being pregnant but even I’m over it. Bring this baby on.
A BITCH CALLED AMY
SMS to my parents from Jason:
‘Bring Luca to the hospital. We’re on.’
It’s 9.30 on Saturday night and I’m sitting on the couch playing with my nipples. Jason glances at me briefly, rolls his eyes and goes back to watching the stupid DVD he rented, the DVD that caused me to shove both hands down my top. I fume and fiddle silently. But a few minutes later, I’m forced to speak. ‘Um, babe?’ I venture. ‘I think I’ve fucked up.’
It had seemed like a good idea at the time. I was almost nine months pregnant and over it. I adore being pregnant but not at the end. Those last four weeks are hideous. To say I lose my sense of humour is an understatement.
I was hot, huge, grumpy, puffy, snarky, bloaty, uncomfy…the seven nightmare dwarves of late pregnancy. Jason had made the grave error of renting a DVD I didn’t like and my considered response was to explode like a fat, angry hand grenade.
‘I’m pregnant and I’m bored and I’m over it and you can’t even rent a decent DVD!’ I railed attractively. ‘Is it too much to ask to find something in the video store that would be interesting to me and didn’t have GUNS in it? Something in which nobody DIED? Where nobody gets their FACE WHACKED IN? Something with JENNIFER ANISTON, maybe? Or Gwyneth bloody PALTROW? Is that too much to ask when I’m carrying your child and I’m SUFFERING?’
From there, it was a logical step to induce my own labour. That’s where the nipples came in. I remembered reading somewhere that nipple stimulation can trigger contractions. I thought I’d give it a whirl. What I didn’t expect is that it would work.
Within two minutes, I felt a slight twinge which I immediately dismissed as coincidence. With a few more nipple twiddles, the twinge became a contraction. Not massive. Not unbearable. Not even painful really. But a contraction nonetheless. I stopped twiddling and thoughtfully reached for another handful of Smarties. A few minutes later, another unmistakable contraction. Time to confess.
Jason has lived with me for more than ten years and is used to my ability to create unwanted, unnecessary and unpleasant drama out of a perfectly nice evening. ‘You’re an idiot,’ he said mildly, shaking his head as I nodded mutely in agreement.
As impatient as I was to hurry this pregnancy along, late on a Saturday night was not the ideal time to go into labour. Particularly because my beloved obstetrician, Dr Bob, the man who had helped me through an emotional decade of gynaecological triumph and tragedy, did not deliver babies between 10 pm and 6 am.
Not to mention the fact it was bedtime and I wanted to go to sleep. I hadn’t slept properly in weeks and I was exhausted. Luca was already asleep, blissfully enjoying his last hours as an only child, a status he’d enjoyed for eight lovely years. Another contraction. And was that another? Yes. Oh dear. This was most definitely not the plan.
I’ve always been baffled by people who talk about ‘medical intervention’ as if it’s a bad thing. The more doctors around me during pregnancy and birth, the better. It makes me feel safe. Bring on all the people in the white coats, I say. And if they can bring with them as much fancy medical equipment as possible? I’d really ap
preciate it.
If I could have moved into the hospital at thirty weeks to be closer to the white-coated people, I would have been ecstatic. So I have to admit that the only birth plan I’d made was, like last time, ‘Get to the Hospital and Get Drugs’.
However, this time is different from when we had Luca, because, well, there’s Luca. At eight, he isn’t going to be there for the birth itself, so logistical preparations have had to be made. And our son likes a plan. He is an organised Virgo, who’s ruminated over every detail and canvassed every possible labour scenario and potential outcome. We’ve discussed all of them at length many times. We are ready.
There is some added excitement about it all going down at 3 am—Jason and I managed to snatch a few hours of sleep, post-DVD fiasco—and, taking after his mother in so many ways, Luca would have been disappointed with any less dramatic option, except, perhaps, me giving birth on the kitchen floor. That would have been cool. Except for, you know, like, the blood and stuff.
Jason goes to wake him up and, according to the plan, call my parents to come and collect him.
Out of habit, I hit the shower to wash and blow-dry my hair. As if to prepare for a night out. Or a meeting. More control. I’d foolishly forgotten how fast I tossed that out the last time I did labour.
A few days ago, I’d dragged my bits—which I hadn’t seen for months—to the waxer for my regular Brazilian, an experience even more undignified than usual due to my size, heft and inability to lie on my back without suffocating.
‘Get on all fours,’ commanded the waxer before calling for back-up.
‘Hi, I’m Angie,’ came a perky voice from behind my bottom, which was pointed elegantly at the door.
‘Hi, I’m pregnant,’ I snapped. I was in no mood for meeting new people.
The experience may have cost me some dignity but compared to what was to come, it was a tea party with scones.
Being December and hot, the weather is on my side wardrobewise. So much harder to dress a whale when it’s cold. Between contractions, I peruse the very small section of my wardrobe containing things that still fit in search of an outfit to wear to the maternity ward. Something I can hike up to my armpits every time someone new comes into the room to rummage between my legs, which I’m guessing will be often. I find a knee-length silk dress with a sort of Japanese snow-blossom print. Loose, light, comfortable and pretty. Come on down.
Just then, I hear Dad’s car pull into the driveway. It’s 3.30 am. I give Luca a huge hug with the vague sadness of knowing the next time I see him, our intense only-child bond might be somehow different. Then another contraction comes along to blow away any sentimentality and all I can think is: ‘BLOODY OUCH.’
Luca safely away, my dress on, my hair dry and straight—a quick GHD to smooth down those stray fly-aways; did I mention vanity?—and Havaianas on my puffy feet. Time to go.
At the hospital, we’re ushered into an examination room. This is not the delivery ward; it’s a holding pen where it’s decided what stage of labour you’re at and where you must go next.
My contractions have been getting longer and stronger. I want a bed and some drugs. Drugs first. Gimme. But there are no drugs in sight yet. Jason helps me up onto the bed, where I lie on my side, holding my belly. Every so often, the baby kicks.
A youngish midwife comes in to examine me. ‘Hi, I’m Amy,’ she says in an English accent. Soon I will hate Amy, but not yet. At this point, our relationship is still a blank page and I want her to like me in the way I always want people to like me. Especially when they are people who control access to drugs.
‘How frequent are your contractions?’
‘Five minutes apart, started last night about 9.30 but didn’t get bad until about 2 am.’
‘Let’s time one,’ she suggests, and we wait. Three minutes later, I say, ‘Now,’ and ride the pain wave while she looks at the second hand on the watch pinned to her shirt.
‘Okay, finished,’ I grimace.
‘About fifty seconds,’ she pronounces. ‘Now let’s see how dilated you are.’
This is the big moment. Well, one of them. Every woman in labour imagines herself to be more dilated than she actually is because it means you’re closer to the end. It’s like a tangible measure of the distance you’ve travelled on the Pain Bus. Are we there yet? Huh? Huh? Are we? Are we? It’s also worth noting that the further you journey on the Pain Bus, the faster you lose your dignity and your inhibitions. And sometimes, your mind.
As I hike up my pretty silk dress and wriggle awkwardly out of my knickers, I decide on the spot that I’m done with them. I know Amy will be merely the first in a conga line of strangers to stick their hands in my vagina in the foreseeable future, so, really, what’s the point?
The silence stretches as I wait for Amy’s verdict. Based on the intensity of the contractions and comparing it to my labour with Luca, I figure I’m a little further gone than I was when I arrived at hospital with him. So I’m guessing at least four centimetres but hoping for more. If it was five or six centimetres I wouldn’t be surprised. It hurts that much.
‘One and a half centimetres,’ Amy announces briskly. My heart falls through the floor. It’s not possible. ‘Really?!’ I manage to spit out as another contraction hits.
‘Yes,’ Amy replies and I immediately detect a hint of condescension in her attitude. She has decided I’m a drama queen. Which, sometimes, I am. But definitely not at this moment. I begin to hate Amy.
‘You know, Mia, you may not even be in labour,’ she singsongs. ‘This may be pre-labour. The baby might not come for another few days yet. When’s your actual due date?’
My hate for Amy intensifies. ‘The seventeenth,’ I mumble petulantly. Five days away. She’s delighted with this answer. ‘You see!’ she declares smugly. ‘You might not have this baby for a week!’
Just as I’m thinking about how I’d like her to die, she delivers the killer punch. ‘So, we can’t take you to a delivery suite. In fact, you might want to go home and rest there where you feel more comfortable.’
Comfortable? COMFORTABLE? What part of having the pain equivalent of a rocking chair shoved up your arse might be COMFORTABLE, Amy?
Instead of those exact words, what I say is this: ‘Amy, there is no way we can go home. I’m staying here. I’m in too much pain.’
She thinks for a moment. ‘Well, you could go outside and walk around the car park.’
The car park? THE CAR PARK?
‘Moving around can help get the labour going,’ she adds helpfully.
‘What about the pain?’
‘Well, if you like, I can give you two Panadol.’
It’s official. Amy is on fucking crack and I’ve never hated anyone more.
I resist the temptation to jam the Panadol into her nostrils with my foot and instead ask for a glass of water to wash the pills down. What I really want to ask for is an epidural. But no, I must suffer.
This is how Jason and I come to be staggering slowly around a hospital car park in the inner western suburbs of Sydney at 4.30 am on a warm Sunday morning in December. Thankfully, the two lovely Panadol have taken away all my pain so I’m feeling fantastic. No, wait. The Panadol doesn’t even touch the sides because I AM IN GODDAMN LABOUR AND PANADOL IS FOR PISSY LITTLE HEADACHES. Amy may as well have given me Tic Tacs.
Every few minutes, when a contraction comes, I lean forward and brace myself against Jason or a car. And I’m starting to make noise during my contractions, which is a new thing for me. With Luca, I’d been as silent as a Scientologist.
But this time? Tom Cruise would not be impressed. In another inhibition-losing milestone on my road to birth, I care not a hoot about passers-by. Fortunately my shape and proximity to the labour ward tell the back-story pretty effectively, so no one calls the police.
And hey, I bet Amy the Sadist probably sends all her patients to car-park purgatory. A gigantic woman doubled over in pain and wailing among parked cars is probably standard stuff arou
nd here.
After about half an hour of this, I can’t take it any more. ‘We have to go inside,’ I pant to Jason. He’s gone quiet. Dammit, I’d forgotten to tell him I wanted him to be very bossy and take charge. Since being bossed around is not something that would usually wash with me, he has no way of reading my mind and I have reached that point where I can no longer communicate my wishes in any detail.
He understands enough to help me inside and we head back to the examination room. Surely I must be eight centimetres by now. My nemesis, Amy, returns.
‘Amy, Mia can’t keep walking around the car park,’ Jason says, anger creeping into his voice. ‘When can we be admitted?’
‘Well, it’s only been an hour since I examined her, so it’s still too early to go to a delivery suite, but if you like, you can go into the waiting room.’
Fucking great. But I’m in no position to argue. That would have taken words and a functioning brain. ‘There’s a shower in there she can use,’ she adds brightly. ‘Sometimes that helps.’
Amy ushers us out of the examination room and a few metres down the hall into a small poo-brown carpeted room with some ugly art posters on the wall and eight Formica chairs around the perimeter. ‘The shower’s in there,’ she says, gesturing to a door inside the room, directly opposite the chairs. And then she walks out.
Through the pain haze, I try to feel grateful for small things. Like the fact there’s no one else in the dingy waiting room. And that it’s not a car park. ‘Shower,’ I grunt, my straight hair already forgotten. Jason helps me into the bathroom, which is about the size of a disabled bathroom. There’s a sink, a toilet with handrails and a shower nozzle attached to the wall. No actual shower area. Just a tiled floor under the nozzle where I am soon standing, naked and moaning.