Sarah Vaughan
February 27th 05, 06:35 PM
On my own in the bathtub, I concentrated on relaxing through the
contractions and timing them. Unfortunately, these two aims were
mutually contradictory to some extent, since I was turning my head to
look at my watch every time a contraction started, which was impairing
my ability to relax properly into them. Mental note to self: next time
I go through this, I'll get a wall clock for the bathroom showing
minutes and seconds so that I only have to open my eyes and glance at it
to time everything.
I was relaxed enough between contractions to doze on and off, but I
noticed the contractions themselves were getting harder to deal with.
There was a pattern - for the first 30 seconds the breathing techniques
and relaxation were enough to keep me on top of things, and then, for
the final 15 seconds, as the pain spread round into my lower back, I'd
lose control over it. I found myself fighting and tensing up at the end
of every contraction, even though I could feel that this was making
things worse instead of better. All I could do was endure those last 15
seconds and try not to let the pain get on top of me too much. In
retrospect, I think this was the part of my labour where I'd have
benefited most from the traditional Bradley method of side-lying
relaxation and a coach to give me back rubs and talk me through each
contraction. However, I'm not sorry DH took the chance to lie down - I
managed by myself, and I was quite right, as it turned out, in thinking
I'd need him more later and would want him properly rested then.
It must have been a little after 3 a.m. when I really lost it. When the
contractions hit, I could no longer relax through them - all I could do
was moan and whimper and try to endure them. I found myself writhing so
much with the pain that I couldn't stay still. I hurled myself from one
end of the bath to the other. A contraction or two after that, I was
out of the bath entirely. I tried sitting on the toilet, remembering
that one of the mkp posters had said that helped her, but that wasn't
working either. Thinking I'd try the Bradley relaxation routine, I
threw myself into the bedroom, past a rather startled DH, and onto the
camping mattress at the other end of the room, but it was no good - I
couldn't relax at all. The sensations were completely taking my body
over - even between contractions, I couldn't seem to relax. I kept
wanting to push down, as well.
DH, desperate for something to do, started timing the contractions - one
was one minute long, the next was one minute and twenty seconds, and he
told me later this was at around quarter past three. He was holding my
wrists as he timed the contractions, trying to stop me from throwing
myself around the mattress, pleading with me to relax and try to float
over the top of them. But no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't.
Everything about this matched the descriptions I'd read of transitional
stage, except, of course, for the fact that I'd only been in labour for
six hours, and they hadn't been terrible ones, by any means. I was so
geared up to spend hours and hours working through long painful
contractions at home that I couldn't believe that I could possibly be
that far along already - I hadn't even expected to be out of the latent
phase of labour by this time. I wondered what could possibly have gone
wrong to make me feel this terrible this early on - maybe the baby had
somehow moved round into the OP position? I knew one thing, though - I
needed someone to tell me what the hell was going on. So I decided we'd
have to go to the birthing centre. 'Decided' isn't quite the right word
- I heard my own voice screaming at DH "We'll have to go to the hospital
so that they can tell us what the hell's happening!"
DH asked whether I'd be able to get in the car. As much as I hated the
idea of calling an ambulance just to get me to the hospital when I was
in labour - after all, I work in the NHS, I know as well as anyone how
short resources are - there only seemed to be one answer I could give to
that. There was no way I could face getting in the car and ride to
hospital that way, and an ambulance seemed the only option I could bear.
At least they'd have gas and air.
DH rang the birthing centre, who agreed that if I felt this way then I
should certainly come in, and the ambulance control, who sounded rather
less impressed but agreed to send someone. I was shivering
uncontrollably and managed to croak out 'Duvet', waving my hand in the
direction of the duvet on the bed. Poor DH was running around trying to
get my clothes out of the bathroom, the old duvet out of the spare room
(I was still bleeding and he didn't want me using the good one) and the
hazard lights switched on on his car downstairs so that the ambulance
driver could spot us easily. Fortunately, the pads I'd bought a few
weeks ago in readiness were stored under the bed in the perfect spot for
me to reach them easily, so he had one less thing to fetch. With
immense effort I managed to struggle into my clothes.
The ambulance, fortunately, arrived quickly. I apologised for putting
them to the trouble, and they were nice about it in that sort of
restrained way people have when they think that yes, you are putting
them to too much trouble. DH asked them whether they had gas and air
and they said "Technically". It seemed they couldn't use it, or weren't
allowed to, or something. I never actually did find out why, as I had
other things on my mind at the time.
I asked them about a stretcher, and they told me that, well, really the
midwives liked women in labour to walk in, if I thought I could manage
that? I didn't, but I was so embarrassed already about having to call
an ambulance for what I still thought was likely to be early labour that
I thought I'd better at least try. I'm glad about this, because,
looking back, I think it may well actually have helped. Although
standing up felt nearly impossible, I found, to my surprise, that once I
was standing up it was quite easy to walk downstairs. DH told us he'd
follow in the car with my bags.
Another contraction hit me at the foot of the stairs, and I can see in
retrospect that the contractions had changed at this point. I didn't
recognise this at the time because they were still so overwhelming, but
whereas before they had just been generally overwhelmingly unmanageable,
they had now focused into an overwhelming urge to push. I gripped onto
the banisters and screamed and grunted my way through it, while the
female ambulance driver tried to persuade me to pant through it, telling
me that the reason I was having problems might be because my breathing
wasn't controlled. (I realised much later that she'd remembered the
wrong bit of whatever lecture she'd been to on childbirth - panting is
what you're meant to do during crowning, not earlier - but it was a
totally moot point at the time, since I was way beyond controlling my
breathing or anything else that was happening during contractions.)
I managed somehow to get my shoes and my coat on and followed them out
into the cold November night, where I climbed up into the back of the
ambulance and lay on my left side on the bed there. They didn't use the
siren - just drove at ordinary speed - and the quarter-hour drive seemed
to take a very long time. The contractions were hardly even painful any
more - there was a distant sort of pain when they first hit and when my
body took a break from the pushing, but mostly they just consisted of an
uncontrollable pushing urge. I knew that if I wasn't fully dilated I
could be damaging my cervix by pushing, but there wasn't much I could do
about it - I didn't have any choice in the matter. I'd once read that a
woman wouldn't get an _uncontrollable_ urge to push unless she was fully
into second stage, and just had to hope that this was true. Whenever
one hit, I couldn't stop myself from screaming with the effort, clinging
onto the rail on the side of the ambulance. Between contractions, I
watched the pattern of lights flickering on the ambulance wall from the
overhead skylight, and hung on, and hoped we'd be there soon.
(continued...)
--
"I once requested an urgent admission for a homeopath who had become depressed
and taken a massive underdose" - Phil Peverley
contractions and timing them. Unfortunately, these two aims were
mutually contradictory to some extent, since I was turning my head to
look at my watch every time a contraction started, which was impairing
my ability to relax properly into them. Mental note to self: next time
I go through this, I'll get a wall clock for the bathroom showing
minutes and seconds so that I only have to open my eyes and glance at it
to time everything.
I was relaxed enough between contractions to doze on and off, but I
noticed the contractions themselves were getting harder to deal with.
There was a pattern - for the first 30 seconds the breathing techniques
and relaxation were enough to keep me on top of things, and then, for
the final 15 seconds, as the pain spread round into my lower back, I'd
lose control over it. I found myself fighting and tensing up at the end
of every contraction, even though I could feel that this was making
things worse instead of better. All I could do was endure those last 15
seconds and try not to let the pain get on top of me too much. In
retrospect, I think this was the part of my labour where I'd have
benefited most from the traditional Bradley method of side-lying
relaxation and a coach to give me back rubs and talk me through each
contraction. However, I'm not sorry DH took the chance to lie down - I
managed by myself, and I was quite right, as it turned out, in thinking
I'd need him more later and would want him properly rested then.
It must have been a little after 3 a.m. when I really lost it. When the
contractions hit, I could no longer relax through them - all I could do
was moan and whimper and try to endure them. I found myself writhing so
much with the pain that I couldn't stay still. I hurled myself from one
end of the bath to the other. A contraction or two after that, I was
out of the bath entirely. I tried sitting on the toilet, remembering
that one of the mkp posters had said that helped her, but that wasn't
working either. Thinking I'd try the Bradley relaxation routine, I
threw myself into the bedroom, past a rather startled DH, and onto the
camping mattress at the other end of the room, but it was no good - I
couldn't relax at all. The sensations were completely taking my body
over - even between contractions, I couldn't seem to relax. I kept
wanting to push down, as well.
DH, desperate for something to do, started timing the contractions - one
was one minute long, the next was one minute and twenty seconds, and he
told me later this was at around quarter past three. He was holding my
wrists as he timed the contractions, trying to stop me from throwing
myself around the mattress, pleading with me to relax and try to float
over the top of them. But no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't.
Everything about this matched the descriptions I'd read of transitional
stage, except, of course, for the fact that I'd only been in labour for
six hours, and they hadn't been terrible ones, by any means. I was so
geared up to spend hours and hours working through long painful
contractions at home that I couldn't believe that I could possibly be
that far along already - I hadn't even expected to be out of the latent
phase of labour by this time. I wondered what could possibly have gone
wrong to make me feel this terrible this early on - maybe the baby had
somehow moved round into the OP position? I knew one thing, though - I
needed someone to tell me what the hell was going on. So I decided we'd
have to go to the birthing centre. 'Decided' isn't quite the right word
- I heard my own voice screaming at DH "We'll have to go to the hospital
so that they can tell us what the hell's happening!"
DH asked whether I'd be able to get in the car. As much as I hated the
idea of calling an ambulance just to get me to the hospital when I was
in labour - after all, I work in the NHS, I know as well as anyone how
short resources are - there only seemed to be one answer I could give to
that. There was no way I could face getting in the car and ride to
hospital that way, and an ambulance seemed the only option I could bear.
At least they'd have gas and air.
DH rang the birthing centre, who agreed that if I felt this way then I
should certainly come in, and the ambulance control, who sounded rather
less impressed but agreed to send someone. I was shivering
uncontrollably and managed to croak out 'Duvet', waving my hand in the
direction of the duvet on the bed. Poor DH was running around trying to
get my clothes out of the bathroom, the old duvet out of the spare room
(I was still bleeding and he didn't want me using the good one) and the
hazard lights switched on on his car downstairs so that the ambulance
driver could spot us easily. Fortunately, the pads I'd bought a few
weeks ago in readiness were stored under the bed in the perfect spot for
me to reach them easily, so he had one less thing to fetch. With
immense effort I managed to struggle into my clothes.
The ambulance, fortunately, arrived quickly. I apologised for putting
them to the trouble, and they were nice about it in that sort of
restrained way people have when they think that yes, you are putting
them to too much trouble. DH asked them whether they had gas and air
and they said "Technically". It seemed they couldn't use it, or weren't
allowed to, or something. I never actually did find out why, as I had
other things on my mind at the time.
I asked them about a stretcher, and they told me that, well, really the
midwives liked women in labour to walk in, if I thought I could manage
that? I didn't, but I was so embarrassed already about having to call
an ambulance for what I still thought was likely to be early labour that
I thought I'd better at least try. I'm glad about this, because,
looking back, I think it may well actually have helped. Although
standing up felt nearly impossible, I found, to my surprise, that once I
was standing up it was quite easy to walk downstairs. DH told us he'd
follow in the car with my bags.
Another contraction hit me at the foot of the stairs, and I can see in
retrospect that the contractions had changed at this point. I didn't
recognise this at the time because they were still so overwhelming, but
whereas before they had just been generally overwhelmingly unmanageable,
they had now focused into an overwhelming urge to push. I gripped onto
the banisters and screamed and grunted my way through it, while the
female ambulance driver tried to persuade me to pant through it, telling
me that the reason I was having problems might be because my breathing
wasn't controlled. (I realised much later that she'd remembered the
wrong bit of whatever lecture she'd been to on childbirth - panting is
what you're meant to do during crowning, not earlier - but it was a
totally moot point at the time, since I was way beyond controlling my
breathing or anything else that was happening during contractions.)
I managed somehow to get my shoes and my coat on and followed them out
into the cold November night, where I climbed up into the back of the
ambulance and lay on my left side on the bed there. They didn't use the
siren - just drove at ordinary speed - and the quarter-hour drive seemed
to take a very long time. The contractions were hardly even painful any
more - there was a distant sort of pain when they first hit and when my
body took a break from the pushing, but mostly they just consisted of an
uncontrollable pushing urge. I knew that if I wasn't fully dilated I
could be damaging my cervix by pushing, but there wasn't much I could do
about it - I didn't have any choice in the matter. I'd once read that a
woman wouldn't get an _uncontrollable_ urge to push unless she was fully
into second stage, and just had to hope that this was true. Whenever
one hit, I couldn't stop myself from screaming with the effort, clinging
onto the rail on the side of the ambulance. Between contractions, I
watched the pattern of lights flickering on the ambulance wall from the
overhead skylight, and hung on, and hoped we'd be there soon.
(continued...)
--
"I once requested an urgent admission for a homeopath who had become depressed
and taken a massive underdose" - Phil Peverley