If necessary use the emergency exit

I am happy to report that baby’s re-scan went well today. Spine and kidneys all present and correct. Baby was asleep when the scan started, but awake by the time it was over (well, so would you be if you were being prodded and poked and blasted with sound waves). Growth is on track, and he or she (we haven’t found out) seems perfect – and looks like a real baby (there is no reason for me to be surprised by this, but somehow I still am).

The less good news is that the placenta is really very low, and, although many low placentas do move up in later pregnancy, it seems that mine has quite a long way to go – 7 centimeters. We saw the consultant and he has officially given me the diagnosis of placenta praevia (http://www.nhs.uk/ipgmedia/National/Royal%20College%20of%20Obstetricians%20and%20Gynaecologists/assets/Alow-lyingplacentaafter20weeksknwonasplacentapraevia.pdf). He is already talking about a planned c-section at 36 weeks or so, which brings the EDD forward to the week of the 27th May. That’s almost a whole month! (!!!!!) I’m not too worried about that, per se, because it’s pretty much term, and they can give me injections to help accelerate the development of the lungs etc., so the baby will be able to manage. To be honest, I just want it to be OK, so I’ll take whatever advice I need to take to achieve that. I don’t think I’ll feel any ‘less of a woman’ if it ends up coming out through the sun roof. It’s not about me, it’s about getting this baby healthily into the world, whatever it takes. I’d rather avoid hospital scares along the way, but I’ll do what I need to do to achieve that objective.

We’ll be scanned again at 32 weeks to see what’s happening and I expect the final decision will be made then. Assuming, that is, that nothing untoward happens in the mean time; we are on alert to go straight to the Labour Ward if there is any spotting of any kind, where I’ll me monitored for 48 hours to check it isn’t a more serious bleed. But hopefully nothing like that will happen. (Please don’t let anything like that happen!).

Apparently, the risk factors (that could possibly affect me – given that I am not a smoker or a cocaine user, I can rule those out as possible causes!) areĀ age (a factor at 38) and previous c-sections (no) and ERPCs (4 + 2 hysteroscopies, including the surgical removal of a septum). Has my surgical history caused this placenta to mis-grow? Even if it has, there’s nothing I can do about it now.

Wish us luck for an incident free path through the next 3-4 months, and getting baby safely into the world in either June or May. Whatever it takes.

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Emergency bathroom midwifery ***Birth described***

I have written before about how difficult I have sometimes found it to be around pregnant women and babies. Emotions swing between jealousy, self-hatred (I never used to be such a nasty b*tch) and sadness for what I’ve lost. Self preservation has a lot to do with it, I’m sure. That and the abject humiliation of having to leave a 2 year old’s birthday party because you can’t stop crying (got the t-shirt).

The reality is that you’re going to have to face pregnant women (and all their worries and complaints about their aches and pains) at some point; whether at work or out and about, they’re everywhere (are they breeding?!). You can either get on with it, or let in ruin your day. I’ve opted for a nice balance of both.

I knew that my sister and her husband wanted a second child, and I knew that they were tying (the loaned What to Expect books had made the return journey from my shelf to her’s). When she told me that she was pregnant again, I was pleased, but also envious (and guilty because of feeling the envy). I wouldn’t be able to avoid her for 7 months, and I wouldn’t want to have to try; I love my family, and there’s no way I’d want to make things difficult or awkward. You’d have to ask them if I’ve managed it!

It was very exciting when I fell pregnant again myself a couple of months later, and we discussed the baby things we could share (I believed at that point that I would be facing something of a financial crisis due to being in the middle of moving jobs and there being big question marks over my maternity pay entitlement). I had a few scares with bleeding etc. and I am sure that my sister’s heart was in her mouth every time I went for a reassurance scan, being pregnant and emotional as she undoubtedly was. She was having the most dreadful morning (all the time) sickness and had a demanding toddler already, so was exhausted. Everyone was tired and emotional, all the time.

Then I found out that my baby had died at the 13 week scan.

Awkward!

No need for hand-me-downs anymore. And yet, I could not have predicted then that the sisterly bonding over babies I had imagined would be more powerful and visceral than any amount of hand-me-downs and baby talk could ever have facilitated.

Three months after my third miscarriage and two weeks before my sisters due date, she texted me to say that her waters had broken. Her first had taken several days to put in an appearance, so no-one was rushing to get warm towels just yet. I decided to go over to her place and have a cup of tea while we waited for her husband to come home from work. No problem. My niece was with our parents, we could have a natter in peace.

When I arrived, everything was fine. The things for the overnight bag were laid on the bed, her notes were in a file by the ‘phone. I thought she seemed uncomfortable. I made her some beans on toast to keep her strength up for the task ahead. She couldn’t eat them. She said she was fine. I suggested she ring the midwife. The midwife said that, if we were worried, we should drive down to the hospital and her husband could meet us there. I have a very tiny little sports car, and was slightly concerned about my sister’s ability to get in to or out of it. “No, you can’t have an ambulance, it’s not appropriate,” came the midwife’s reply. Fair enough; if you don’t ask, you don’t get.

I packed the overnight bag and put it in the car. My sister went to use the loo. I heard her shout to me from upstairs that she couldn’t move. I know a contraction when I see it; by the time I got upstairs, she could hardly speak. In an act of desperation and futility, I brought her two paracetamol. She barfed them on to the bathmat. I fetched the overnight bag back into the house and phoned 999.

If you’ve ever had to make a call to the emergency services, you will know that they keep the coolest heads in the country. The operator talked to me calmly, but with extreme authority as I helped (forced) my sister on to the bathroom floor (she waned to stay on the loo – “absolutely not allowed,” said the operator. “Get her on to the floor. Now.”) Could I see the baby’s head? “I’m sorry, I’m going to have to look.” I’ll take that scream of agony as a ‘yes’, then, shall I? “No, I can’t see the head, yet.”

“Help’s on it’s way. Can you hear the sirens? Don’t worry. Help’s on it’s way.” I rubbed her back as she knelt on the floor. Contractions were about two minutes apart.

“Have you got clean towels?” said the operator. “They don’t think they’re going to make it,” I thought, but didn’t say.

No-one tells you this, so I’ll tell you now; if you have had to call an ambulance because you are having to deliver a baby at short notice at home, take a moment to go and open the front door. It’s a small, yet essential detail. I dashed downstairs to answer the banging at the front door. I have never been more relieved to see a paramedic in my life. My sister, by this stage, didn’t care. She’d gone primal. Her labour cries came from the earth itself. I texted my mum; “It’s happening. The ambulance is here. Don’t worry.”

The bathroom was too narrow for me to get to my sister to hold her hand, so I held her knee instead. All attempts to try to transfer her to hospital had now been abandoned. Nature was going to take its course; it was unstoppable.

My nephew was born less than 10 minutes after the ambulance arrived. It was extraordinary. My sister’s husband arrived about 15 minutes later, and did manage to find a space to stand, cradling his new-born son in the shower cubicle. Paramedics tended to my sister, one from in the gap between the toilet and the sink, another crouching in the bathtub. Midwives ran up and down the stairs. I made a few phone calls. Mum, dad and new baby were taken off to hospital in the ambulance. I followed on in the car, with the now overlooked overnight bag. “Don’t let that baby out of your sight,” texted my mum.

It wasn’t exactly the circumstances I would have imagined for my first visit to a maternity ward, but I had one job to do, and that was to look after my nephew. My sister needed surgery, and her husband went with her. I was left, alone, in a side room, literally holding the baby. A nurse made a comment that made it clear that she thought I was my sister’s mother. I’d had a stressful morning, but had it aged me that much?!

I spent the day sitting by my sister’s hospital bedside, getting snacks from the canteen and waiting for her belated epidural to wear off.

Was it better for me, and for her, that I have coped in so many crises before that I could keep a cool head in that one? I will say this; someone’s got a wicked sense of humour.

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Extra special thanks to my sister for agreeing to let me write about this.