This part of labour, despite being akin to cheering on a chubby-asthmatic-smoker in their first ever marathon, (“Run, run, run, run, run, run, run… Keep running, keep running, keep running, keep running…”) was the least painful part.
I don’t really like flying. I dread it months in advance. (This is still true even after having flown 47 times.) But when the captain announces that we are coming in to land, all fear completely subsides as nothing but excitement sets in - because the flight is nearly over. And the longer the flight, the more thrilled I am to be making that final descent.
Labour was a bit like this. When they tell you you’re ready to push, a rush of adrenaline floods the body, excreting itself through wide, alert eyes and enthusiastic smiles… He’ll be here imminently. THIS. IS. IT. Wow, what a life changer. This is huge. Oh, elated jubilations! A moment in history, a forever-memory, the most special event, a triumphant achievement and glorious occasion, something to celebrate, momentous and spectacular – oh yes, surely with nothing but ease and delight I shall joyfully eject this baby!
…Three and a half hours later, I was still pushing. Submerged in a pool of my own sweat, clumpy knots of hair having woven themselves into impressive dreadlocks atop my lobster-red face. My legs splayed and elevated – my left held up by a midwife, thrown in at the deep end, fresh on arrival for her morning shift - and my right by my increasingly traumatised and sleep-deprived husband, whose role (as had always been discussed throughout pregnancy) was supposed to be to remain by my head…
They say after giving birth you’re a bit less embarrassed for the rest of your life. In February 2011, six weeks after meeting Guillaume, he took me to a rural chalet in St. Rita, Quebec. Slightly larger than the average garden shed, and framed by three feet of fluffy white snow, in this cosy open-plan cabin far from civilisation and with no telephone, internet or TV connection - we cooked, we ate, we drank, and we romanced like in the movies – for six straight days. …But not once did I poo.
I successfully held in those number two’s for an entire week. Ladies (especially mysterious, exotic strangers from l’ile de Wight in the sud de l’Angleterre) don’t poo. In these early stages of courtship, the last thing you want is a whiffy plop oozing it’s aroma in such a confined space. It could destroy everything. Farts too – sounds or smells – had to be tightly buttressed.
Never mind that I had brought along my laptop to play songs on iTunes, which, after guzzling several beers, half a bottle of red wine, and a good 745ml of Sailor Jerrys, I was singing VERY confidently along with - while pulling off highly energetic and overtly-animated dance moves… until I tainted the perfect winter-wonderland exterior of this tiny Canadian haven with a fountain of blood-rouge vomit.
…Upon returning inside, I fell into the wood burner and severely but obliviously scalded my hand. I then sensibly suggested I lay down immediately, and demanded Guillaume bring me two buckets – one in case I was sick again, and another filled with snow to put my hand in. “…And don’t go to sleep, until I have safely fallen asleep, ok? PROMISE ME. Wait for me to fall….” (cue my heavy grunting snore reverberations).
But I didn’t poo. That would be embarrassing.
Four years and nine months later, it became fair to say Guillaume had now seen it all, and more. And from a far more graphic angle than either of us will ever care to recall. (Apart from in this blog.) The intention to keep things somewhat dignified, to keep some element of the unknown between us and at least pretend the human body isn’t disgusting, was quickly over-ruled by this grotesque but magical miracle - of birth.
After two and a half hours of pushing my doctor had arrived and said; “I want you to prepare yourself for the possibility of emergency C-Section. At the very least I am going to have to use forceps. I never lie to my patients. You need to know how it is. …Do I think you’re going to have this baby without any help? Probably not.” She sounds like a bitch, but I actually love her. Dr. Patel – she’s brilliant.
I was given a strict 60 minutes to see if I could progress things naturally, at which point she returned with a gaggle of gown-donning hospital staff, in their masks and hats and rubber gloves, wheeling in equipment and what appeared to be a selection of medieval torture devices displayed on a tray among various kitchen utensils. Spot lights were turned on above me. There was a buzz of energy and a whir of noise. In my slightly disorientated and blurry state, I asked if they had remembered the machine that goes “ping!” and then laughed quite hard at my very appropriate Monty Python reference, wishing Michael Palin had heard me.
My doctor laughed too, “I love that film, what’s it, urr… The Meaning of Life, that’s it” she said, as she peered into my vagina. “Well, you’ve done really well Lucy, I can see the head. It really is amazing, I honestly didn’t think you’d push him down this far.” …I had always thought we might have a Spartan child. That I’d deliver a record-breaking whopper of a baby, and now I was convinced more than ever that a 12lb chubster with a giant head, was stuck in his exit route.
“I’ll need to cut you, and I’m going to use the vacuum, ok sweetie?”
Guillaume watched in horror as Dr. Patel, a tiny, long-haired, Indian woman, yanked at that vacuum while I pushed. Three pushes, three yanks…
Harrison was born with the cord wrapped around his neck a couple of times. Probably what had been causing his heart rate to dip and worry us all throughout labour. But Patel quickly unravelled him, and he pinked up right away, letting out the most beautiful, loud cry. “Oh, he’s so tiny!” I said in euphoric surprise.
“I don’t think he’s tiny” said Dr. Patel.
They popped him on the scales, which read 7lbs 1oz. “Oh that’s TINY!” I said again.
“7lbs is not tiny.”
Of course, it was to me, who was expecting an enormous Neanderthal-like human to be placed in my arms ever since my mother-in-law emphasised how huge Guillaume was at birth - with a head-circumference likened to that of a basket-ball.
Teary eyed, my incredible husband stood silently in awe and shock - until Patel ordered him to take photographs before we regret it. I instantly felt more connected to Guillaume than we were in our already undeniable soulmate relationship. Best friends since day one, he has and always will be the love of my life - but somehow, in that moment, when our son was born, I felt invincible as a family like never before. Absolute bliss. He leaned down to kiss me, congratulate me and say "well done babe, that was amazing!"
Little Harrison Jack Massie made his world debut on the morning of Friday 13th November 2015. Soon after, he was laid on my chest. Still a bit gooey and bloody, but the most perfect, beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life. I loved him instantly, unconditionally, and overwhelmingly.
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On Thursday 12th November at around noon, I decided to go the Labour and Delivery ward at the Royal Alex hospital here in Edmonton. I was 39 weeks pregnant and since waking up that morning I had only felt Harrison move a few times. Normally he’d be wriggling, jiggling and bopping about from dawn. He always enjoyed our morning Weetabix with almond milk and banana, and that day – he didn’t react at all… I tried a coffee, with sugar… then some orange juice… Then a big glass of ice cold water… Barely a budge.
I lay on the couch, both hands on my belly, waiting for a reassuringly hard kick… Nothing happened. Guillaume was at work. I text him to say I was going to the hospital and moments later, a little kick from within… so I text again to say actually it’s fine, he’s fine, I’m just being paranoid… But the lack of activity niggled my noggin until I called the cab...
At the reception desk, while answering some basic questions, Harrison began having a party. I laughed, saying “he’s moving a lot now.” The receptionist grabbed my hand and put on a wrist band; “that’s always the way” she said, “but seeing as you're here...”
I was quickly ordered to undress and get wired up to monitors, my belly strapped tightly with two bands – one to pick up babies heartbeat, and the other to see if I was contracting… Which I was.
“Do you know you are having regular contractions?”
“urr… no.”
“You’re having one right now, can you feel that?”
“Feels a bit like mild period pains, is that what it is?”
“Yeah.”
I was hooked up to the monitors for about half an hour before Patel showed up. She took a look at Harrison’s heartbeat – it had dipped a few times, and this concerned her slightly. “Do you remember how dilated you were at your appointment with me last week?” she asked as she shoved her fingers into my cervix…
“2cm” (wincing)
“Well, now you’re four. …What time is your appointment with me tomorrow?”
“12.30”
“You won’t be coming to that.”
“What?”
“You’re staying here.”
“I’m staying here?” I wasn’t getting it, at all.
“Yes, you’re not going home. When you go home, you’ll be going with your baby.”
OH. MY. GOD.
Then she told me she wanted to move things along. She wasn’t happy with Harrison’s dipping heart rate or the comparative significant lack of movement.
“And you’re in labour anyway… You’re contracting and you’re 4cm. If I sent you home, you’d be back in a few hours. But it’s moving slowly. And I don't like that. I want to speed it up…”
I need my husband. I need my hospital bag. I need to tell someone. That thing where I go a bit red and start shaking with nerves without really knowing I’m nervous started happening.
“Nikki’s going to get you on an Oxytocin drip, ok? Then the contractions will come faster and stronger. Good luck, you’ll be fine…”
“Who’s Nikki?”
The nurse. Nikki was the nurse. She was standing right beside me. “I’m going to get the Oxytocin, I’ll be right back…”
“Ok Nikki.” …I grabbed my phone, I called Guillaume…
“You need to come to the hospital now.” My voice was shaking. I always thought I would be totally calm at this point.
“NOW??” He was laughing with excitement.
“Yeah. It’s now. And grab the hospital bag. I don’t have anything here with me.”
Nikki couldn’t get the needle in to begin administering the Oxytocin. Instead she just bruised me, made me bleed and went to get another nurse.
“You have difficult veins.” They said.
By the time Guillaume arrived, about 40 minutes later, I had been taken to my own labour room and was having painful contractions – oh yes, I felt these ones. It’s a bit like having the worst ever trapped wind of your life – the kind that makes you cramp up and double over. People have been known to mistake their gassy problems for an imminent appendix explosion or combustion of any other innards that could cause spontaneous death. A pain which, at its peak, takes your breath away. You can’t walk, you can’t talk, you can only wait. Imagine that, multiple it by a thousand, and know that it won't cease until you liberate a watermelon from your nether regions.
Between contractions, Guillaume walked with me around the ward. I dragged my bag of oxytocin alongside us as it pumped its way continuously into my difficult vein. Oxytocin is the love hormone. It is released naturally during labour to get the womb contracting. Direct high doses of the stuff are used to induce and speed up labour. Rumour has it that the drip intensifies contractions and makes the labouring process more painful… Just sayin’… Rumour has it…
I wanted to try going all the way with only gas and air. At 6cm dilated, when my exercise ball and Guillaume’s back massaging skills weren’t enough anymore, I casually requested the oxygen/nitrous oxide combo…
Mimi, the midwife, was from Brunei. She studied midwifery in Oxford, UK. And between my waves of pain, I would ask her what she thought of England and mushy peas.
“I’m sorry, there’s no gas and air…” she said.
It was a busy night at the Royal Alex, and the only unused gas and air machine was broken. Broken like the clock in my labour room, which someone had sellotaped a square of kitchen roll over the top of. I say ‘broken’ – it just needed a new battery. And no one could “find” any “spare” batteries…
If ever you live in Edmonton, you’ll come across this a lot. A bizarrely universal employee-incompetence, possibly fuelled by the overly demanding schedules and an extreme work ethic that exists in all of Alberta, but is most demanding in the provinces capital, Edmonton - where it is frowned upon to take so much as a single days vacation in any given year. Consequently, even those with medical degrees are too deliriously fatigued to suggest someone pops to the shop for a couple of double A’s, so we can fix that essential time telling device.
One after another, 20 or so staff members visited me in my hours of agony, and the clock-convo’s almost always went like this;
“Ok… What’s the time?” as they turn towards the clock with their clipboard in hand. “Oh, that’s funny, there’s paper over it – do you not want to know the time?”
“No, it’s broken. It needs a new battery. We didn’t want anyone to write down the wrong time, so we covered it up.” Mimi would say.
“Oh, good thinking!”
Dr. Patel was the only one who told it like it is… “This is ridiculous! I mean, this is a labour room. Knowing the time is of paramount importance. How can things like this be left? I’m really angry. It’s stupid. Now, come on!”
I actually didn’t mind not knowing the time for the 19 hours I was in that room. I kind of liked the square of kitchen roll that kept me in blissful ignorance of just how long I’d been slowly dilating…
Faced with the prospect of absolutely no pain relief, I realised I may have to throw out my three page Microsoft-Word typed up birth plan (metaphorically. I mean, literally, yes, I had written one, but it was never meant to be seen by anyone but me. I mean, yes, I did print it out, but for my eyes only.) My birth plan had stated that I absolutely did not want an epidural.
...I got the epidural. I was briefly informed of the alternatives and the only piece of information my brain retained was that an epidural was of lowest risk to the baby. My baby. My baby whose heart rate had been worrying us all a little bit. My baby who was already more important to me, than me…
Two anesthetists and a senior anesthesiologist (try saying that out loud) attempted to find the little gaps between the layers of tissue in my spinal column. It reminded me of a visit to the opticians as I was asked repeatedly “do you feel this more on your left, or on your right?” Except at the opticians they don’t prod you with sharp objects. “How about now… on your left… or on your right?” And then of course there’s always that dreadful fear that you will answer incorrectly because you simply aren’t sure… “urr… my left… I think. No wait, it’s kind of in the middle. Do it again. No, right. Definitely right.”
Throughout this ordeal, while enduring excruciating contractions, I was required to position myself like a snail, legs dangling over the side of the bed, curving my back into a highly unnatural shape and remain as still as possible while they hunted for the right spot. It took nearly an hour, before they announced -- “you have scoliosis.”
A chorus of “ahh” and “ohh” and “right” and “of course” echoed around the room and I half expected a round of high-fives to be initiated as this problematic diagnosis was revealed.
“Did you know you have scoliosis?” asked the Senior anesthesiologist.
“No. No one ever told me that.” I spoke loudly to avoid muffled words, as my face was partly buried in Guillaume’s belly as he held me in place on the edge of the bed. “What is it?”
“Curvature of the spine. Your spine curves to the left. Have you ever had back trouble?”
I have never had back trouble.
Eventually the lower half of my body began to go numb, and the pain subsided. Temporarily. A kink in the tube was preventing the anesthetic from getting through. And after six separate alarms sounded on the machine, alerting six different staff members to come and take a look, fiddle with it momentarily, assume they’d resolved the issue and disappear, it was Guillaume who eventually suggested the obvious “maybe the tube is twisted or something.” My hero. He really ought to have been paid for the work he did there that night.
So the epidural machine was working again, but not before I’d been given a top up after the first time I said “it’s wearing off, and I’m in a lot of pain again.” For some reason my right leg became completely paralysed, while my left was experiencing only mild tingling. Epidural’s are not supposed to paralyse you. Someone could have sliced that leg right off and I wouldn’t have felt a thing. (A bit like how ones entire body feels after a 15 minute walk outside in Canada in January.) From 7cm onwards I only felt contractions on my left side. Perhaps I failed that spinal eye test thing.
Just after it was announced that Harrison was a perfect 7lbs 1oz, I called out "What time is it?" -- That caused quite a raucous...
Luckily someone was wearing a watch. He was born at 9.34am.
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Guillaume had suggested the name Harrison back in July, and I loved it instantly. All the nickname possibilities, the fact it’s pronounced the same in English and French, well-known but not too popular (especially in Canada), easy to say, and easy to spell (unlike Guillaume), and works for all ages. Then we thought about the associations – The Beatles, Indiana Jones… and well, that’s about it.
…George was definitely the best looking Beatle, not to mention he produced Monty Python’s Life of Brian – one of my favourite all time films, and wrote Here Comes The Sun – one of my favourite all time songs. As a youngster getting the bus to school on the Isle of Wight, (which could often mean a lengthy wait), as I saw the wobbly green double-decker approaching I would always sing “Here Comes The Bus… do do do do… and I say, it’s alright…”
When I first met Guillaume’s Mum, we got drunk and watched “Concert for George” with the surround sound booming. (She’s a big Beatles fan.) Ever after, she’s called me “Little Darling” after the opening lyrics to “Here Comes The Sun.” Being born in Canada, it’s nice that Harrison’s name has this very British pop-culture reference.
…When Guillaume and I trotted the globe in 2014, the contents of our backpacks was limited. I wore a t-shirt that says “Here Comes The Sun” on it at least three days a week, for a year. It hadn’t been a long cold lonely winter… we were just living in the part where the sun had come. And if ever there is a long cold lonely winter, it is our hope that Harrison will always remember – the sun always comes.
And finally, on the George front – our Harrison Massie was "made in Bali" – the final stop on our trip. Bali is a Hindu island, and George Harrison was a Hindu convert. Funnily enough, our little boy was born with an “angel kiss” birthmark, centered on his forehead just above his eyebrows. These flat red marks show somewhere on the body of 70% of newborns, and disappear over a few months – but how fitting that he should be born with the shadow of a Hindu third-eye.
The connections relating to Harrison Ford aren’t nearly as exciting. We’re not his biggest fan. But, at least Ford is an environmental activist, democrat, Hollywood superstar and hunky stunster.
My Nan also excitedly told me that she had an uncle by the name of Harrison. He was an archeology professor and worked on the discovery of the ancient Egyptian tomb of Tutankhamun, in 1922. Which is very true. Except his name was Dick Hutchison*. ...(Close enough.)
(*My Mum has just informed me that in fact Harrison was the middle name of said Richard (Dick) Hutchison, and was also the middle name of my Nan's Dad (my Great-Grandfather) thus implying it was a significant family name way down there in the family tree. This information was previously unknown to me, but makes me extremely happy.)
Jack is my Grandad’s name. And was our second choice for Harrison’s first name. But in French he would be known as “Jacques” which just makes me think of Finding Nemo’s constantly spring-cleaning shrimp and/or that fruity cider I drank far too much off in the summer of 2010. So in the end, we went with Harrison Jack.
-- And now you know.
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They don’t let you stay in the labour room for long. Very quickly after Harrison arrived, we were all sent downstairs to the prenatal ward, where I would attempt my first breast feeding session…
I hadn’t had a wink of sleep for almost 30 hours. I hadn’t had a drop of water for almost as long. (They wouldn’t let me eat or drink anything owed to the potential for needing a C-Section if Harrison’s heart rate troubled us all further.) And I had just undertaken the most physically challenging feat of my life. Maybe this is why, when I revealed my boobs to baby and nurse, a ghastly sight befell us...
...For the first time in my life, my nipples had inverted – both of them – and not just a little bit… We’re talking concave areolas, a “woah, what happened?” kind of reaction, tears, “is this normal?”, “why?”, “how?” … I felt like I should be on an episode of Channel 4’s Embarrassing Bodies. This reality was turning into something far more terrifying than the series of nightmares I had throughout pregnancy which were ironically all bizarre scenarios wherein I was unable to feed my baby.
It was as if my now H-cup sized (seriously) boobs had had a chat… They’d seen what’d been going on up there in that labour room and they were like “and now you want to latch a hungry baby here, to drain the last ounce of substance from your weak and weary body? Nah-ah, we’re going the other way… Plenty of room to hide here in these gargantuan balloons."
Two lactation consultants, three nurses, a nipple shield, a manual pump, an Evenflo mechanical double-pump and finally a hospital grade Medela Symphony pump, endless hours of unavailable time, painful squeezing and $600 later, and still it was impossible to get more than half a 4oz bottle of milk per day from my rebellious, newly-deformed nips. To add to my hormonal misery, the epidural had left me partially numb in my right leg. That, along with the episiotomy stitches, and postpartum swelling that inflated me to Michelin proportions, made just walking from one room to another almost impossible for a while.
For nearly three weeks, the mention of feeding, milk, boobs, nutrition, food, Harrison – would make me cry uncontrollably. I had always thought breastfeeding would be automatic, natural, easy. I never once assumed there’d possibly be any issue with it whatsoever. And now in every spare moment I got, I was hooking myself up to a pump and eagerly watching for every (any) drip.
“Drink lots of water. Eat oats. Put a hot compress on first…” I tried every suggestion on the internet. I was getting increasingly stressed, tired and emotional. We were formula feeding Harrison, and during the first week Guillaume was able to do this while I pumped. But once Gui was back at work, it was sleeping, eating and showering that had to be sacrificed in order to make time to play with my udders. I didn’t need any more justification for my veganism, but it’s true to say my sympathy for cows has considerably increased. Those poor creatures are yanked at for years, and never even get to see their babies – they’re taken away and slaughtered. (And you still wanna eat meat? Really?)
My veganism did take a hit in the three days after giving birth though. I ate one egg sandwich, a slice of cheese pizza, a potato soup with cream, one yogurt, and a bag of maltesers. It was all about availability, ease and my own fatigued delirium. And for briefly thinking that perhaps if I consumed dairy, I might have more lactating luck… My logic had taken a big hit in those early postpartum moments.
In those weeks of relentless effort to feed Harrison with my own milk, while I was neglecting him and myself owed to lack of time and amplified stress levels, all I wanted was for some medical professional to tell me that formula was OK. That Harrison wasn’t going to catch every disease under the sun because he wasn’t getting immunity through me. I wanted to be told our bond, our connection as mother and son wouldn’t suffer. I wanted to be told the benefits of formula feeding. To be reassured that this wouldn’t cause long term damage, give him a low IQ, deprive him, make him in some way or all ways inferior. But instead, the best I got was “breast is best – but don't worry because formula is so much better these days than it once was…” Uh-huh.
After making the extremely difficult decision to give up on the pumping, and crying about it some more, life got better. I had more time for Harrison. Happiness ensued. Routine commenced. Things became easier. I started to love Harrison even more, every day. We played together. I sang silly songs. “Oh Harrison!” to the tune of “Oh Canada!” the “Let’s go change that bum bum” song, the “Little Harry-Jack-Jack” song and, especially for the bilingual baby, the "kisses is bisous" song -- most of the impromptu lyrics ended up being related to his stinky odour.
And then there’s the unexplained urge to sing cheesy old songs that you haven’t heard for more than a decade, don’t particularly like and are totally irrelevant to your baby– such as “Build me up Buttercup.” All this and more, I continue to do as my boobs shrank back to a more human-like size, the milk dried up and my nipples returned after one said to the other; "It's safe to come out now."
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Today Harrison is one month and 3 days old, and I can’t believe how much he has grown and changed already. Just when I think it’s not possible to love him any more, he pulls a face or makes a noise, or impresses me with a projectile poop. And for the times when his face goes all lobster-red and scrunched up, and I know he's struggling to get one out, I cheer him on; "push, push, push, push, push, push, push..."
I'll always cheer him on.
Previous Pregnancy Blogs
34 Weeks Pregnant, One Week Vegan : An Immigrant's Story
Homeless, Unemployed and Pregnant
Travel Blogs