Of course, that, as most of you know, is not what happened
Our friend, who only lives about 10 minutes away, arrived, and sat and distracted me until Him Indoors got home from the airport. We picked up our hospital bag, and got in the car, and I entered the 'transition' stage of labour, that is, if the 'transition' stage is where you 'transition into being straightforwardly abusive towards your husband'. I castigated him for driving too fast, I swore at the yellow slow-down strips on the road, told him not to automatically drive to work without thinking, even though he clearly wasn't going to do that.
The hospital is a mercifully short drive, around 15 minutes, but not exactly blessed in the parking department. And here we enter the obligatory "So Dubai" section of the blog, because the hospital has valet parking at AED 30 a time. You don't get your money back if you produce proof you have given birth there. I know. Rude.
Because they get their money anyway, unlike most valet parkers in Dubai who work for tips, they are not exactly proactive in the service department, so we got out of the car and I stood clinging to the hospital door snarling to my husband: "You have to walk to them, to give them the keys, they won't come to you...." While a nice Japanese lady who caught sight of my face, rictus with agony, asked if I was OK, to which I responded something else abusive about Him Indoors, and then clung to him as we walked slowly to the labour ward.
There we arrived, me slightly calmer now we were at the hospital and slightly less abusive towards Him Indoors, to be greeted by an empty reception desk and an eerily quiet labour ward. Private healthcare, you see, there are soundproofed rooms and doors so you can't hear the screaming. I was pretty damned irrational with pain at this point, and after a nurse was summoned and I was dispatched to the bathroom to give a urine sample, a wave of pain crashed into me at the opportune moment, so I hurled the small plastic pot across the bathroom and yelled that I would "do it later". I'm not sure what I meant by "later". When the pain got better presumably, because that's famously what happens as labour progresses, obviously.
And against all sensible "ways to make labour less s**ing agonising" advice, I lay down on the triage room bed, clinging to the metal bars around it, gritting my teeth and gurning, pausing only between contractions every two minutes to tell Him Indoors to stop sitting/standing/breathing/holding my hand/existing in such a profoundly irritating way, if he knew what was good for him.
A nurse arrived shortly afterwards, performed what I only need to refer to as "the examination" and confirmed that I was indeed in active labour, and that it seemed likely that the baby would come "quickly". So I was booked into a room, while Him Indoors was dispatched downstairs to do various bits of insurance paperwork, and a nice Sri Lankan nurse briefly rubbed my back, making me realise I was basically tensing every single muscle in my body. If I had been more in my right mind, and yes, better prepared, I would have asked Him Indoors to do the same, but I was too busy telling him everything was his fault and "for f***s sake stop standing over me looking worried. Sit down for f***s sake."
He later told me that the chair was "quite uncomfortable", hence he chose not sit down. It was probably best that he didn't tell me at the time that this was the reason he was hovering over me like he was about to deliver the last rites.
Then they brought me some gas and air. Oh, the gas and air. I nearly forgot that crashing disappointment. I had thought that there was a small chance I may manage with just gas and air.
That was, so obviously, not going to happen
You may remember, best beloveds, that I had had rather bad morning sickness, which once again left me briefly during the end of the second trimester, but returned to a degree once I was very pregnant and my stomach got squished by the baby. This is relevant because I took one puff of the gas and air, and something about it, perhaps the rubbery, plasticky scent of the mask, had me puking everywhere, leaving poor old Him Indoors to carry away said puke in one of those kidney shaped medical instrument receptacles which was the nearest thing on hand. Away it went, that kidney shaped dish, and with it, away floated any hopes of me getting through the experience without an epidural. I can't remember much else about this time, except muttering sarcastically "this is fun" in between howling and abusing Him Indoors. He was really ever so sporting about it, and he has said afterwards that he understood it was because of the pain, but it felt like I really, really meant it at the time.
And so it came to the epidural. I have always been either way on whether or not epidural is a good idea, as I know people who have had some terrible experiences with them. If you ask earnest me, I can see the benefits of not doing it as they can increase the likelihood of intervention as it can slow the labour down. But if you ask me, in full knowledge of what it's like to be in labour without one, I will launch into a diatribe about why would anyone choose to give birth without them? Give me the f***ing drugs, beyotch.
Once Him Indoors was back from doing the paperwork, I got down to some more serious swearing and yelling. I was asked if I was planning any pain relief, I repeated the closest thing I had to a birth plan, on the advice of my doctor - I was sort of medium risk, so have the epidural, as it makes it easier to monitor the baby than if you are, and I quote, from an experienced obstetrician here, "climbing the walls with pain". "But don't have it too soon," she said.
We waited until the point that I felt like I had had enough, which I was probably about five minutes after the nurse asked about my plans. "Yes of course dear," she said. Private medicine, see? I would have to wait for the results of my blood test before they would give it to me, which would be, I don't know, an hour or so.
So, I carried on with my yelling and abusing Him Indoors, until I uttered the inevitable phrase: "Just....... Get..... Me .... the f***ing epidural.....Don't be polite ..... to them.....Get me it ..... now!"
A nurse was summoned and listened kindly while Him Indoors told them ever so politely that his wife was in a lot of pain, and she would quite like the epidural now. And nodded sagely, and told me that the blood test was fine, and they would get the anaesthetist to come and see me as soon as he had finished his lunch....
A very short while later, I made Him Indoors summon the nurse again. "Is he on his way? I snapped?" "Yes, he's on his way." (beatific nursey smile) "Well tell him to run, not walk." "Yes, dear."
And then the really very nice man arrived, and I've never been so pleased to see someone who was about to stab me in the spine with a needle in all my life. Having forgotten any attempts to stay calm and breathe and all that stuff up until that point, preferring to screw my eyes shut and roar, I did actually manage to breathe ...2 ....3... 4... while I was anaesthetised. The movements involved in getting into the position, which also left me actually weeping with pain, broke my waters, so that was handy.
"You should find the contractions gradually recede now," said the nurse. Recede, schmecede. They completely disappeared. It was like the sun came out after a typhoon of pain. I apologised to Him Indoors and the nurse, and sundry other people who I had been fairly abusive too up until that point, and we sat and chatted for a while, in a manner that we had not really done for four years, since DB1 was born, while I shook with cold, which is a fairly common side effect of an epidural apparently.
When you are a couple, one of whom works rather long hours, the other one works reasonably long hours and you have a lively four year old, you don't have much time awake and alone. It may be that I was strapped to an epidural drip, shaking with cold like I was in the Antarctic, with a series of beepy monitors, and he was on the uncomfortable chair, I was on the bed, but I'll take it. I think of that time fondly.
I don't quite remember, but I think Him Indoors went to get a sandwich, and it was early evening by this point, when the nurse offered me a carton of apple juice to see if the sugar in it would get the baby moving again, because the epidural drugs had indeed slowed her down her urge to vacate a little. Not too much, though, as a few drops of whatever hormone it is they give to labouring women to get babies moving did the trick, and my abdomen soon begun to lurch alarmingly outwards as if DB2 was headbutting it to get out.
The midwife, who it turned out, trained in Southampton in the UK, and was born in Albania and grew up in Italy, gently explained what I would have to do once the doctor arrived. They do that, you see, they have to explain to you what you need to do, because when push comes to shove, if you'll pardon the phrase, in Dubai, unless you pay for some very, very expensive classes, no one actually really tells you what you need to do until you are in the labour room. And I don't mean, the obvious "you need to get the baby out" - the actual mechanics of what you need to do with your body to encourage the baby down the birth canal.
Then it must have been around 9pm, and the doctor arrived, looking only marginally annoyed to be having to work late to deliver the baby, chatted away between contractions. I could feel some movement, but no pain, and I pushed as hard as I could until I felt like my head would explode and I dripped with sweat, and there was some cutting, and a bit of tearing, and the doctor summoned an extra midwife because DB2 was supposedly going to be large, so they might need some help for the shoulders.
That did not happen
Basically DB2 fell into the world while all the extra midwife had to do was watch. DB2 screamed, screamed and screamed and wailed as loud as an air raid siren. She retains this ability to be really quite ear splittingly loud, through the challenging colic period, and afterwards, to the degree that I have never really let her cry for more than a few moments, even when I am in the car with her and there isn't much other choice, because she is really quite unbelievably deafening when she puts her mind to it. Don't know where she gets that from. They didn't call me "the silent assassin" at my run club for nothing. Anyway.
I then accidentally reenacted the Harry Enfield scene, where Wayne Slob mistakes his baby daughter's umbilical cord for male genitalia, and assumed it was a boy. Yes, I really did that. In my defence it was quite dark and I did not have my glasses on, but no, she was a girl. A very loud girl, who after her cord was cut by Him Indoors was placed on my chest, waxy and blinking and crying her super loud cry. A short time later, the doctor said, OK, it's time for the placenta, this might be a bit.... Oh... There it is... Out that came without me even noticing.
DB2's temperature after her birth was ever so slightly raised, so we had a few hours with me marooned on the bed gradually regaining feeling in my legs, Him Indoors holding the baby, until the tiny increase in temperature settled down and we got the OK from the nightshift pediatric doctor, and the midwife wheeled us up to the maternity ward around 2am.
While private hospitals prefer to keep you in for at least a couple of days if they can, to really rinse your insurance company for as much as possible, my doctor visited me after we had attempted to snatch some sleep in between various nurses checking vital signs and pointing out to me that I should probably change the baby's nappy at some point, and sent us home.
I did definitely note a little pride in my doctor's usually unflappable demeanour as she patted me on the hand as she agreed to discharge me. Here I will return to the note of cynicism I detected when I had told her that I wanted a V-Bac. She told me at some point afterwards, I can't remember when: "These women sit in my office and tell me they want a natural birth, but when it comes to it, they don't want to push, they don't even want to open their legs." It was a light-hearted, throwaway comment, but ... but ....but. What she said actually makes me a little sad, and it relates to the fact that a lot of women don't really know what to expect from giving birth or what they need to do, particularly when cultural issues among some communities in the UAE come into play. That can mean that sometimes these things are not really discussed.
I once read an article, I cannot find the link now, that said that some women in the UAE arrive at hospital to give birth, and that is the first time they have seen a doctor, no prenatal appointments, no discussions about how they will give birth, no anticipating if there any problems with their growing baby, no antenatal classes, no contemplating hypnobirthing, water births, discussion of pain relief, nothing. They are clueless, apart from what they may have been able to read or see online or glean from family members. I cannot imagine how much more terrifying that must make the experience.
During the birth, my doctor asked me if it was OK for Him Indoors to have a look at the action, to witness DB2 being born, and I said yes, obviously, and even in the state I was in, I found it rather odd that she needed to ask me. I had always joked with him that he would need to stay by my head rather than the baby's head, as I was worried he would faint because he's been known to be a bit squeamish at times, but in reality it seems very strange to deny someone the chance to watch their own child being born because you feel embarrassed. I felt particularly strongly about this because neither of us were really present for DB1's birth. I was unconscious as it was a super fast emergency caesarean under general anaesthetic as DB1's heart rate had all but disappeared, and he was left to pace the corridor with only phone calls to the Motherland to tell them what was happening to keep him company. But, if your levels of understanding on the subject are as I laid out above, you can see why it might come to that.
For me, despite the medieval torture levels of pain, I was on a complete high afterwards due to the exhilaration of actually being mentally present this time to witness DB2's birth in all its messy glory. I even suggested to Him Indoors that we should have another baby straight away, such was the hormonal banishment of the misery I experienced while pregnant. I am pretty sure when I mentioned this stonkingly brilliant idea of mine, I saw his hairline visibly recede, a la Homer Simpson's, when Marge announces she is pregnant for the third time. I think I can say, now I am at a safe distance from that post birth hormonal high, that...
that will not be happening
Our friend, who only lives about 10 minutes away, arrived, and sat and distracted me until Him Indoors got home from the airport. We picked up our hospital bag, and got in the car, and I entered the 'transition' stage of labour, that is, if the 'transition' stage is where you 'transition into being straightforwardly abusive towards your husband'. I castigated him for driving too fast, I swore at the yellow slow-down strips on the road, told him not to automatically drive to work without thinking, even though he clearly wasn't going to do that.
The hospital is a mercifully short drive, around 15 minutes, but not exactly blessed in the parking department. And here we enter the obligatory "So Dubai" section of the blog, because the hospital has valet parking at AED 30 a time. You don't get your money back if you produce proof you have given birth there. I know. Rude.
Because they get their money anyway, unlike most valet parkers in Dubai who work for tips, they are not exactly proactive in the service department, so we got out of the car and I stood clinging to the hospital door snarling to my husband: "You have to walk to them, to give them the keys, they won't come to you...." While a nice Japanese lady who caught sight of my face, rictus with agony, asked if I was OK, to which I responded something else abusive about Him Indoors, and then clung to him as we walked slowly to the labour ward.
There we arrived, me slightly calmer now we were at the hospital and slightly less abusive towards Him Indoors, to be greeted by an empty reception desk and an eerily quiet labour ward. Private healthcare, you see, there are soundproofed rooms and doors so you can't hear the screaming. I was pretty damned irrational with pain at this point, and after a nurse was summoned and I was dispatched to the bathroom to give a urine sample, a wave of pain crashed into me at the opportune moment, so I hurled the small plastic pot across the bathroom and yelled that I would "do it later". I'm not sure what I meant by "later". When the pain got better presumably, because that's famously what happens as labour progresses, obviously.
And against all sensible "ways to make labour less s**ing agonising" advice, I lay down on the triage room bed, clinging to the metal bars around it, gritting my teeth and gurning, pausing only between contractions every two minutes to tell Him Indoors to stop sitting/standing/breathing/holding my hand/existing in such a profoundly irritating way, if he knew what was good for him.
A nurse arrived shortly afterwards, performed what I only need to refer to as "the examination" and confirmed that I was indeed in active labour, and that it seemed likely that the baby would come "quickly". So I was booked into a room, while Him Indoors was dispatched downstairs to do various bits of insurance paperwork, and a nice Sri Lankan nurse briefly rubbed my back, making me realise I was basically tensing every single muscle in my body. If I had been more in my right mind, and yes, better prepared, I would have asked Him Indoors to do the same, but I was too busy telling him everything was his fault and "for f***s sake stop standing over me looking worried. Sit down for f***s sake."
He later told me that the chair was "quite uncomfortable", hence he chose not sit down. It was probably best that he didn't tell me at the time that this was the reason he was hovering over me like he was about to deliver the last rites.
Then they brought me some gas and air. Oh, the gas and air. I nearly forgot that crashing disappointment. I had thought that there was a small chance I may manage with just gas and air.
That was, so obviously, not going to happen
You may remember, best beloveds, that I had had rather bad morning sickness, which once again left me briefly during the end of the second trimester, but returned to a degree once I was very pregnant and my stomach got squished by the baby. This is relevant because I took one puff of the gas and air, and something about it, perhaps the rubbery, plasticky scent of the mask, had me puking everywhere, leaving poor old Him Indoors to carry away said puke in one of those kidney shaped medical instrument receptacles which was the nearest thing on hand. Away it went, that kidney shaped dish, and with it, away floated any hopes of me getting through the experience without an epidural. I can't remember much else about this time, except muttering sarcastically "this is fun" in between howling and abusing Him Indoors. He was really ever so sporting about it, and he has said afterwards that he understood it was because of the pain, but it felt like I really, really meant it at the time.
And so it came to the epidural. I have always been either way on whether or not epidural is a good idea, as I know people who have had some terrible experiences with them. If you ask earnest me, I can see the benefits of not doing it as they can increase the likelihood of intervention as it can slow the labour down. But if you ask me, in full knowledge of what it's like to be in labour without one, I will launch into a diatribe about why would anyone choose to give birth without them? Give me the f***ing drugs, beyotch.
Once Him Indoors was back from doing the paperwork, I got down to some more serious swearing and yelling. I was asked if I was planning any pain relief, I repeated the closest thing I had to a birth plan, on the advice of my doctor - I was sort of medium risk, so have the epidural, as it makes it easier to monitor the baby than if you are, and I quote, from an experienced obstetrician here, "climbing the walls with pain". "But don't have it too soon," she said.
We waited until the point that I felt like I had had enough, which I was probably about five minutes after the nurse asked about my plans. "Yes of course dear," she said. Private medicine, see? I would have to wait for the results of my blood test before they would give it to me, which would be, I don't know, an hour or so.
So, I carried on with my yelling and abusing Him Indoors, until I uttered the inevitable phrase: "Just....... Get..... Me .... the f***ing epidural.....Don't be polite ..... to them.....Get me it ..... now!"
A nurse was summoned and listened kindly while Him Indoors told them ever so politely that his wife was in a lot of pain, and she would quite like the epidural now. And nodded sagely, and told me that the blood test was fine, and they would get the anaesthetist to come and see me as soon as he had finished his lunch....
A very short while later, I made Him Indoors summon the nurse again. "Is he on his way? I snapped?" "Yes, he's on his way." (beatific nursey smile) "Well tell him to run, not walk." "Yes, dear."
And then the really very nice man arrived, and I've never been so pleased to see someone who was about to stab me in the spine with a needle in all my life. Having forgotten any attempts to stay calm and breathe and all that stuff up until that point, preferring to screw my eyes shut and roar, I did actually manage to breathe ...2 ....3... 4... while I was anaesthetised. The movements involved in getting into the position, which also left me actually weeping with pain, broke my waters, so that was handy.
"You should find the contractions gradually recede now," said the nurse. Recede, schmecede. They completely disappeared. It was like the sun came out after a typhoon of pain. I apologised to Him Indoors and the nurse, and sundry other people who I had been fairly abusive too up until that point, and we sat and chatted for a while, in a manner that we had not really done for four years, since DB1 was born, while I shook with cold, which is a fairly common side effect of an epidural apparently.
When you are a couple, one of whom works rather long hours, the other one works reasonably long hours and you have a lively four year old, you don't have much time awake and alone. It may be that I was strapped to an epidural drip, shaking with cold like I was in the Antarctic, with a series of beepy monitors, and he was on the uncomfortable chair, I was on the bed, but I'll take it. I think of that time fondly.
I don't quite remember, but I think Him Indoors went to get a sandwich, and it was early evening by this point, when the nurse offered me a carton of apple juice to see if the sugar in it would get the baby moving again, because the epidural drugs had indeed slowed her down her urge to vacate a little. Not too much, though, as a few drops of whatever hormone it is they give to labouring women to get babies moving did the trick, and my abdomen soon begun to lurch alarmingly outwards as if DB2 was headbutting it to get out.
The midwife, who it turned out, trained in Southampton in the UK, and was born in Albania and grew up in Italy, gently explained what I would have to do once the doctor arrived. They do that, you see, they have to explain to you what you need to do, because when push comes to shove, if you'll pardon the phrase, in Dubai, unless you pay for some very, very expensive classes, no one actually really tells you what you need to do until you are in the labour room. And I don't mean, the obvious "you need to get the baby out" - the actual mechanics of what you need to do with your body to encourage the baby down the birth canal.
Then it must have been around 9pm, and the doctor arrived, looking only marginally annoyed to be having to work late to deliver the baby, chatted away between contractions. I could feel some movement, but no pain, and I pushed as hard as I could until I felt like my head would explode and I dripped with sweat, and there was some cutting, and a bit of tearing, and the doctor summoned an extra midwife because DB2 was supposedly going to be large, so they might need some help for the shoulders.
That did not happen
Basically DB2 fell into the world while all the extra midwife had to do was watch. DB2 screamed, screamed and screamed and wailed as loud as an air raid siren. She retains this ability to be really quite ear splittingly loud, through the challenging colic period, and afterwards, to the degree that I have never really let her cry for more than a few moments, even when I am in the car with her and there isn't much other choice, because she is really quite unbelievably deafening when she puts her mind to it. Don't know where she gets that from. They didn't call me "the silent assassin" at my run club for nothing. Anyway.
I then accidentally reenacted the Harry Enfield scene, where Wayne Slob mistakes his baby daughter's umbilical cord for male genitalia, and assumed it was a boy. Yes, I really did that. In my defence it was quite dark and I did not have my glasses on, but no, she was a girl. A very loud girl, who after her cord was cut by Him Indoors was placed on my chest, waxy and blinking and crying her super loud cry. A short time later, the doctor said, OK, it's time for the placenta, this might be a bit.... Oh... There it is... Out that came without me even noticing.
DB2's temperature after her birth was ever so slightly raised, so we had a few hours with me marooned on the bed gradually regaining feeling in my legs, Him Indoors holding the baby, until the tiny increase in temperature settled down and we got the OK from the nightshift pediatric doctor, and the midwife wheeled us up to the maternity ward around 2am.
While private hospitals prefer to keep you in for at least a couple of days if they can, to really rinse your insurance company for as much as possible, my doctor visited me after we had attempted to snatch some sleep in between various nurses checking vital signs and pointing out to me that I should probably change the baby's nappy at some point, and sent us home.
I did definitely note a little pride in my doctor's usually unflappable demeanour as she patted me on the hand as she agreed to discharge me. Here I will return to the note of cynicism I detected when I had told her that I wanted a V-Bac. She told me at some point afterwards, I can't remember when: "These women sit in my office and tell me they want a natural birth, but when it comes to it, they don't want to push, they don't even want to open their legs." It was a light-hearted, throwaway comment, but ... but ....but. What she said actually makes me a little sad, and it relates to the fact that a lot of women don't really know what to expect from giving birth or what they need to do, particularly when cultural issues among some communities in the UAE come into play. That can mean that sometimes these things are not really discussed.
I once read an article, I cannot find the link now, that said that some women in the UAE arrive at hospital to give birth, and that is the first time they have seen a doctor, no prenatal appointments, no discussions about how they will give birth, no anticipating if there any problems with their growing baby, no antenatal classes, no contemplating hypnobirthing, water births, discussion of pain relief, nothing. They are clueless, apart from what they may have been able to read or see online or glean from family members. I cannot imagine how much more terrifying that must make the experience.
During the birth, my doctor asked me if it was OK for Him Indoors to have a look at the action, to witness DB2 being born, and I said yes, obviously, and even in the state I was in, I found it rather odd that she needed to ask me. I had always joked with him that he would need to stay by my head rather than the baby's head, as I was worried he would faint because he's been known to be a bit squeamish at times, but in reality it seems very strange to deny someone the chance to watch their own child being born because you feel embarrassed. I felt particularly strongly about this because neither of us were really present for DB1's birth. I was unconscious as it was a super fast emergency caesarean under general anaesthetic as DB1's heart rate had all but disappeared, and he was left to pace the corridor with only phone calls to the Motherland to tell them what was happening to keep him company. But, if your levels of understanding on the subject are as I laid out above, you can see why it might come to that.
For me, despite the medieval torture levels of pain, I was on a complete high afterwards due to the exhilaration of actually being mentally present this time to witness DB2's birth in all its messy glory. I even suggested to Him Indoors that we should have another baby straight away, such was the hormonal banishment of the misery I experienced while pregnant. I am pretty sure when I mentioned this stonkingly brilliant idea of mine, I saw his hairline visibly recede, a la Homer Simpson's, when Marge announces she is pregnant for the third time. I think I can say, now I am at a safe distance from that post birth hormonal high, that...
that will not be happening
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