Why I gave birth at home - twice
08.12.2014 15:29
When it comes to home births, I consider myself a bit of an expert. I brought my third child into the world from the comfort of my own bed, while my second was delivered on a slightly less comfortable bedroom floor. I wouldn't change these singularly life-changing and life-affirming moments for anything. In fact, I highly recommend home births. So I was happy to see new guidance from the NHS this week that echoed my own personal feelings and experience.
The government now says that having a baby at home or in a midwife-led unit is actually safer than the labour ward for most women. Research shows that women in hospital undergo a higher rate of intervention by specialist obstetricians, including a birth by forceps, a caesarian section or episiotomy procedure.
I have to admit, I never really planned to give birth at home. I thought it was the sort of thing that only new-age hippy chicks would subject themselves to.
Like most women, I had my first child in the hospital, and other than one midwife's awful threat to cut me if I didn't push a little harder, it was a reasonably smooth experience. But the choice of where to give birth a second time was taken out of my hands two days after Christmas, 2010.
In fairness, the hospital wanted to induce me on boxing day, as I was already 10 days overdue. But I was hanging on in the hope that things would happen 'naturally'. So when the contractions started coming in the middle of the night, I was somewhat relieved. I was also in good spirits as the waves of pain were not as severe, nor as frequent as they had been with my first.
By the time the sun rose, though, my mood had changed. The torment had intensified and I crawled into the bath. Although I'd been through one birth before, I really didn't know what to expect this time. My husband Phil thought technology had the answer and he created an app to time my contractions. Using some sort of mysterious algorithm he was able to predict the exact time I would give birth. He's a genius, you see.
According to his geeky calculations, I had another 8 hours of labour left so I wouldn't need to go to the hospital for quite some time. It was depressing news but I suppressed the urge to thump him. After all, I had to conserve my energy for the long, agonising day that lay before me.
I thought perhaps a change of scene might make the suffering more manageable so I wrapped myself in a towel and stumbled into the bedroom. It was only then, I'm ashamed to say, that a bolt of light found its way through the fog of labour and I realised my baby was coming very soon.
"Call an ambulance!" I shrieked. Phil was staring at his phone in confusion. How could his app have failed him so miserably?
He looked up, bewildered, and calmly informed me that now might be a good time to go to the hospital.
"There's no time!" I shouted. "It's coming now!"
After telling him that I could actually feel the baby's head, he seemed to get the message and dialled 999. "Er, yes, my wife thinks she's about to give birth." The feeling of excruciating pain was now balanced with an equal measure of rage.
He put the phone on speaker so he could 'help' and get ready to 'catch' the baby. Even at this stage, his casual nonchalance was a sight to behold. It was as if he'd been delivering babies all his life and I was only now uncovering his secret identity. By day, nerdy computer programmer, by night, fearless medical man, rescuing babies that come faster than a speeding bullet.
That said, he did ask the dispatcher if she was planning on sending anyone anytime soon. She responded by saying that an ambulance was on its way.
Alas, it wouldn't get there in time. A few big pushes and the baby boy was out. Relief. I was so happy it was all over, and just a bit sad that my carpet had been ruined.
Throughout this ordeal, my parents had been downstairs, looking after my little girl. They were completely oblivious to the drama unfolding upstairs, and it was only when the paramedics rang the doorbell that they realised anything was wrong. I asked them later if they had heard my screams and my mum said yes she had heard and decided to turn up the volume on the TV to drown out the noise. She didn't want my daughter to be alarmed.
The point is, my mum knew I'd be just fine. Sure, home births aren't for everyone and certainly not for those women who have a high chance of developing complications but my sense is, it is perfectly safe for most of us. After all, women have been giving birth since the dawn of time without the aid of forceps, ventouse or injections into the spine.
Ultimately, I was rather pleased with my home birth experience and decided to plan for one when I was expecting my third (and final!) child. I was very excited when the midwife brought a large box round to my house several weeks before I was due. How nice of the NHS to give me a present! Yes it contained latex gloves, cotton wool and protective pads, but still.
When the contractions started this time, I wasn't going to make the same mistake twice, so I called the midwife early on. When she came in, she appeared to have an ethereal glow. I thought she was lovely and calming and was going to make all the pain go away. But then she told me I was only two centimetres dilated, and the angelic face gave way to the cruel Miss Trunchbull from Matilda. 'Call me when your waters break,' she screeched. And with that, she was off!
(telegraph.co.uk)
ANN.Az
The government now says that having a baby at home or in a midwife-led unit is actually safer than the labour ward for most women. Research shows that women in hospital undergo a higher rate of intervention by specialist obstetricians, including a birth by forceps, a caesarian section or episiotomy procedure.
I have to admit, I never really planned to give birth at home. I thought it was the sort of thing that only new-age hippy chicks would subject themselves to.
Like most women, I had my first child in the hospital, and other than one midwife's awful threat to cut me if I didn't push a little harder, it was a reasonably smooth experience. But the choice of where to give birth a second time was taken out of my hands two days after Christmas, 2010.
In fairness, the hospital wanted to induce me on boxing day, as I was already 10 days overdue. But I was hanging on in the hope that things would happen 'naturally'. So when the contractions started coming in the middle of the night, I was somewhat relieved. I was also in good spirits as the waves of pain were not as severe, nor as frequent as they had been with my first.
By the time the sun rose, though, my mood had changed. The torment had intensified and I crawled into the bath. Although I'd been through one birth before, I really didn't know what to expect this time. My husband Phil thought technology had the answer and he created an app to time my contractions. Using some sort of mysterious algorithm he was able to predict the exact time I would give birth. He's a genius, you see.
According to his geeky calculations, I had another 8 hours of labour left so I wouldn't need to go to the hospital for quite some time. It was depressing news but I suppressed the urge to thump him. After all, I had to conserve my energy for the long, agonising day that lay before me.
I thought perhaps a change of scene might make the suffering more manageable so I wrapped myself in a towel and stumbled into the bedroom. It was only then, I'm ashamed to say, that a bolt of light found its way through the fog of labour and I realised my baby was coming very soon.
"Call an ambulance!" I shrieked. Phil was staring at his phone in confusion. How could his app have failed him so miserably?
He looked up, bewildered, and calmly informed me that now might be a good time to go to the hospital.
"There's no time!" I shouted. "It's coming now!"
After telling him that I could actually feel the baby's head, he seemed to get the message and dialled 999. "Er, yes, my wife thinks she's about to give birth." The feeling of excruciating pain was now balanced with an equal measure of rage.
He put the phone on speaker so he could 'help' and get ready to 'catch' the baby. Even at this stage, his casual nonchalance was a sight to behold. It was as if he'd been delivering babies all his life and I was only now uncovering his secret identity. By day, nerdy computer programmer, by night, fearless medical man, rescuing babies that come faster than a speeding bullet.
That said, he did ask the dispatcher if she was planning on sending anyone anytime soon. She responded by saying that an ambulance was on its way.
Alas, it wouldn't get there in time. A few big pushes and the baby boy was out. Relief. I was so happy it was all over, and just a bit sad that my carpet had been ruined.
Throughout this ordeal, my parents had been downstairs, looking after my little girl. They were completely oblivious to the drama unfolding upstairs, and it was only when the paramedics rang the doorbell that they realised anything was wrong. I asked them later if they had heard my screams and my mum said yes she had heard and decided to turn up the volume on the TV to drown out the noise. She didn't want my daughter to be alarmed.
The point is, my mum knew I'd be just fine. Sure, home births aren't for everyone and certainly not for those women who have a high chance of developing complications but my sense is, it is perfectly safe for most of us. After all, women have been giving birth since the dawn of time without the aid of forceps, ventouse or injections into the spine.
Ultimately, I was rather pleased with my home birth experience and decided to plan for one when I was expecting my third (and final!) child. I was very excited when the midwife brought a large box round to my house several weeks before I was due. How nice of the NHS to give me a present! Yes it contained latex gloves, cotton wool and protective pads, but still.
When the contractions started this time, I wasn't going to make the same mistake twice, so I called the midwife early on. When she came in, she appeared to have an ethereal glow. I thought she was lovely and calming and was going to make all the pain go away. But then she told me I was only two centimetres dilated, and the angelic face gave way to the cruel Miss Trunchbull from Matilda. 'Call me when your waters break,' she screeched. And with that, she was off!
(telegraph.co.uk)
ANN.Az
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