The early arrival of Alexander
We were having a most uneventful pregnancy. When I was 28 weeks pregnant, one Sunday I started having some tummy pains, thinking I’d eaten something unfortunate. They continued on the Monday and I left work thinking, ‘that is a bit weird, I’ll call the hospital on the way home’. That was a Monday afternoon and I didn’t go back for 6 months.
The midwive’s view was I might have an ‘irritable uterus’ (!), to go home, drink some water and have a lie down and call her back if they got worse. By 9pm that night, I had a gut feeling something was up and I had Lance take me to hospital. In amongst some serious eye rolling and lack of interest among the midwives (you could just here them thinking ‘first time mum overreacting’). Until they put me on the machine to see what’s going on and their faces changed quite abruptly with a ‘I’m going to go and phone your Dr’. When he appeared 10 minutes later, we knew something was up. Although I was contracting, I wasn’t dilating. A leisurely ambulance ride to KEMH, a very late night for us all and quite a few pills and jabs, I was settled in KEMH where I stayed until the following Friday, the contractions having settled down quite a bit. I’m not sure whether the staff were hopeful, or whether they had a feeling of what was going to happen, or whether we were just incredibly naïve, but we didn’t get a real sense of the traumatic events which were about to unfold.
The contractions came back mildly on the Saturday and we had another trip to KEMH that Saturday afternoon only to be discharged again as I wasn’t dilating and the contractions didn’t seem to be getting worse. They continued to tell us we weren’t in actual labour and not to worry.
I had a quiet day on the Sunday, only really getting off the couch to pot out some new plants I’d bought and then my thoughtful husband, trying to distract me from the increasing cramps and anxiety, thought a walk around the block would assist! After all, we weren’t ‘in labour’… I didn’t go very far and was pretty exhausted so we went home. Needless to say, the contractions started to increase but again, having to be told we weren’t ‘in labour’, we didn’t rush off to hospital. Instead I cooked perhaps the best salmon dish I’ve ever cooked (and subsequently lost the recipe). A couple of hours later about 9pm, the pains were just too much and I told Lance to take me to the hospital. Between leaving our house and the 10 minute drive to hospital, the labour pains became intense to say the least. Poor Lance was having to try and keep me calm and drive as quick as he could – it was like a scene from a movie!
When we got to the hospital the poor orderly didn’t know what to make of this screaming banshee woman, and rushed me up to the maternity ward. By this time the contractions were almost constant. Needless to say, all hell broke loose as this maternity ward was definitely not used to 29 week pregnant women presenting in full labour. Our incredible doctor turned up in minutes and calmed the scenario but with a ‘you are 10cm dilated, this baby is arriving tonight’. Not the words you want to hear.
This time I got a very, very quick ambulance ride over to KEMH with midwife in tow and the last thing the Dr saying before he closed the doors was ‘try not to push’. Lance tried to follow them but said he lost them when they were going over 120km/hr through the tunnel and through red lights.
When we got there we had an army of doctors and nurses waiting, each trying to explain what was about to happen and what they were going to do with the baby once he arrived etc. I was still contracting and really not in a great space, so poor Lance was having to deal with difficult questions and explanations.
Once I’d had an epidural, I seemed to become human again, and they recapped what they’d gone through. It was a very, very sobering experience, to be told your baby ‘should’ be ok, but they are going to have to put him on a ventilator as soon as he comes out and take him straight to intensive care.
When you see babies being born on TV, they come out a bit purple and usually screaming. We got a very small, not moving, silent baby, who was quickly whisked off to the trolley with us wondering whether he was even alive. A tiny squeak reassured us he was and Lance smiling and saying ‘it’s a boy’! A team of doctors and nurses surrounded him and escorted him, with Lance, up to the NICU, where I wouldn’t see him again for what felt like an eternity, but was only about 3 hours.
Despite the nurses telling me to get some rest (you get some rest after that!), one nurse took pity on me and wheeled me down to the NICU about 6am, after a strict hand washing, to see my tiny baby boy covered in cling wrap – and tied up to all these wires seemingly powered by this giant machine and beeps and noises everywhere. Alexander also had an incredibly bruised face – he looked like he’d gone 6 rounds with Rocky – as he had been a face presentation because of his small head size and the forceps had injured his left eye a little. This is not what you expect to be greeted with when you deliver a baby.
Having been sent home with instructions also to rest (yeah right), Lance was also back at Alexander’s side minutes after I’d got there, and we could finally meet our son together. I think we were still in shock and it was hard to comprehend everything the nurses were telling us. But we took comfort in knowing he was stable and he was a good weight at 1.3kg (3 pound) for a baby born at 29+3 weeks.
That gestation – “29+3 weeks” becomes tattooed to your brain and it almost becomes a label for you and your baby to wear while in ‘hospital land’.
