As Lydia’s first birthday draws closer, I find myself thinking back to the day she was born, and acknowledging the terror and confusion of those moments after it all started to go wrong after her birth, in a way that I don’t think I have done before.
In the days and weeks after Lydia was born, I was too busy concentrating on my newborn baby than to bother thinking about what happened to me after her birth. Other than to make sure I was taking my iron tablets and not overdoing it, I was just happy that I narrowly escaped blood transfusions; other than that the memories and associated emotions were pushed aside. Not forgotten, just diminished and disregarded.
I read historical romances where the heroine is almost lost to severe bleeding after their babies are born, or one of the characters’ mothers “died in childbirth,” and I know that so many women used to die in the period these are set, from the “complication” that caused my baby to be whisked from my arms and a dozen people to appear in the room. They performed the procedures required to stop the bleeding like a well rehearsed dance, each person knowing exactly what they needed to do to keep me alive.
When I remember my daughter’s birth day, I remember the frantic activity the most. The horrifying feeling of my baby being taken quickly from me mere seconds after we decided on her name, and the terror of losing sight of her and James as the room filled with people.
Only after remembering this do I recall the moment she was first put into my arms; even if her initial cuddle with me was brief, it was a truly magical moment. I held my baby girl and I knew she was my little Lydia. I fell in love, again.
Then I can remember the calming of the storm, the gentle decline in the number of people in the room until just a few remained, making encouraging noises about how the blood had “hopefully” stopped, for now at least.
I remember… Looking down on myself, covered in blood and deathly pale. A first feed with Lydia and watching James cuddle her before she fell asleep and he was sent home. The bed bath with the friendly orderlies who made me laugh even when I vomited on them half way through.
Being moved to the ward with all my drips and tubes, and being far too weak to get on the bed on my own, and finding just moving around incredibly difficult. Spending the night being so very ill and finding it so hard just to get to the bathroom constantly. Trying to feed my baby with cannulas in both hands and tubes all over the place getting tangled. It was a very long night!
In comparison, the hours before Lydia arrived are a blur. The night was difficult and the morning was worse, with an induction drip and gas & air to ease the pain making my memories foggy and confused.
I do remember the vivid blue eyes of the young nurse, whose sole job during the scary chaos after Lydia was born, was to sit by my head and talk to me. Keeping me calm and telling me everything that was going on, even though I was too bewildered to understand. She helped me with gas & air when I needed it, and told me my baby was safe. I was so happy every time she said “your baby is fine,” and looked into my eyes with those clear and bright blue ones.
It’s strange, the things you remember.
I couldn’t tell you all the things they did to me to stop that life-threatening bleeding, but I can recall the moment I looked towards a very worried looking James and saw the top of Lydia’s head as he held her, the rest of her body obscured by the equipment between us.
James and I made the decision not long after Lydia was born, that we aren’t going to have any more children. We are happy with two; our family feels complete and I have no wish to have another 9 months of stress about my damned placenta! Thinking back on that day, I am relieved that I won’t have to go through that again. A small part of me wonders how much of the decision is a reaction to the fact that 27th February 2013 was a wonderful day, but also one of the scariest of my life – especially as we know that I’d be a high risk for PPH reoccurrence. It’s no wonder I steer clear of shows like “Call the Midwife” and “One Born Every Minute”!
What I do know is this: I am so thankful to those people who were with us on Lydia’s birth day, and I am incredibly grateful for the NHS. It may be flawed and we should complain about the problems and improve the things that need to get better, but it is brilliant nonetheless. Just brilliant.
And my heart will ache, just a little bit, every time I read a book where “his mother died in childbirth”… even though I know it’s fiction!
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