Birth of a mumma + a peach.

Journey to womb so tender, so long, it was only fitting that our birth story reflected this.

[Image: six days postpartum.]

I’ve started writing and rewriting our story many times but always got stuck. It didn’t make sense to me to write in neat sentences. For me, it’s not completely clear. It returns to my mind in flashes. Fragmented memories we have pieced back together. So this entry (eighteen months later) is what it needs to be. A reflection.

Written in feelings, sensations and emotions. It follows the ebs and flows, the doubt, the serenity, the awe, the complexity, the fear, the grief, the empowerment.

Our birth story played out exactly as it was supposed to as lead by the universe and a series of informed decisions that were right for our family and our health. I couldn’t do it justice without writing it in pieces. Because that’s all there is. It flows out of me. Eyes closed, eyes open. An out-of-body journey experienced from deep within myself to bring her here - earthside and into our arms.

PART 1 –

DAY 0. WEDNESDAY

39 + 5

Goodbye old friend. Our adopted old dog passed away. How strange to experience grief in such close proximity to life. Mild surges came and went. Today was not the day but it feels important to pay tribute to him here.

DAY 1. THURSDAY

39 + 6

Late afternoon.

Could this be it? I feel different. My body starts to feel.

I make dinner like normal. Pasta. He trains like normal. We do normal things until the surges intensify. Growing closer but random.

The sun still up as evening falls.

Anticipation. A sense of excitement. This is it. Keep it coming.

Couch, ball, floor, all fours. I can still smile sometimes.

Nineties movies in the background.

Question, so many questions. When do we go to the hospital? Can I make it through a car ride?

Intensity grows.

Midnight. In the car.

Eyes closed. The surges grow further apart. Maybe this isn’t it. Doubt.

Hospital. A tiny room. Strapped to a machine.

Surges have eased so much now. They told us this could happen. Disappointment. The hospital feels cold.

They monitor us for a long while. Relief. Baby is ok.

Question, permission. It’s not our plan but I need to know.

She checks me. It hurts. I feel so vulnerable.

1cm dilated. Disheartened.

Take me home.

DAY 2. FRIDAY

40 WEEKS

4am.

Home from hospital. Frustration. Exhaustion.

Sleep comes between surges. Milder now than before.

The sun comes up. Dry toast.

My body needs the darkness. By late morning it has slowed again. I can just breathe.

Stillness is my friend. I rest. Sleep comes quickly.

Early afternoon.

Surge, surge, surge.

Move me like water – water is all my body craves. Shower turns to bath. The water is so warm. I breathe it in - music and wild orange oil in abundance.

Hot water moves all around me. I sway. I move. Making circles on all fours.

Focus on the water. I listen and feel as it whirls around us. Sound escapes from deep in my belly.

Rest is found in between. Leaning back into the bath walls.

I’m in a trance.

He tells me I’m beautiful and knows when I need his touch. His voice moves through me so soothing.

Washer so cold. Water so hot. I like the contrast. It gives me strength again.

I can see inside my body.

My body is working so hard. On and on for a lifetime.

Until I can breathe again. Keep it going. Don’t ease now.

Late afternoon.

A walk to keep things moving. Round and round the reserve we go.

At home I pace the hallways. Movement and sound get me through each surge.

He gets dinner. Indian take-away.

Keep it moving.

Early evening.

Inconsistency.

My mind moves into a dark place. Exhausted. I’m losing control. How much more can I take? Doubt in my body.

We call birth-suite. Tears pouring down my face. Come in for a check, stretch and sweep?

He dresses me to go – then my resolve returns. We stay home.

He sets us up on the couch. Checkers to distract me. We make moves between surges until I can’t concentrate anymore.

8:30pm.

I lose my plug.

Consistency returns once more as darkness begins to fall.

Couch to floor. All fours. I move through them.

Trickles, trickles, trickles. My body is leaking fluid.

Surges 3-6 minutes apart.

The couch is so uncomfortable even in between. I find little relief.

Midnight.

In the car. To hospital for fluid test. Eyes closed. Clutching my pillow. Breath, sound, rocking. They get me through.

Monitoring. Baby is doing well. Relief.

Fluid testing. It’s not my waters.

I don’t want to be checked this time. I don’t want to be on the clock yet.

Deflated. Take me home.

SPURIOUS LABOUR

It was around this point in our story that we discovered I was experiencing spurious labour. This meant that my body was working hard and feeling all the feels but with little progression. For me, this was due to her head being tilted on an angle in such a way that it wasn’t able to naturally push down with each surge to help open up my cervix. Surges came in waves of varied intervals and intensity, which was both frustrating and exhausting.

If there was no progress by noon the following day they wanted us back at the hospital to make a plan.

DAY 3. SATURDAY

40 + 1

2am.

Home from hospital.

Intensity. Exhaustion. He sleeps next to me.

Surge, surge, surge. Just minutes apart.

I need to be on all fours. Getting there each time is almost too much to bear.

Movement - back, fourth, all around. I breathe and moan. I visualize my cervix opening.

On my side I rest in between. I’m so exhausted. On repeat. Hours feel like a lifetime.

This dance slowly weakens my resolve. I yearn for the hope that sunrise will bring.

6am.

I can’t stand it any longer. I need water.

Turn the tap on in between surges. Hot water washes over me. The relief doesn’t come this time.

I plunge my body down into the water. Relief still doesn’t come.

I rock. I moan. I’m desperate to find that trance again.

Hot tears pour down my face. I’m losing control. I can’t do this.

I grasp my phone and call James. I can’t find words.

He takes one look at me and insists we go now.

7am.

Another lifetime in the car.

The bright morning light feels harsh and strange.

The weight of being restricted to such a tiny space feels almost unbearable.

Eyes closed, tears streaming down my face.

We inch my body into hospital. I need support. I need safety. I need to be here where my baby will arrive. I’ve spent a lifetime in my body already.

PART 2 – BIRTH-SUITE

Day 3 continued. (Saturday)

8am.

ADMISSION. RELIEF. SURRENDER.

This space. Foreign but safe. So square, angular and hard. But safe.

Relief for this dark space. No small rooms telling me we aren’t going to stay.

Lean my body over the bed. I sway. On the edge. I’m on the edge.

Breathe, surrender. My tiptoes on the floor.

Press here. Lean into the pressure.

Lavender oil. I’m safe but on edge.

Surrender.

10:15am

Question, permission, I need to know.

On the bed. I try my best to be still as she checks me.

I have opened. 4-5cm. Relief. I can do this.

Stretch and sweep. Stretch and sweep.

Break my waters. I feel the ruptured liquid. Blood stained.

Take me to the water. My clothes come off.

Rain down on me. Rain down on my belly. I swish the water back and fourth.

Breathe. Lungs full of air. Moan it out. Primal.

I can feel. I can feel.

There is something leaving my body. Liquid. Liquid. Liquid.

The water runs hot then cold. Hot then cold. Hot then cold.

Light shines through. She monitors us gently.

Repeat. On repeat. On repeat.

He reads our words to me. They make me cry.

I will meet my baby soon.

Apple juice. Apple juice. Sips so cold down my throat.

Hot cold. Hot cold.

There is no time but a lifetime.

We must be so close. She is coming in the water. We are going to have her in the water.

Intensity. Opening. Down, down, down.

My body is breaking. I can’t do it.

Progress is too slow.

Hours later. Time unknown.

We move from shower to bed.

My body is breaking. I’m so tired.

Propped up on the bed.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Cool liquids down my throat.

He puts balm upon my lips. Balm upon my lips.

I can see inside my body. I can see inside my body.

Surge, surge, surge. Closer or further apart? Closer or further or apart?

Bigger, stronger, closer. Breathe. Bigger, stronger, closer.

Air in my lungs. I can feel it.

Air leaves through moans. I can feel it. Out my lips. Body relaxed but working so hard.

There is something leaving my body. Liquid. Liquid.

My body is breaking. I’m exhausted. My body is working so hard.

3:00pm. (approx.)

I need gas.

Breathe. Inhale, exhale. Focus on the breathe.

There’s a noise. I breathe in deeply with the noise. My head goes dizzy. My mouth is dry.

Rest, rest, rest, in-between.

Breathe inhale, exhale, focus on the breath.

My body is working is so hard.

Move her down. Move her down.

It goes on. It goes on.

3:30pm. (approx)

Question, permission, I need to know.

Surge, surge, surge. I don’t want to keep still.

She checks me. My body is writhing but as still as can be.

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. My head is dizzy. My mouth is dry.

Not enough progress. 5-6cm.

Induction recommended. Syntocinon? Keep it moving.

Fear, anxiety, grief. What will this mean?

I grieve, I grieve. Tears escape me. Failure. Failure. I grieve.

‘This is your birth story’. Her voice is so gentle.

She sees me. She sees us.

Empowerment. Mind made up.

I have grieved. Change of course.

I want an epidural before the drip.

We wait. They take my bloods and do their checks.

Anaesthetist on the way.

5-6pm. (approx.)

Knock, knock, knock. He’s here.

Breathe. Inhale, exhale. Focus on the breath.

With a pillow they prop me up.

After the next one. Must keep still.

A sting in my back.

Breathe. Inhale, exhale. Focus on the breath.

Breathe through it, breath through. Don’t move.

It’s done.

Click the button when it’s green.

Relief and fog rolled into one. I can rest.

My body surges on. I can still feel her movements. No longer any pain.

I can feel my left side tightening. But no pain.

I can rest. In between the monitoring and the questions.

My body is working so hard. I’m so tired.

I can smile now. In this haze.

I can see my rock again. In this haze.

Eyes open. Eyes closed. Eyes open. Eyes closed.

There’s less detail now. It’s all a blur.

My toes still wiggle. I can almost move my legs.

These strange drugs are working.

Let it wear off to push.

10pm.

Question, permission, I need to know.

Progress. 9cm with cervical lip. Baby is too high. Her head so swollen. She might not fit. But there is still time to see.

Our bodies are working so hard. We are so tired.

A haze, it’s all a haze. Somewhere in this haze…

Surges so close and furious there is no break in between. Turn it down. Turn it down.

We are so sleepy. A haze, it’s all a haze.

Somewhere in this haze… I didn’t quite comprehend.

Her heart rate drops. Sudden and low. She moves quickly to push the button - then it’s stable again. Everything is ok.

My heart is in my stomach. His fear like nothing else.

Everything is ok.

11pm.

A room. Always someone in the room. One or many.

Everything is ok.

Time is running out. She might have to come out of my belly.

There’s still a chance but I think I know.

We are doing well. Let’s give it more time…

A decision will be made soon.

Midnight. Sunday.

The time in between is growing shorter at this time in between.

Question, permission, we need to know. We want our baby.

She checks me. No progress. 9cm and the cervical lip is growing larger.

My body in an almost constant state of contraction.

She’s lower now. Her head is so swollen, on an angle. She’s stuck in my pelvis. She can’t fit through.

Gently, gently. Decision made.

I grieve, I grieve. Tears escape me.

We will meet our baby soon. Not quite as we had thought - but as if I almost knew.

I will birth her through my belly.

12:40am.

Decision made.

People rush around. Determined and serious but so calm. There is time. We are stable.

We will meet our baby soon. It’s time to bring her earth-side.

Preparation. Movement.

Numb liquid through my spine. I can still feel.

Down we go. Or maybe up. It doesn’t matter.

Dressed in blue. He looks so handsome.

Blue net bubbles on our heads.

I’m so nervous.

There are people all around. They chatter. Magical people. Putting us at ease.

Words gently spoken into my left ear. She talks us through.

He sits nervously and full of love at my right. Squeezes my hand. Whispers confidence into my ear. I can do this.

The numbness topped up. My body shakes. My legs are gone up to my waist.

We are going to meet our baby soon.

Ice on my legs, up to my waist. No feeling until I can feel. That’s good.

Pricks on my skin up to my waist. No pain but can I feel it? Not really. That’s good.

Shave. Prep. Words in my ears. The room is cold. Or is it the numbness?

Tugging, tugging, tugging. I can feel but cannot feel.

They are inside me already. I happens so quickly.

Tugging, tugging, tugging. Words in my ear.

I’m still shaking.

[Image: her head is out.]

The most beautiful sound – she cries. Her first breath outside of my body. Her head is out.

Pulling and feeling without feeling.

She’s here. All of her. She’s here.

Born 1:56am.

Over the curtain. Reach out and up.

Her skin so soft, so hot, so slippery. I can feel her outside my body.

I will never forget. I want to carry that feeling with me always. Forever.

His face is beautiful. He swims in a sea of love and emotion.

Tears sprinkle our faces. I can’t believe it. Our baby is here.

They check her. He cuts her cord.

She returns to me. Up to my face.

We breathe each other in. I can smell her breath.

Connected always. Our eyes so deeply know each other even though it’s for the first time. Our souls will never forget.

We are both so tired.

Blood loss at birth 400mls. That’s good.

They need to stitch me up now.

We need to separate now but only for a short while. 20 mins they say.

That’s ok though because she’s with him – skin to skin.

I close my eyes. She’s here.

[Image: face to face for the first time as I lay on the operating table.]

Try to rest they say. I hear them talking about how tired my womb is - the poor dear.

I’m still shaking.

I close my eyes but my mind is in my wound again.

Tug, tug, tug. Prick, pull, prick, pull, prick, pull, prick, pull.

Can I feel it? Can I feel now? The sensation is so clear. Is it pain? Can I feel again? No. Just sensation.

I want it to be over and finally it is.

They wheel me through bright lights.

I can hear her crying for me. I know it’s her.

Our souls connected. Always. She is still part of me.

I see his face. We did it. He brings her over to me.

She’s put onto my chest. Skin on skin.

It feels so right.

They help me move her close to my breast.

She latches herself on like she has been waiting for me all this time.

My heart explodes. Everything feels so right.

Love so deep, we swim here for hours.

In this bubble of ocean love.

She is here. Peach Dillon. Our sweet daisy love.

- Rachel Charge x