I had promised myself for some time now to chronicle my pregnancy experience as a first-time mom so that my daughter can have it as a keepsake if she ever one day wants to know the story of her birth. I still plan to do so. But today, I want to share that miracle with the world. Of course I am neither the first nor last mother to so do. Countless stories are out there. So what is so different about mine?
Well, to be honest, apart from the way I felt holding my baby girl for the first time, which I think is a unique feeling for every mother, nothing I suppose.
Writing this is timely. Not because we recently celebrated International Women’s Day or because Mother’s Day is not so far away, but because of a crass conversation among a group of men I recently had the unavoidable misfortune of enduring. I was incensed, but I didn’t say anything because I sensed there would be no reasoning with them. From the way our eyes read each other’s, I could sense that the other women there felt anger too. In that moment we said a lot to each other by not saying anything at all.
But let me pause to recognize the many men who respect women, who honour and support us and their children. I see your effort and say thank you. To the others, we forgive you. I want to chalk it up to, perhaps, ignorance, and hope that this article somehow changes how you view women, pregnancy and childbirth—the process responsible for each of us being here.
It is this perspective, I think, that makes sharing my story different.
The group of men to whom I alluded spoke about pregnant women as being baby-popping machines, expressing their obviously shallow view that all women were created to do only that.
One disgustingly spoke about “bigging duh one belly fuh de fourth time,” in reference to a woman he intended to impregnate again.
Another vented frustration with “me woman disturbing me every minute ah de night” to use the bathroom to urinate.
“And de spitting! I can’t tek duh one bai,” another chimed in.
They then collectively laughed about how some pregnant women walk with what they called the “duckling-swag,” their backs tilted and how they appear as if they were about to draw their last breaths.
I was livid and imagined their hearts beating in the palms of my hands. I am proud of my self-control.
To those who believe that pregnancy is routine and riskless—it is not! A woman’s body undergoes manifold physical, hormonal and other changes. Yes, the textbooks tell us about them, but until you have actually walked that road, you cannot begin to comprehend what women endure to bring life into the world. And a quick check of the almost daily news recently would confirm the saying that pregnancy “is like having one foot in the grave and the other out.” Some people take pregnancy and the process of labour for granted perhaps because safe deliveries, thankfully, far outweigh those with tearful endings.
Understand that there is nothing routine about pregnancy, and it is time we stop treating it that way. It is an unmatchable experience. As much as it’s a mostly joyous journey, the road is sometimes a perilous one.
The joyous part? Viewing sonogram images and listening to that vibrant little heart-beat at ultrasound visits, reassuring me that the little one was developing well was my all-time favourite.
Morning sickness
But understand that there are other not-so-pleasant parts of this journey like having to endure morning sickness, which, again, I believe may be viewed as just another routine part of the process. Not all women face this, but if like me you suffered hyperemesis gravidarum—extreme, persistent nausea and vomiting during pregnancy characterised by dehydration, weight loss, and electrolyte imbalances—there were probably days you wondered if you would die. Nothing stayed down. It was my faith and the support of loved ones that helped me endure a difficult first trimester.
Making it past that phase was an accomplishment, and I particularly relished having my appetite back, as I slowly regained my strength and got back on my feet. I remember my husband sitting and watching in disbelief as I ate an entire 1lb chicken burger.
Chalk it up to the craving, but I am forever grateful to The Publik for that treat. It was just the prelude I needed for entry to my second trimester, which they call the honeymoon phase of pregnancy. However, some women have to endure Hyperemesis Gravidarum for the full nine months. I am thankful I didn’t.
As I got bigger and bonded with the precious little human growing inside me, savouring every kick, back flip, jab, hunch, boot and every other thing in between. It was as if my daughter was just moving everything out of her way, much as she does now, to move around unhindered and enjoy a good game of football.
And you see, because there is no goalkeeper to restrain the impact of those forceful kicks, mothers must feel the squeeze on our poor bladders which are no match for our babies who obviously make them their cushions. So to the man who sounded his frustration over being disturbed by his lady’s constant waking during the night to make liquid deposits, believe me Sir, if it was up to her, she would lie in bed.
Let me now address the young man who is disgusted by the constant spitting. Now don’t get me wrong, I am by no means saying that the sight of a pregnant woman frequently spitting has to be enjoyed by anyone. But understand that she cannot help it. The condition is called Ptyalism and causes the overproduction of saliva. It is common during the first trimester of pregnancy. I did not suffer from this at all, but I can only imagine how challenging it must be for mothers who do.
Now to the “duckling swag,” which they found to be so funny. It was disappointing that this was said by grown men, who are clearly fathers and not inexperienced youngsters.
Near the end of the pregnancy women experience what is commonly referred to as a “bearing down”. In preparation for birth women must endure the lowering of the baby in the birth canal and often place our hands beneath our tummies for added support. The weight to carry around at this point results in such discomfort at times that it even tells on our breathing. So yes, some of us may have an extra sway and are sometimes out of breath.
I know that light moments are shared among loved ones who at times mimic us. Of course we too have a sense of humour, but when it borders on disrespect as it clearly did among that insolent group, I have a problem.
By the final week of our pregnancy, we have gone through so many highs and lows physically and mentally that we meet a point where we’ve had enough and want to just get it all over with. Yes, we are qualified to express ourselves in this way.
Natural delivery
Sure we want to meet our little prince/princess. After all that’s what this was all for. But we also crave simple things like lying on our tummies again, or, as in my case having a sip of coffee, or just being able to put on little pieces of clothing without losing our balance. Being able to stand and view things in front of us without a mirror, like our knees, toes and feet also comes to mind.
So, by the time we get to our due date, we are ready, or somewhat ready. I was very ready one moment and not in the next. Talk about fear, anxiety and uncertainty, I encountered them all.
But then come the onset of labour and you realise whether the baby is born quickly or takes a long time, it has finally begun.
I had a natural delivery. I was in my birthing schedule and while my doctor wanted my daughter to take her time, he decided that there was no point in me enduring additional time, as at one point my daughter seemed content with making mommy’s cozy womb her home for a little while longer.
At my final doctor’s visit – it was on a Saturday – he told me he would do a membrane sweep, the magnitude of which I did not at the time understand, except vaguely that it was a somewhat natural form of inducement. The procedure is swift, lasting only a matter of seconds. It’s generally described as painless.
My experience, however, proved to be the exception to the rule. The pressure exerted from the procedure was severe. But thankfully it was so swift, that by the time I started processing the pain, it was done. As painful as that was, it could not be compared to, or even begin to prepare me for the unimaginable pain I endured during my six hours of labour.
Following that procedure, labour usually sets in within 48 hours. My little Azara decided that she would cut that short by an entire day. By the time I returned home from my doctor’s office, my mucus plug was ejected. I knew exactly what that meant. The beginning of the end of my 9-month journey was now in sight. There was a mad rush of emotions: happiness, sadness, certainty, uncertainty, confidence and fear all in one.
I vividly remember sitting with my feet up enjoying a relaxing evening when at exactly midnight on Sunday I felt a sharp moving abdominal pain that I initially thought was little Azara showing off her somersault skills for the thousandth time.
By then I knew all I needed to know about the sweep, but I guess I was somehow more comfortable being in denial, allowing myself to believe that it was probably even just Braxton Hicks contractions (sporadic contractions and relaxation of the uterine muscle. Sometimes, they are referred to as prodromal or false labour pains).
Being aware of the clock at this juncture is important as it helps you to gauge your contractions and their intensity.
At exactly 15 minutes after that first bout of pain, I felt the second; then again at 12.30 am. Each time it got a little more intense. By 12.45 I was on the phone with my doctor and going out of my mind with the intensity of the pain. At 1 am my husband had me bundled up, had loaded up my hospital bag which was packed and ready weeks in advance, and we were on our way to the hospital.
My brother was at the wheel, while my husband sat in the back seat with me trying to keep me calm and going through the breathing rhythm we had practiced with my doctor months before.
Given the countless contracting pains most women experience during pregnancy, I always asked my mother how I’ll be able to distinguish the real contractions from the fake ones. “It’s unique and unmistaken. It’ll be so intense, you’ll just know,” she said. Oh how right she was.
The 15-minute drive to the hospital felt like an eternity. At this point I had the full “duckling swag,” but with the help of my husband, at snail’s pace I waddled to the labour room.
My doctor had already called ahead and given instructions to the nursing team on duty that night, so they were expecting me and had already prepped for my arrival. My doctor by this time was also en route to the hospital.
In the meantime, the midwife examined me. I was at 4 centimeters when I got to the hospital. I had 6 more to go. By 2 am I was lying, standing, sitting, walking, squatting, practicing my breathing and ringing my fingers, all while writhing in overwhelming pain.
It has been said that giving birth is equivalent to the pain of breaking 42 bones at once and second only to being burnt alive.
Finally, I was fully dilated, and I thought, great, we should be getting somewhere now. Only problem was my water had not yet broken, and so there was even more pain to endure as my doctor performed an amniotomy. This entailed inserting a device commonly known as an amniotic hook to rupture the amniotic sac. I feel the pain all over again typing this sentence. It was a fountain display, but there was not much time to process that pain, because the pushing needed to begin.
And as much as I was in all that pain, I still needed ‘drips’ to intensify the pain just a little more. You see, I now fully understand that pain is necessary during birth. It is what helps you to push. Pushing with the pain and breathing at the right time are all important. No pain, no gain, held true for me.
I pushed until I lost my breath. All the practice breathing went out the door and I was just labouring, literally. Every part of me. To this day I believe that my husband and doctor had teamed up against me. They told me about a dozen times that the baby’s head was right there, and all I needed was one last big push.
What!!!??? I thought. Was I giving birth to a baby or my colon and every other organ in there? But looking back I realise they were only cheering me on. It motivated me to press on until I heard the sound of my baby girl crying for the very first time.
Sore, battered and bruised, I will forever remember how I felt when my doctor placed her on my chest for the first time. I wouldn’t attempt to describe the feeling because I can’t.
The story is not over, because I still had to eject the afterbirth and get stitches, because yes I had an episiotomy. Women who have had them would tell you that it’s one of the most unpleasant procedures to heal from. But women endure it all for the miracle of birth, often without consideration for the very true reality that not all of us make it out alive.
A mother’s delivery experience may end here, but that’s only one chapter in her nurturing role that never truly ends.
I know reading this has brought back memories to some sisters. We are strong, we love our children fiercely and we would do it all over again for them. As I said in this space numerous times before, as sisters let’s help each other.
