Why Don't More People Talk About This Part?

My waters broke on a Sunday morning, six days before my scheduled due date. I'd been warned by midwives and consultants alike that it wouldn't be like the movies - that instead of that oft-portrayed gushing and panicked scrambling for the car to get to the hospital, it would more likely be a gentle let-out, a very manageable trickle that I would barely notice. And that was if I was one of the few to experience the actual breaking of the waters - apparently, it was a lot less common than Hollywood would lead one to believe - and since most first time pregnancies went beyond the due date, inducement was a real possibility, and I wouldn't notice my waters breaking.

So when I went to the bathroom that fateful morning, it took me a few puzzled minutes to realise  that the wriggling creature that had been making standing upright so difficult the last month was finally ready to make her way in to the world, and that I hadn't developed an embarrassingly uncontrollable - and inexplicably full - bladder over night.

I hollered at Himself, recommending we call the hospital. He rushed to the bathroom - I'd left the door swinging, all pretence of modesty disregarded in that last uncomfortable trimester (and, indeed, the last five years if truth be told - I could never be classed as a lady), where he found me sitting quite calmly on the toilet, awaiting further instruction. The hospital recommended I check myself in, but to take my time as I would probably be waiting a while before I reached active labour. It was three quarters of an hour away, but they still reckoned that since I wasn't having any pain, I had a while to wait yet. 

"Go back to bed," the lady on the other end of the phone suggested "Read a book, watch some television - you'll just be waiting around in here. Take your time - there's no rush to get in."

She clearly didn't realise she was speaking with a novice.

Thirty two minutes later, we peeled into the hospital, and I demanded an epidural off the first person I saw.

However, you need to have contractions to have an epidural, and sadly, I was still stuck at the water-breaking stage. 

You also need to request epidurals off the midwife, and not a member of the canteen staff, who kindly directed me towards the delivery ward. 

There were three other ladies in the waiting room, all panting and puffing through their contractions. I sat awkwardly, pretending that I didn't notice the pool of water gathering in my seat. The massive suitcase I'd painstakingly prepared for my stay in the maternity ward was propped under my feet, appearing to all the world like some sort of incontinent holiday-maker who'd mistaken the labour waiting room for an airport terminal. I got some perturbed glances from the panting women, who were obviously wondering why this rookie was taking up space on the ward when she wasn't even in pain. I smiled inanely at them in return, fueling their trepidation.

I was contemplating maybe feigning some pain  - just to fit in, really - when a midwife popped me into an antenatal ward to wait for something to stir. "Now, Rachel," she intoned, all wisdom and condescension "Nothing is happening yet. We'll hook you up to this machine to monitor Baby's heart beat. You'll just have to wait here. If nothing happens in twenty four hours, you will be induced tomorrow morning."

We waited hours. I climbed the three floors of steps eight times; I did some lunges behind the curtains; I had a nap; I re-watched some Rick and Morty - and still, nothing. It was seven in the evening when they rolled me in to the actual maternity ward. All the women in there were in various throes of labour - grunting and groaning and rolling around on exercise balls. I was jealous, I won't lie. I'd been there since half nine that morning, and the only pain I'd experienced since my check-in turned out to be a trapped fart.

"You are going to  have to be induced," a different nurse assured me. "It will happen early tomorrow morning. Nothing's going to happen today, I'm afraid."

Himself and I exchanged a resigned glance and proceeded to attempt to chat over the torturous wails of my pregnant sisters.

It was 8.30pm when it happened. 

It's like someone puts a fist through your gut, and  proceeds to practise their right hook repeatedly on your uterus. 

It's like a period pain  during your first Brazilian wax multiplied by a few thousand.

It's like being a die-hard Harry Potter fan, and not receiving a letter from Hogwarts on your eleventh birthday. 

"WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS THIS?!?!" were the first words I uttered after the initial wave of agony subsided. "WE ARE NEVER - " I punched an angry finger in the direction of Himself "- EVER FUCKING DOING THIS AGAIN. DON'T YOU TOUCH ME EVER AGAIN!"  

It felt like it lasted for days, so when the midwife informed me my contractions were lasting just under a minute, and that I was a mere two centimetres dilated,  I felt like throwing myself out the fourth floor window in front of me. She told me to sit on an exercise ball, to speed things along, and I did so, popping blood vessels in my forehead in the attempt. The pain was immense, and took my breath away. I sprang off the ball, furious and spitting. "THAT'S NOT FUCKING HELPING," I roared, kicking the bastarding ball at the woman in the bed across from me. 

It turned out things were progressing with some speed. Faster than they had thought, I was informed. I couldn't talk at this point, and could only nod when they offered me the gas. 

Ah, the gas. It did make the contractions easier. It also had some rather unsavoury side effects. I inhaled it and became instantly heady, my voice suddenly sounding several octaves lower to my ears. "Dooooo you heeeaaaar that?" I asked Himself "I sounnnnnd like Doryyyy in Finnnnndinnnng Neeeemoooo when she speeeeeaks whaaaaaaaaaaaale."

Himself looked a bit startled and looked to the midwife, who shrugged away his concern with a knowing gesture, as if to say this was all to be expected.

"AAAAAAMMMM IIIIIII  SPEEEEEAKINNNNNG WHAAAAAALE?!" I yelled, and then immediately vomited on myself. The midwife assured us this was normal, which didn't really make me feel that much better in my vomit-strewn, intoxicated, whale-speaking state. 

By the time the anaesthesiologist came around, I was high as a damn kite. 

"Helloooooooo, sirrrrrr," I drooled, Himself propping me upright, as my limbs flailed at alarming angles  "I bet ALLLLL the ladies love seeing you come by, eh? Eh?? Eeeeeeeh????" I jabbed a finger in his face, and flopped back on to my bed. A contraction took hold and I was temporarily blind and mute with the pain. 

"I'm going to administer the epidural, Rachel," Mr. Miracle said, pulling on some gloves. I gulped some of the gas and gave him two thumbs up "You must stay very, very still, Rachel. It is imperative you follow these instructions. Do NOT move."

The room went silent. I counted way more people than I remembered, and decided to introduce myself by waving at each of them in turn. "Y'know," I said, after vomiting for the tenth time "I'm feeling pretty good right now. Apart from my voice sounding like Morgan Freeman's, I think I'm good to go. Get the car, Himself! Get! The! Car!" I struggled to stand up, and my spectators all dove on me at once, pinning me into a sitting position, scolding me for my sudden flush of energy. I laughed and declared my undying love for Himself. Despite my impromptu escape attempt, Mr. Miracle got his medicine in.

And then all was calm. My vision became clearer. The urge to regurgitate my spittle subsided. I recognised Himself once more. I reddened as I recalled proposing to Mr. Miracle (who hadn't rejected my offer, I might add. I was still feeling pretty grateful so I gave him a conspiratorial wink, hedging my bets.)

I couldn't feel a thing. I was the happiest person in the world at that moment in time. For an hour, I sat there blissfully numb. I dilated quickly, and was told to push. I didn't feel that either, but apparently I was doing it. They needed some vacuum assistance in the end.

And suddenly they threw a tiny, purple, gunky bundle on my chest. And she was all wrinkly and scowling. A midwife wrenched her from me as if she was a rugby ball, and dressed her in the garments we'd brought with us. Himself held her, incredulous and beaming. And then she was handed back to me, and I waited for the overwhelming love to engulf me, but instead I just remember looking at the funny shape on her head that the Kiwi vacuum had left. The doctor babbled something about after birth and stitches, and I gave him a wave, which was apparently my new way of communicating with those attending to my every whim.

I looked at the baby and decried her Erin. My lovely, little Erin.

That's it, I thought, cradling her like she was made of glass. The hard bit is over. The worst is behind us. I could breath a sigh of relief now. Everything would go back to normal.

What a fucking novice.