The Other Epi

I've debated long and hard about how graphic I would be about the traumatic aftermath of labour. And I've decided not to hold back, because I was literally torn asunder from the inside and since complaining is what I do best, complain I will.

So if you're in any way squeamish, maybe its time to pop open a YouTube window and start watching some Peppa Pig, you cowardly pissant.

Anyway, my departure from the delivery room was swift. Erin's little head was pushed towards my nipple so she could feed. I was wheeled into a empty ward and the curtains drawn. I was given some toast and tea. The midwife suggested that Himself go home and get some well-earned rest. (And let's all be thankful that my legs had been numbed from the epidural when he countered her recommendation with a whispered "I haven't slept, either, you know, Rachel," as it is entirely possible that  - had I been fully mobile - he would still be laid up in a different hospital bed at this particular point in time, with some rather painful nether-regional issues of his own to contend with.)

So then it was just me and the baby. I looked at her, waiting for the wave of love and adoration. All babies are apparently beautiful, but I couldn't help but see a miniature, scowling Chinese woman covered in a yellow-y mildew. I decided the love-wave and rose-tinted glasses would come later; maybe after I'd gotten a chance to shower the blood off my person and empty my bulging bladder.

Paralysed from medicine and the fear that I would disturb Erin, that chance didn't arrive until four hours later when a nurse finally came back to check on me. I hadn't been able to reach the bell, and the baby had been sleeping peacefully against my chest. I was petrified of rolling onto her face if I dozed off, so I'd been keeping myself awake by reciting Taylor Swift song lyrics under my breath, eying up the cold toast, my mouth dry and cotton-like.

The nurse apologised for abandoning me, and bundled Erin in to a cot. I plodded off to the bathroom and returned to throw myself in to the bed. Sleep beckoned, and I was ready to dive gratefully into its arms.

"When did you last feed her, Rachel?" the nurse enquired, pen and paper at the ready.

"Er... about four hours ago. I think?"

"Yes, she's due another feed, then. You'll have to wake her up and feed her and check her nappy."

I blinked slowly at her. Was there not some unspoken rule in the Big Fat Parenting Book about not waking a sleeping baby? Wasn't it the general consensus that, though a baby's cry was natural and healthy, the ultimate goal was to - if not prevent - stop it? And this crazy cow wanted me to both wake and - most likely as a result - induce a crying session, simultaneously? I was about to question her credentials, but eyed the mother across the way turning her head to scrutinise me in all my neophytism.

"Right, right, yes, of course," I bullshitted, heaving myself up on to the bed, feeling a strange pulling sensation between my legs as I did so. "Yes, excellent. Every four hours. Right-y o."

The nurse picked up Erin, squeezing her little feet and stroking her cheek. "You need to keep her awake to make sure she eats enough. So play with her feet, stroke her cheek - use your nail, that's what I do. The sharpness of the nail helps."

Horrified, I watched as Cruella DaNurse pushed one of her disgusting long nails against Erin's chubby, flawless cheek.

"Great, lovely, I'll do that, give her here, here's the boob, great, givehertome, goodwomanthatsgrand."

So Erin fed, and I had to set alarms to make sure she fed every few hours. Then, I was handed a pen and paper and told to record how long she fed for, and on what breast, and how many times she urinated, and when she pooped for the first time. No one else seemed put out by this apparent administrative side to the parenting process. And so I kept a record of all Erin's bodily fluid ejections, carefully smelling the pee and recoiling at the first black, tar-like poo and tickling the feet to encourage continuous feeding, all like a good mammy is supposed to.

It was about midday the next day that I started to feel it. A gnawing, tearing pain. A constant ache between my legs. I gasped every time I adjusted myself in the bed. I cried a little when I sat up for my dinner. I emitted a little scream when I next visited the toilet.

Have you heard of Newton's Third Law? It states that for every force, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Remember how I raved and swooned over the Magical Epidural Of Wonder and Rainbows? Well, I was about to experience the repercussions of its nasty and unforgiving cousin, the very equal and opposite reaction in question - The Episiotomy.

An episiotomy, for those of you not in the know, is a surgical CUT to the area between the VAGINA and the ANUS to WIDEN the vagina just before delivery. It's done to prevent TEARING.

And if reading those couple of sentences made you feel comfortable, I invite you to consider how I felt, during the whole actual fucking living-through-it part.

Anyway, so I had had one of those. The euphoria and the drugs were wearing off rapidly, and I was beginning to feel the full damn force of that particular incident. I SAT on the bell for the nurse, clutching the sides of my bed. When a midwife arrived, I had to growl through gritted teeth that my vagina was on fire, and some ice - or perhaps a medically-induced coma - would be in order should I wish to survive the night.

"I've got JUST the thing!" the annoyingly preppy woman exclaimed, and whipped around the curtain. I attempted the ridiculous breathing exercises I'd learned in my last antenatal class, desperate for something to distract me from the searing sensation in my pants. It wasn't working, but the nurse apparently had been, because she arrived back, beaming from ear to ear, with a small glass of water and what looked like a big, bullet-shaped pill. Lovely, lovely pills, I thought.

I went to grab the water, and had my other hand held out for the lovely, lovely pill, and was baffled when she pulled both out of reach. She placed the water on the bedside locker.

"What are you doing, Rachel? Do you want to put it in yourself?"

"Wha'?" I rolled back on the bed, trying to lift my abdomen in to the air to relieve some of the sting.

"The suppository? Do you want to put it in yourself?"

She said it so matter-of-factly. As if I should have been expecting that she would return with a solution to my problem that involved the continuation of strange objects passing in and out of my body through the most sensitive areas.

"It's almost time for visiting hours..." she taunted.

"Do it!" I hissed, turning my back on her in one last act of defiance.

Ten minutes later, I was happily nursing my first-born, pain-free and patiently awaiting the arrival of all the grandparents to meet our Erin, newly showered and positively fucking glowing.

Another new mother was wheeled in at that moment, her little bundle wrapped up in her arms. She obviously didn't get an epidural because she stood up unaided and propped herself against the bed. I got up to pull over my curtains - my smug face was the last thing she wanted to be stuck looking at after her ordeal. Just as I went to close the gap, I saw her wince and hold her groin.

I had to tell her.

I knew things now.

I was knowledgable.

Wise, if you will.

It was time to impart that wisdom.

It was my duty, as a mother.

"Take the arse pill when she offers it," I said, affording her a conspiratorial wink. The mother opposite us shook her head in despair. The new mother looked at me, aghast. I have to admit, I was pretty surprised at my choice of wording as well, but all pretence at prudishness had gone out the window with my inability to sit.

I sat back down with Erin, pleased with my new urge to share and care. Motherhood was changing me. I was going to OWN this parenting thing. I couldn't remember what I'd been so worried about.