It's been like this for years.
I'm in my 60s. When my mum was expecting me, she went to ante-natal classes and the importance of panting/breathing was stressed.
Her gynaecologist was on annual leave. A fortnight before I was due, the stand-in told her that I was breech and tried to turn me. Said "It won't turn!" and sent her home.
Her waters broke that night. Ambulance was called and Mum was taken into the hospital.
In the labour room, she began her breathing exercises. "We'll have none of that in here!" declared the midwife. [Mum told me that wasn't sure whether the midwife didn't approve of new-fangled breathing exercises, or whether she assumed that she was panicking.]
On the third day of labour her own gynae returned from leave. "It'll soon be over, my dear."
It was too late for a caesarian. She was put under and given an episiotomy. Mum was a petite 'elderly prim' at the age of 35. I was 9lbs.
As Mum later said, my dad nearly lost the both of us.
After the birth, a nurse made a mess of inserting a catheter. "Oops! Wrong hole!" Mum said that the pain was excruciating.
She did try for more children after that, but had three miscarriages.