I got as far as Friday 11th, A.M., and stopped reading. I'm sobbing here.
It was nearly sixteen years ago that I had DD1 and yet I'm sitting here sobbing at the memory of being given a ventouse delivery having been told 30 minutes earlier that the baby couldn't be coming, I had hours to go yet. I was for an epidural but apparently the anaesthetist was busy and it was too late.
Yes, that's right, "the" anaesthetist. One. In the all singing all dancing maternity hospital, next to it's sister-building, a major university city teaching hospital.
Admittedly I went from 3cm to birth in an hour and 20 minutes but even so. Owing to the ventouse I tore so badly and bled so profusely that they wanted to take me into theatre, claiming I'd die otherwise. I told them no, they weren't going to hurt me any more - eventually they stitched me up without anaesthetic in the delivery room.
I wanted to die. Had theu been able to kill me or the baby I'd have let them.
Hand on heart, 16 years on. The fear and distress still grips me as if it were yesterday.
I thank whatever god is up there and my GP for the caesarean he suggested and supported me in obtaining when I had my second child.
Until tonight I honestly felt that I was alone, that 99.99% of other women who asked for an epidural got one. It hurts and distresses me even more to learn tonight that this is far, far from the case.