Two weeks ago, I was your ideal blooming pregnant woman; active, wide of smile, rosy of cheek and shining of hair, basking in the closing days of an almost perfect pregnancy (baby conceived after one bout of swi, little morning sickness, felt the baby moving at 15 weeks and those movements only got stronger, from the back you couldn't tell I was pregnant - only the small, neat bump gave it away and even at 8 months I was still wearing many of my pre-pregnancy tops).
Then, I had one god-awful night. I woke up vomiting everywhere (and I mean everywhere) and screaming for ice, for some reason. The sickness only lasted about 6 hours and, being stubborn, I got back to what I thought was normal as quickly as possible. My personality completely changed though; no one could talk to me without me metaphorically (honestly!) biting their head off, I refused to go to the midwife appointments and I yelled at her when she turned up on my doorstep, understandably concerned.
It all came to a head last Wednesday when my waters broke at 8am. Mind you, after that I became much (well, a bit 
nicer. My local maternity hospital said to go in if I hadn't gone into labour that afternoon, but I started getting the odd niggly feeling and told them I'd wait as long as I could. The niggles wore off completely that night so I was told to come in for monitoring on the Thursday.
I was duly strapped up to the monitors and the baby was absolutely fine. If I'm honest, I don't think they believed that my waters had gone until a trainee (as I found out later) doctor clumsily inserted a speculum and it came out wet. To add insult to injury, he questioned me as to why I had "very odd lesions that may prevent me giving birth naturally and should have been seen by a GUM clinic." 
Luckily, another doctor was called and she was trying not to laugh when she told him that I had nothing more serious than those good old pregnancy-related vulval variscosities. Anyway, I was booked in for an induction on Friday night.
You can guess what happened straight after breakfast on Friday morning; I went into natural labour; although the contractions were never very painful, yet still completely killed my appetite, they did get to every three minutes so off I waddled to the hospital.
I was in a bit more pain that evening. Oh, I was so excited when a midwife gave me an internal exam and went to get another midwife to confirm her findings. One centimetre! One bloody centimetre! They were lovely about it though and tried to get me to eat and drink because I was going to have a long night, but I didn't want anything and just wanted to sleep instead.
By 12.30am on Saturday morning I was in absolute, fist-clenching agony. Happily I'd got to 4cm by this time and was given a nice dose of diamorphine. This kept me quiet until about 3am and then ... bloody hell! I've never known such pain! How could it have got worse from the earlier level? And no one could find a midwife! Nearly an hour later one showed up, but she told me that I couldn't have any more diamorphine and my only option was an epidural. Bellowing in torment (and for ice), I said yes please or words to that effect.
At 4.30am I was taken to the main delivery suite and they spent the next hour and a half trying to administer the epidural into my spine while I was propped up by two midwives, having contractions every minute and a half but somehow managing to fall asleep in the few precious seconds between each one. 6am, the epidural worked. Hooray! I then went to sleep until 8am.
I was allocated 2 new midwives at the 8am shift change as well as being attached to a syntocin drip to strengthen my contractios, and these midwives were unbelievably marvellous, professional, encouraging and kind. Of course, that lovely epidural may have had something to do with how happy I was! One of them was even able to coax me into eating a piece of toast and a biscuit, as well as drinking 2 cups of tea and half a jug of water. I kept nodding off all morning; only ever for 4 or 5 minutes at a time but constantly.
I was kept awake long enough for an internal at 1pm and I was 10cm! The pushing time was booked to be 3.30pm and I gave permission for a midwifery student to watch what was planned to be the first nice, normal birth she'd seen. The next few hours were spent dozing again, waiting for the magic moment when I'd have my baby.
So, 3.30pm. Baby time 
.
The epidural had worn off a little by then and I kept getting a sharp pain in my left hip, which was a good thing because it meant I could feel the contractions, saving the midwives having to rely solely on the machines to sense them. Monitoring clip attached to my baby's head, I womanfully began to push. Well, not womanfully - if I'm honest, I think I could have got my back into it a little bit more.
One midwife inserted her fingers into my vagina and we had great fun together making me try to push them out. I'd heard that your inhibitions fly out of the window during childbirth - they ain't kidding! I didn't care who might watch and what part of me was on display. It was fantastic, apart from the dreadful, and growing, pain in my hip.
One hour later, after being my normal, cheerful, jokey self all the way through(hell, we're all comedians in Liverpool), something changed. I developed unbearable heartburn. I remember feeling hot and snarling that I didn't want to talk anymore. My lovely midwife started to laugh but then her face froze! The senior midwife immediately took over, felt inside me and pressed the emergency button. While this was going on, I started bawling for ice (there's a recurring theme here, isn't there?). The poor student midwife ran out of the room and immediately ran back in, ashen-faced and clutching a huge bowl full of ice cubes. Lovely girl! Several were held to my forehead and I sucked on two more like a desperate animal.
This is where it got a little more exciting (I promise 
). Ha ha, not that I expect anyone to have read this self-centred and self-indulgent post this far. It's fantastic for me to type though as a way of reliving the experience and coming to terms with it. Anyway.
Whee, suddenly the room filled with people. A new woman, fully dressed in scrubs, immediately and unceremoniously shoved her arm up my fanjo and started rummaging around, presumably looking for a lamb that needed birthing. I thought I was shrieking at the top of my voice but apparently all I did was say "Ouch" over and over again. Hmm, not sure I believe that 
. I didn't know at the time, obviously, but I was told later that there was blood everywhere. She then shouted at the senior midwife because apparently there was still a rim of cervix, the baby was back-to-back and I shouldn't have been pushing. I felt quite indignant on the senior midwife's behalf - I really think that things changed from her earlier observations at around the time when I got nasty and didn't want to talk; everything was going okay until then. Or at least it felt that way to me anyway.
If not - dry, back-to-back labour! If that had been the case since Friday night, no wonder I'd felt such pain!
Cue a flurry of forms being thrust at me to sign and worried faces explaining various procedures and risks. In all fairness, no one in that extremity gives a flying fuck what will happen; it's like your whole existence depends on the baby getting out safely (and with minimal pain ), damn the consequences to yourself. The baby's original clip monitor had long come loose so the main heartbeat monitor was attached.
Her heartbeat was 136 bpm! No distress signs, just a relaxed baby, happy to stay where she was.
All attention then focused back on me. Before I knew it, I was stripped of my nightshirt and dressed in a hospital gown. I was given a little cup of antacid formula to drink by the anaesthetist to stop my heartburn. He warned me it tasted vile but I didn't care; the nice man who was going to help my baby get out wanted me to drink something, so down it went in one gulp. Then came straight back up, along with the tea, the toast and the biscuit, all over my gown. New gown, please!
Honestly, somehow, even at this point, I still thought I was in for a forceps delivery, especially when the anaesthetist said he was going to give me more lovely epidural. No no; I had to let him know I could feel cold liquid pour into my back because I was going to be given an emergency caesarian.
Then the rush to the operating theatre - so fast and down so many long corridors and through sets of double doors, people leaning over me to ask me questions that I couldn't answer. All I could do was repeat "I trust you. You know your job. Do whatever you think you have to do."
In theatre. Heart monitors strapped to my chest. Sheets appearing from nowhere to block my view of the operation. More epidural - it didn't work. Next time lucky, another dose flowed cold under my skin. People pinching me with something sharp to see if I could feel it; yes I could, below my navel. More questions - should they try again or should they start to operate because the incision should be where I wouldn't feel it? Operate! Just do it! Rough yanking and jerking in my stomach. The anaesthetist leaning over me, talking to me, making me answer him even though what I said made no sense.
A baby screaming, the sound echoing in the suddenly peaceful room. Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" playing in the background.
One minute past six, Saturday evening.
All that was left do do was finish the operation and stitch me back up. I also needed a stitch for a second degree tear caused by the earlier internal examination (told you it hurt!). None of it mattered - I looked wildly around - I just needed to see my screaming baby.
And there she was, being passed from person to person. Eventually being brought to me by the poor student midwife who just wanted to see a nice, normal, problem-free birth. When I saw her, I said her name was Flora.
That was it. All over (they refused to give me a tummy tuck though . I was lifted back onto a bed, drips were attached, a catheter was inserted, a painkilling suppositry was inserted the baby was placed into my arms, and we were taken to the recovery room for an hour before going on to the ward, where we ended up staying for 4 days.
A nurse looked after Flora all night. On Sunday morning, before 11am, the drips and catheter were removed (I didn't use the self-dosing morphine provided). Nice, new, painkilling suppositry inserted (inhibitions now permanantly flown away.
That is when I became the woman I am now. I could see Flora in the glass cot and something deep in me said "Look after her." It's not love, it's stronger, crueller, something that can't be denied. Groaning and gasping in pain, I pulled myself across the bed, miles in distance, and lowered myself off the stygian precipice until my feet reached the floor. The changing bag I'd brought in was on the chair next to the crib so I forced it open, pulled out a nappy and a pack of baby wipes, and changed m first ever nappy. Made a damn good job of it too . Then I was callous enough to leave her while I went for a shower and to clean my teeth.
And that's it. Nothing else matters - not the 2 patients in the ward with me who, I think, judged me for having an epidural (that's fine - I was Ms Judgy Pants because they left all the care of their babies to the nurses, rather than have a go of it themselves). Not the sleepless Sunday night/Monday morning when Flora wouldn't settle in her cot and I made up a lullaby at 2am (alright, it went "Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep little Flora, til the moon's gone to bed, lay down your head. Close your eyes til the skies are all blue from the sunrise, it'll be time to rise when the day is fresh and new." Sung to Brahm's Lullaby. Elton John and Bernie Taupin I am not ).
And now I'm home, adjusting to the path of fire I've walked, living with the bomb someone seems to have shoved up my arse.
Good luck to all women in labour. It will be the biggest thing to ever happen to you.