Falling through the days...

It's taken me a while to post this as life's been chaotic and sleep-deprived! I feel a common bond with all new mothers, who must spend most of their time feeling like they could carry a large shopping load home in the bags under their eyes... However, as I said in a status message on another site, I never knew exhaustion could be so fulfilling.

Cian and I had a rocky start on the feeding front. I've been extremely keen to exclusively breastfeed the little mite since I knew I was pregnant, and an advocate of breastfeeding since well before that. That doesn't mean I would look down upon any mother who makes an informed choice to formula feed - simply that I believe that this is one of the best things I can personally do to give Cian the healthiest and happiest start in life.

So...this rocky start. When babies are exclusively nursed, they lose some weight in the first few days as they're receiving only colostrum (a pretty impressive cocktail of antibodies and other active ingredients) in small amounts. It takes anything up to 5 days for the 'real' milk to come in, at which point the baby will start to gain weight if all's going well. Perhaps due to the somewhat trying birth I had, my milk took its time arriving and by the time I left hospital my little sweetheart had lost about 9.8% of his birth weight - at 10% the hospital would have kept us in to make sure everything was going well. Even though this sort of loss isn't so unusual, I was frantic - my instinct to make Cian feel less hungry, more comforted and generally happier was physically painful. His second night out was dreadful - he was hungry but could smell milk on me, and was getting frustrated and angry - neither of us got very much sleep that night in hospital. So I embarked, with the advice of the hospital midwives, on a rather gruelling schedule to ensure he got as much as possible in the days before my milk arrived. It went like this:

8pm: express (go on, sing the Madonna song "Express Yourself"...I did)
9.30: feed Cian, then feed him the supplementary colostrum I'd expressed
11pm: express (sing it, girls!)
12.30am: feed Cian, then feed....OK, you get the general gist here, right?

90 minute schedule, pretty much constantly for about 36 hours. As you can probably imagine, this was exhausting. I set alarms to wake me up, and thankfully Matt was extremely supportive and woke to bring me drinks and offer positive encouragement at the times I really felt I couldn't go on doing this. I was sore, shattered, worried and overwhelmed, frankly...but also determined to get through it.

After about 2 days at home, my milk finally came in! Cian started making the happiest noises, sleeping in a satisfied stupor after his meals, and intermittently looking extremely surprised (imagine HUGE blue baby eyes and a shocked expression) as he'd get a veritable mouthful of the good stuff. I was told that so long as he'd regained his birthweight by 2 weeks old, he should be absolutely fine. So I waited with bated breath for the health visitor to visit at 14 days...

She weighed him, and looked surprised. I worried that he'd gained scant weight or (please no) even lost more. Then she smiled and said "well you've obviously got this nursing thing nailed - he's 8lb 7-and-a-half oz now!". I could have cried - all that hard work and exhaustion, all that worry that I wasn't providing what Cian needed...and he's thriving!

So that was my first drama. It may not seem a huge thing to anyone else, but it was important to me that I could provide his 'life support' on the outside, having done so for 9 months whilst carrying him. He's now a demanding little milk monster, but at least he's got a full tum. In fact, he's such an addict that my new nickname for him is (fanfare please...)

"Oggyrops Milkychops".

Oggyrops was my mother's old word for someone with a big appetite. *grin* And Milkychops because...well, he's usually got milk all around his chops (his mouth). And he seems happy that way. Exhibit A, Your Honour:



Otherwise, life's been profoundly changed, as I always knew it would. It's exhausting, and amazing, and gruelling, and wonderful, and anxiety-provoking, overwhelming, fascinating and exciting. So many conflicting emotions all at once. The worst time is early evening when Cian's fractious and feeding constantly, and the best time tends to be morning (hence my posting this now) or mid-afternoon when he seems quite contented. Sometimes he cries because he needs something specific - a nappy change, some milk, relief from trapped wind - and at other times he just wants to be held, all close and cuddled, where he can hear my heart. Talking of which, he LOVES his sling, as it does all of the above. He tends to fall asleep as soon as he's in it, which means that we've already been shopping a couple of times together.



Matt's mum is arriving today from Bedfordshire, and she's SO excited about meeting her first grandchild. I hope she won't pay too much attention to his normal common newborn irks - baby acne and milia (they'll clear within a couple of months) and gummy tear ducts (ditto, anytime in the first year) and think he's as utterly beautiful as I do. She's promised to help out and give me some time to rest, but I still feel stressed and like I should be tidying our (very untidy) flat before she gets here. I get on very well with her, but still get this anxiety that she'll take one look at the mess and think I'm an utter slattern!

We did notice, to our chagrin, that in a certain light, when being burped and lolling his little head forward, he looks a bit like one of the Slitheen from Doctor Who. But a very cute, small, toothless, sweet, cuddly version of said alien, and hopefully one without the dastardly plans towards humanity. On reflection, we should probably stop referring to him as 'our little Slitheen' before he develops the skills to know what we're talking about.

Finally...Cian is now an Official Scottish Baby! We took him to be registered yesterday and we now have all the relevant documentation. I'm quite disappointed that they didn't stamp him with a small thistle or tartan design, but I guess we can't have everything.

And that's it. The news for now. Will post more if and when I get time off from the dairy business.

Birth Story

So...in the end, a baby will come along the way it wants to, all plans aside and wishes notwithstanding. I knew this from the start - have stated it several times like a mantra! - but my whole story still went a little awry from my expectations. Here, without further ado, is my birth story.

I left you last, Constant Reader, with news of the hospital's plans to perform a membrane sweep on 11th August - my EDD - as they were slightly concerned about rising blood pressure. I was relaxing on Sunday night when I suddenly realised I couldn't read a full sentence on my laptop screen. Everything looked...well, weird. I had a clear window of vision in the centre of my eye (for those who don't know, I'm congentially blind in one of them anyway), but everything to the sides was akin to looking through one of those special-effects insect-eye lenses, if you've ever done so.

As visual disturbances are a known symptom of pre-eclampsia, Matt insisted that I call NHS24, the Scottish medical advice phone service, who were alarmed enough to send out the emergency paramedics. I was convinced they were overreacting, but later hospital tests showed that my kidneys were under pretty serious stress, either from pregnancy-induced hypertension or pre-eclampsia. The baby was fine - but in order to prevent kidney damage to me, the decision was made to induce labour.

At 11am-ish on 11th August, a prostaglandin gel was tried on me, and I must have been fairly ready to give birth anyway as it worked so well - contractions started immediately with about 2.5 minutes rest between them.

For those who aren't aware, in a normal, spontaneous onset of labour the contractions gradually build up in intensity, becoming stronger and more frequent. In an induced birth the body doesn't have this gentle build-up, and contractions tend to be more painful, frequent and so on. Because of this and my status as a first-time mum (apparently induction's usually more painful the first time), I was advised that I'd almost certainly require an epidural. There was also concern that the frequency of my contractions would mean I'd have no energy come 'push-time', especially given that I'd had less than 3 hours sleep in about 30 hours at this point. My father was taken into intensive care following emergency surgery on the morning I was induce, and the stress wasn't helping much either.

At that point I said I'd forego the epidural, but keep an open mind about it. The plan was to break my waters and use another Prostin gel, but Cian did a pretty thorough job of breaking my waters on his own! At that point, the contractions became far, far more intense. My TENS machine was up to maximum and I was cursing the fact that I couldn't use a birthing pool as all induced births need more careful monitoring. Matt and I decided that an epidural was probably the best idea, as it would allow me to conserve some energy for later in the day.

The anaesthetist tried 4 times to site the catheter in my spine...to no avail. So he asked a more experienced collegue, who tried 4 times to site the catheter in my spine...to no avail. Eventually the head obstetric consultant anaesthetist was called, who managed to install the epidural first time - I sucked on gas and air to enable me to stay still during contractions, so that he could do so.

About 15 minutes later he came back to ask how the pain was now...and was surprised to hear there was no difference. To cut a long story short, over the whole time of my labour 4 different consultants (including the senior anaesthetist for the entire teaching hospital) tried to get epidurals to work on me. Three were sited perfectly, with two different types of drug being tried. None gave any reduction in pain and I could still move my legs and walk around the room, much to the surprise (to say the least) of the doctors now having a conference by the side of my bed, wondering how on earth this could be.

Works out I'm one of only two cases they've ever seen where a labouring woman is genuinely immune to epidural pain relief. Go figure.

Around 5am-ish on Tuesday morning, I was examined. The midwife was sure that, given how strong and frequent my contractions had been showing on the monitor, I'd be well-dilated by now. I was at 2cm, at which point I felt extraordinarily frustrated.

Eventually I got about an hour's relief from a spinal block which was supposed to last a number of hours. It gave me just enough rest to get a little energy back. I was also given about an hour on a patient-controlled pump containing a very short-acting opioid. I'd stated a refusal of opioidssuch as pethidine from the outset as I didn't want adverse reactions in the baby, but I was informed this one was designed to leave the system in around 4 minutes, so caused no such problems. The PCA wasn't very helpful, but the staff were fantastic in bending over backwards to try to help me. I was offered another spinal block and possible caesarean section due to the unusual circumstances, but refused both as they could have posed a risk to the baby.

With the possible help of a syntocinon drip, I suddenly progressed from 2 to 5cm dilated in 2 hours...then up to 9cm in another 90 minutes. By this point I had no pain relief except gas and air, so there was nothing to do but go for it when I felt the urge to push.

After an hour's pushing, shouting, manically changing position (which should have been impossible, if not for my freakish epidural immunity!)...little Cian Matthew Sebastian Slane came into the world. Beautiful, perfect, completely unperturbed by any of the day's events, he let out one almighty yell, then took a big breath and looked so calm a he was laid on my chest. Matt had been planning to catch the baby and cut the cord, but in the event was unable to do either. He was crying, saying "You did it, you really did it! The baby's here!", shaking and looking awestruck by it all.

I had an episiotomy and a second-degree tear - a scissor cut, and a tear to my muscles for the uninitiated - so Cian stayed on me for 10 minutes on me before I had to be repaired. Matt was fantastic and proved an instinctive daddy by stripping off his shirt to snuggle the baby skin-to-skin. About an hour later I was all stitched up, and the three of us were left to get to know each other.

I had to recover for a couple of days in hospital, and I'm still very sore - between swelling, stitches and a severely bruised spine, I feel like I've been hit by a train! - but we're home now and getting used to each other. Sleep is difficult, and I'm trying to locate a 12-step programme for mummy's milk addicts, but I never realised exhaustion could be so worthwhile. Cian is just breathtaking - all little pouts, big eyes and hair like spun gold, with a touch of the Irish red. He's confused by the world, but loves to be cuddled and has passed all his screening tests so far with flying colours. I'm so proud of him...there just aren't words for how much I love my little golden boy.

A number of midwives and anaesthetists have approached me about my labour, and have said they consider me a very rare case of a difficult, induced birth without significant pain relief. They seemed to feel guilty that they couldn't help me, but that's nobody's fault - just one of those random things. All the staff who helped me were, without exception, supportive and fantastic during my labour. Matt was simply amazing, doing everything he could to encourage me and make me more comfortable, and I genuinely couldn't have done it without him.

Not the birth I'd been hoping for, all-in-all - I'd hoped for a much more gradual onset and more control over my situation. However, I got the RESULT I was hoping for, as my beautiful baby boy is safely in my arms, currently sleeping cuddled up to me.

No regrets from this lassie. No regrets at all.

The Best Laid Plans

Since the start of my pregnancy, I've been hoping and planning for a low-intervention birth - preferably using a birthing pool, in the midwife-led area of our local hospital. I'd possibly have gone for a home birth if not for the fact that we can't fit a pool into our already-overstuffed flat!

Apart from relatively small hiccups such as SPD (painful but not actually dangerous), a second-trimester water infection and so on, I've had a very healthy, 'textbook' pregnancy and have been under the supervision of the Community Midwifery Team here in Edinburgh. I've been classed as a low-risk pregnancy, so everything seemed on-target for my planned setting.

Today we spent a number of hours at the hospital, having a rerun of all the tests and monitoring I went through on Thursday. My blood pressure isn't a major concern and the proteinuria seems to have reduced a little - however, the results of some bloody tests are apparently a tad worrying, as they seem to indicate that parts of my system (e.g. my kidneys) are under pressure. Because of this, I have to go back on Monday morning for yet more tests and a membrane sweep, as The Powers That Be(tm) now wish to speed things along a little.

Additionally I'm now classed as an 'intermediate-risk' pregnancy, which may mean a change in my plans for a low-intervention, natural birth. Thankfully the baby's absolutely fine - a big, strong-hearted, healthy sweetheart - so they're not worried about him. The concern at this point seems to be about the pregnancy's effects on my health, and obviously if that goes downhill then it can potentially impact on the little one. The idea of anything unpleasant happening to my little wriggler scares me far more than being personally ill.

I'm feeling pretty frustrated right now. To get to this point in my pregnancy, having had such a wonderfully healthy and positive experience, only to have this spanner thrown in the works at the last moment...well, I'm irked to say the least. I know that nobody knows how a birth will go until it's actually happening - birth plans aren't written in stone! - but I'm still a little annoyed with my body for threatening to complicate things at the last minute. The last thing I want is an over-medicalised, over-monitored birth where I can't move around and follow my own instincts - not least because that's more likely to cause my pain responses to go doolally!

At this point, I'm just going to have to take things as they come, I think. Though I have certain ideas on how I'd ideally like to birth my son, the end goal is to have both of us happy and healthy at the end of it. When it comes down to it, if certain things are needed to ensure that outcome then I'll deal with them at the time.

Slight Hiccup...

My midwife was a little concerned at my antenatal check-up today, as I had proteinuria and high blood pressure - both classical indicators for pre-eclampsia. She sent me up to the hospital, where I spent a good few hours having just about every monitoring test under the sun.

I've been sent home again, but the doctors there think I might be developing pre-eclampsia. Nothing definite yet, but there are slightly elevated markers in my blood and elsewhere that suggest it may be a problem. As a result, I have to return to the Day Assessment Unit on Saturday afternoon for further tests, and if the problem's worsened I've been warned they may need to consider induction. I'm keen to avoid medical induction as I'm aware it can lead to a cascade of intervention, but if it's a choice between that or endangering the health of the baby (and myself!), then I'll go along with whatever they recommend.

On the bright side...the little laddie's happy in there, positioned perfectly, engaging well and has a lovely strong heartbeat. Now if only he'd stop sticking his little feet up under my ribs and mooning his daddy...