Giving Birth at 40: My induction and forceps birth story

There are probably more dignified ways to introduce your newborn to his Persian grandmother than over WhatsApp while you are lying in a Newcastle hospital bed, legs still in stirrups, being stitched up after a forceps delivery. But when you marry into a Persian family, you quickly discover that major family events rarely wait until everyone is presentable.

Within minutes of Cyrus arriving, H was on a video call to his mum in Tehran. There she was, beaming, praying in Farsi and admiring her new grandson. There I was, exhausted, rather less photogenic and still receiving medical attention. In Britain, we might reasonably wait until the mother has been cleaned up and offered a cup of tea before announcing the birth. In our British-Persian household, apparently, the international family broadcast begins immediately.

To be fair, I was too overwhelmed to object. H’s mum was delighted, Cyrus was safely in my arms and I was completely besotted with him. Modesty had left the building several hours earlier. And to think I had gone into hospital with a birth plan.

It started with turquoise walls, a birthing pool and the misplaced confidence of a woman who had watched an awful lot of other people give birth on television.

I was 40 when I gave birth to Cyrus, although I never particularly thought of myself as an older mum. I was fit, active and reasonably confident about what childbirth involved. After all, I had watched practically every episode of One Born Every Minute. I considered this research, albeit conducted from the sofa with considerably better refreshments. I have since written about the realities of becoming a mother in midlife.

The midwife-led unit looked wonderful. There were individual suites with turquoise walls and reassuring names such as Wedgwood, double beds, beanbags and little kitchen areas. The birthing pools resembled Jacuzzis, and I had convinced myself that warm water and determined breathing would make the whole experience manageable.

H’s principal responsibility was to keep me comfortable, offer encouragement and wipe my sweaty forehead. I had not assigned him the role of international communications director. Unfortunately, childbirth had other ideas.

I had hoped to go into labour naturally, but a doctor discussed the risks of continuing my pregnancy beyond my due date at 40. I remember being shown a graph about stillbirth risk. I cannot recall every detail of the conversation, but I remember how frightened it made me. Suddenly, the birthing pool seemed rather less important.

I agreed to an induction, although I would have preferred to wait. The NHS guidance on inducing labour explains why induction may be offered, including when continuing a pregnancy could carry additional risks. Decisions depend on individual circumstances, and this is simply how I remember mine.

My beautiful midwife-led suite was replaced by a clinical ward, curtains on poles and monitors that beeped at intervals I could not interpret. Then came the oxytocin drip. Instead of floating serenely in warm water, I was watching screens and trying to work out whether the people around me looked concerned.

The epidural was another experience I had not anticipated. A supervised trainee was attempting to administer it. She was gentle but visibly nervous, which is not quite the expression you want to see on somebody approaching your spine with a needle. There were several attempts, and at one point something hit a nerve. Eventually, a consultant intervened.

By then, I had abandoned any ambitions of being the calm woman breathing through contractions while listening to soothing music. Instead, I began repeating a Persian word. A gamaj is a traditional clay cooking pot associated with Gilan in northern Iran. I had first encountered the brightly coloured pots during visits to Rasht, where they were sold in shops.

H and I had also picked up another, less complimentary use of the word, meaning something along the lines of ‘stupid’. It became our private joke, an expression we could exchange in Britain without anybody understanding us. So there I was, in a Newcastle delivery room, repeatedly invoking Persian cookware while an anaesthetist tried to sort out my epidural.

I doubt the medical team had any idea what I was saying. H certainly did. Forget hypnobirthing affirmations. Apparently, all I needed was a clay pot and a little covert marital swearing.

At some point during labour, the monitoring pads on my stomach began coming loose. I remember seeing Cyrus’s heart rate change on the screen and noticing a nurse leave to fetch a doctor. Nobody made a dramatic announcement, but I could sense that something had changed. The consultant returned, and the next thing I knew, forceps were being discussed.

When they showed me the instruments, I thought they looked like something from a Victorian medical museum. I had spent months imagining a soothing birthing pool, and now I was staring at two pieces of metal that appeared to have been designed before anyone considered asking women for their opinions.

By then, however, I was not particularly interested in whether the birth resembled anything in my plan. I just wanted Cyrus to arrive safely. The Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists’ guidance on assisted vaginal birth explains why forceps or a ventouse may be recommended. In my case, I remember the fear more clearly than the medical explanation.

My first memory of Cyrus is the noise he made. He was not crying quite as I had expected. He was bleating, like a tiny sheep. He had a wonderfully round, chubby face, and when I held him, I fell in love immediately. I cannot remember what H said or what I replied. I remember looking at our son and feeling that everything else in the room had briefly disappeared.

It was one of those moments that probably deserved silence. H, however, had a mother in Tehran to telephone. And so began the WhatsApp call that would become one of my favourite memories of Cyrus’s arrival. My Farsi was limited, but I did not need a translation to understand how happy his grandmother was. She was thousands of miles away, yet somehow right there in the delivery room with us.

Later, H’s sister saw Cyrus’s passport photograph and nicknamed him Shah baloot, king hazelnut, because of his little round face. I had given birth to a baby who sounded like a sheep and looked like a hazelnut. The Persian family commentary had begun.

The cultural differences did not end with the phone call. H’s cousin rushed to the hospital to meet Cyrus. He was single at the time and, as far as I could tell, had gathered his knowledge of postnatal care from whatever advice had been circulating among the family.

He had heard that a woman who had just given birth needed compote, fruit preserved in syrup. Specifically, he intended to bring me tinned peaches. There is nothing wrong with peaches. Under ordinary circumstances, I rather like them. But after an induction, an epidural and a forceps delivery, my priorities were not particularly fruit-based.

H intervened and suggested chocolate might be more welcome. A teddy bear for the baby would also be appreciated. So the cousin arrived with chocolate and a teddy bear instead. I still think it is one of the sweetest stories from Cyrus’s birth. He had clearly wanted to do something thoughtful, and the peaches were his idea of looking after a new mother. H simply knew his British wife would prefer something from the confectionery aisle. For once, the British approach won.

The funny stories are the ones I enjoy telling now, but they were not the whole experience. The forceps delivery affected me physically and emotionally for months afterwards. Sitting hurt. Walking hurt. I was tearful, frightened and shaken by what had happened. I replayed parts of the birth in my head, particularly the moments when I felt I had little control over what was happening.

I adored Cyrus from the moment I saw him, but that did not mean I was immediately fine. We are very good at asking whether a newborn is healthy. We are not always quite as attentive to the woman who has just given birth. The NHS advice on physical recovery after childbirth is a useful starting point, but women also need space to talk about a frightening delivery.

In our family, there were Persian traditions surrounding food and recovery. I have written about kachi, a Persian pudding associated with postpartum recovery, which illustrates another way of caring for a new mother. Whether somebody arrives with traditional food, a tin of peaches or a large bar of chocolate, the sentiment is much the same. You have been through something enormous, and somebody wants to look after you.

I do not regret making a birth plan. I regret thinking it gave me more control than it actually did. I would still tell my younger self to visit the birthing suite, ask questions and imagine the experience she hoped to have. I would simply remind her that childbirth is not obliged to follow the script.

I would also tell her that an assisted birth is not a personal failure, that recovery can take time and that she deserves care as well as her baby. But I would not change the small, ridiculous moments that made the experience ours. The Persian cooking-pot mantra. The newborn who bleated like a sheep. The grandmother praying from Tehran while I was still being stitched up. The cousin who nearly arrived carrying tinned peaches.

None of them featured in my birth plan, but they are the details I remember most clearly. I had imagined a quiet British hospital experience. Instead, I got a very British medical procedure accompanied by a Persian family’s love, prayers and emergency catering arrangements. Years later, Cyrus is growing up with both cultures, and I rather like that his first few minutes in the world captured them so perfectly.

And if you marry into a Persian family, perhaps check the international calling arrangements before you go into labour.

Did your birth go according to plan, or did something completely unexpected become the story you still tell years later?

Occasional stories, experiments, discoveries and rabbit holes from Saffron & Cyrus.