After a relatively complication-free pregnancy, I’d expected Cyrus’s birth to be no different. I’d had my meetings with consultants and midwives, I’d drawn up a birth plan and I had chosen to use the midwifery-led birthing centre at the city hospital.
I was ready to have an intervention-free birth with my husband there beside me to wipe the beads of sweat from my brow (just like on One Born Every Minute). Little did I know what was in store.
None of what I went through had been in my birthing plan which I’d designed in meticulous detail with the consultant. I had a Pitocin-induced labour after I couldn’t take the contractions any longer and opted for an epidural.
There were an abundance of wires and tubes coursing across my body, and the various beeps and pings vibrated through the otherwise silent room where I lay hoping for a positive outcome.
My husband stood at my bedside as the midwife hurried here and there attending to various tasks. Up until that point, she had performed her duties with a smile. Within minutes, her expression had gone from aww to this is terrifying.
C’s heart rate dropped and they needed to get him out quick. The use of forceps was not something I’d even considered, but it led to the little fella below being born safely and that’s the main thing.