May tells her birth story in her own words…

It was a warm day in late January and I was out having lunch with some friends. I had already finished up at my job, but wasn’t expecting to meet my daughter for at least another month.

At first, I thought I was having Braxton Hicks contractions - I hadn’t had any yet and was excited to finally be experiencing them. The day wore on and I began to feel quite uncomfortable. I was out and about, running my errands for the day.

At the grocery store I found myself leaning against the apple stand so I could breathe through the discomfort. In the car ride home it felt as though I was about to have the most violent bowel-movement of my life.

I told George I was feeling a bit out of sorts and hopped in the shower to soothe my cramping pain and aching back. It wasn’t until we were sitting on the couch and the contractions were coming thick and fast that it hit me - I should probably get the timer out.

My contractions were regular, about 6 minutes apart. Surely she wasn’t going to make her dramatic entrance now?

My partner and I had just moved into our apartment the week before. We had barely started unpacking; the cot was still in its box, the pram hadn’t even arrived. There was no hospital bag packed - we weren’t expecting to need it ready for at least another few weeks. I began to panic as I glanced around our entirely unready apartment. 

It was now around 11:00 at night. I had begun to notice the telltale ‘bloody show’ that signifies that bub could be on their way. I called my midwife and gave the rundown on what was going on, at which point she informed me that I was in labor and needed to get to the hospital. I scrambled through boxes trying to find what we needed for our hospital stay, fired off a text to Mum - then we were off. 

My body was pulsing with so much adrenaline that my hands were shaking; it had really only just hit me that life was about to irrevocably change.

When we arrived at the hospital I was informed that because our baby was coming early some extra precautions had to be taken, such as putting us in the birth suite (a more clinical environment that could support certain equipment that the midwives and doctors might need) and having our baby on a continuous monitor to keep track of her heartbeat. 

I was still having mild contractions at this point, and though I was able to stand up, I wasn’t really able to move around because of the monitoring device.

For those of you who are new to the baby game, it’s worth knowing that the more you are able to walk around and be ‘active’ during labour, the faster your contractions will progress. With this in mind, it was becoming apparent that my confinement to my stationary post beside the bed was really slowing the contractions down. 

I had been at the hospital for about six or seven hours by this point and the doctors were becoming concerned about the lack of progress. I had already had a stretch and sweep and my waters manually broken, but neither of these helped. Our doctor discussed the use of Syntocinon with my partner and I, and although we didn’t really know much about it, we agreed to using it based on the information that was provided to us.

The timeline becomes blurry for me here; all I remember is going from having mild, breathable contractions, to having ones that were so intense I thought my body was going to be ripped apart.

During a particularly intense one, I remember the room suddenly becoming a bit crowded. My baby’s heartbeat had slowed right down, almost to the point of stopping, and a couple of extra doctors and nurses had come in to assess the situation. 

Each contraction that I had grew in intensity, but my daughter’s heart rate was growing weaker. We’re still not sure exactly what was causing it, but my contractions were restricting her blood flow. I had to roll around during each one to get her heart rate to jump back up. I was exhausted, confused, and anxious. I felt like I could no longer handle the contraction pain and focus on getting into a safer position for my baby at the same time - so I opted for an epidural.

The anaesthetist couldn’t come fast enough; by the time she got there I felt like I was at my breaking point.  Even so, the epidural worked like magic. Now I could completely focus on getting into a safe position with each passing contraction (with a bit of help from George, of course, now that my legs were dead weight). 

I was lucky to have both my partner and my Mum at the birth. George and I hadn’t been together all that long before falling pregnant, so he gained a lot of confidence from having my Mum there - she knew all the right things to say to help keep me calm. While she focused on me, George was able to focus on the wellbeing of the baby and be my advocate with the medical staff. They made a fantastic team, and both of them agree that it was an excellent bonding experience for them. 

As we approached hour 14, our doctor came in and informed us that he felt I would need a C-Section. I nearly cried. I was terrified by the thought of having one, but I also wanted to do what was right for my daughter. I felt crushed by the fact that I had put in all this work, only to have the rug pulled out from under me at the final hour. 

George, knowing how upset I would be upon hearing this, and never really being one to do what he’s told anyway, almost demanded that the doctor do a final check to see how the dilation was traveling. Every time I remember this I go give him a kiss, because within a few seconds of checking, the doctor told me I was fully dilated and that I could start pushing. 

Within the hour I was holding our daughter. She was so little - only 2.3 kgs - but she was tough. I wasn’t sure how to hold her, she felt weightless and brittle; like a bag made of tissue paper, filled with fluted bones and delicate joints. I couldn’t conceive of how to lift her up without feeling as though I would break her.

Because she was early, she hadn’t developed her sucking reflex just yet, and therefore couldn’t breastfeed. Even so, I was determined to breastfeed my baby. This meant that I had to commit to an incredibly rigorous three-hourly schedule of attempting to get her to latch for a feed, then when that inevitably wouldn’t work I would give her expressed breastmilk from a bottle, burp her, change her nappy, then express the milk for the next feed. This process would last about two hours, leaving me with one hour of sleep before starting it all over again.

Even with help from George, I would still have to wake-up to express milk for each feed. By the time she was able to latch and suck by herself, I was completely spent. Though I didn’t realise it at the time, I was at the start of a very long bout of Postnatal Depression. 

Postnatal Depression feels different to any other kind of depressive episodes I’ve experienced. It’s insidious, and I believe it has the ability to traumatise the women who experience it. Here you have this precious, incredible little person who you are supposed to love more than anything, and yet you feel oddly detached from them.

Yes, you want this baby to be safe; you don’t want it to go hungry or feel pain, but more often than not you feel as though you don’t want to be the one who ensures all those things. It’s a baby, but as far as you’re concerned it could be anyone’s baby.

These feelings of detachment would generate guilt that was almost all-consuming, which in turn harboured doubts. Oh my god, what have I done? How can anyone think that I’m a good parent? This little person, who should feel nothing but love, isn’t getting it from its own mother. What the fuck is going on? 

It took about six weeks before I finally fell in love with my daughter. It quite literally ‘hit’ me. It was so intense it felt like a physical thing washing over me. To this day, that intensity has never wavered. But even this beautiful feeling could be tainted by Postnatal Depression. Now I was constantly worried. I thought I would accidentally hurt her, or drown her, or take her too close to the edge of our balcony. I thought other people would take her from me, or do something horrible to her. I couldn’t let her out of my sight because I thought she would stop breathing. The anxiety I felt was unfounded, yet debilitating. 

The depression made me agitated, lethargic, and angry. I was horrible to be around. I felt unsettled, disappointed, and as though I was a failure. This went on for over a year, and was punctuated by a two week long meltdown that consisted of days of sobbing or feelings of utter hopelessness.

There were days where I was so wound up that I couldn’t even speak. Once again, George and my mum teamed up and came to my rescue. Mum booked appointments with my GP to get a mental health plan and a referral to a psychologist, whilst George helped me get our daughter into daycare two days a week so that I could get some headspace. I finally went back on my antidepressants and gradually began to have more good days than bad.

What frustrates me, in retrospect, is the fact that I didn’t feel as though I could ask anyone for help. There’s a tremendous amount of expectation thrust upon new mums to ‘make the grade’. I felt as though asking for help was an admission of failure and an impingement on those I cared about. Whether this was a byproduct of my poor mental health or a lifelong false narrative I’d been fed is hard to say - what I do know is that it is utter bollocks.

As I write this I am about one month post the birth of my second child; he is quite literally on my boob whilst I tap away on my computer. I decided this time would be different - and it has been. I’ve leaned on everyone I can for support. I take time to rest instead of vacuuming, answer with an enthusiastic ‘yes please!’ when my mother-in-law offers to cook dinner, and if my first born has to watch an hour or so of Bluey so I can eat, shower, do a load of washing and drink my coffee without reheating it for the 11th time then so be it.

I’ve been more diligent about maintaining my mental health too. Taking medication consistently, eating nutritious foods, trying to exercise and garden, and being kind to my postpartum body have all been crucial in ensuring I don’t wind up where I did the first time around. This time it was easier to bond with my baby, be emotionally available to my partner, and I’ve even been able to help my daughter navigate the ‘big feelings’ she has had surrounding the arrival of her little sibling. It has been a love-filled, joyful time that has reaffirmed the age-old saying - it truly does take a village.

What do you wish you knew before birth?

I wish I knew more about the recovery process. I focused so heavily on what my body would go through during the birth that I completely neglected to think about that it would go through afterwards! Needless to say I panic-Googled with every blood clot, post-partum contraction or handful of hair that came out in the shower - my search history from this time must have looked insane. 

If you could, would you do anything differently?

In terms of the birth itself, I don't believe there was anything that could have been done differently. Though it was a stressful experience, the doctors, midwives and nurses ultimately helped me safely  deliver a healthy, wonderful little person. It's the fragile time post-birth that would have benefitted from me finding my voice with the people around me and asking for more help. 

What did your partner do that really helped during labour/birth?

George was an incredible listener before the birth and as a result, was the best advocate during the birth. He knew what my hopes were for the birth, and what my fears were. He took the time to learn about the birthing process and all the terms associated with it. All of this knowledge he'd acquired was empowering for him, and it meant that the burden wasn't solely on my shoulders when it came to understanding what was going on mid-contraction. I can honestly say that if it wasn't for George, Elektra's birth would have completely traumatised me. 

What advice/honest truth would give a mama-to-be about birth?

Birth takes time to process. Whether the experience was positive or problematic, whether it's your 1st, 2nd or 8th kid, whether you're over prepared or go-with-the-flow - it will take time to fully comprehend the implications of your birth experience. It took me over a year to bring my Postnatal Depression under control, and talking and thinking deeply about my birth experience played a crucial role in doing that. Now when I think about Elektra's birth, I try not to label any feelings or memories associated with it as negative or positive. Instead I acknowledge them, experience them, and then try to remember that they all played an important role in ensuring the safe delivery of the most beautiful, kind, and cheeky little person I've ever met.