I didn’t have a birth plan when I was pregnant with my daughter Ava. Nope. I had a vision. Within hours of giving birth I pictured myself in a white cotton nightie, serenely nursing my nouveau petite enfant. There’d be dappled sunlight. There’d be a scented candle. Some type of Enya-panpipey-rainforest music would be playing softly in the background. And I’d have awesome hair. Obviously. (Clearly I thought giving birth was akin to going to a day spa.) In my head I was going to give birth and look ethereal. Madonna and child. Actually, less Madonna and more Angelina Jolie.
Ten days past my due date I was induced. Did I say induced? I mean they attempted to induce me three times – including breaking my waters with something that looked like a knitting needle. After 36 hours of non-labour, Ava’s head became jammed in my pelvis. There was blood. I was taken in for an emergency caesar.
By the time my daughter was born and in my arms, I was exhausted. I could hardly move because of the caesar. My hair was not unlike Amy Winehouse’s. I looked less like Angelina Jolie in WHO Weekly and more like Angelina Jolie in Girl Interrupted.
But the big picture was that Ava and I were both okay. Fine. Healthy. Alive. What I know is that if we hadn’t had the team of doctors and midwives and nurses around us either or both of us could have died.
Sometimes we can get caught up planning a birth as though we’re planning a wedding. Music! Lighting! Flowers! What we take for granted is a happy outcome. The majority of Australian women have medical intervention and assistance at their fingertips.
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Brilliant. Will put the link on my Facebook page and encourage all my friends to take part.
Done!