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Who knew that 2.9kg could induce such utter chaos? He’s the size of a football, with the ability to catalyse action from an entire medical football team. He has the strength to keep me indoors for days, replete with pajamas and un-brushed teeth. He has inspired tears and fear and chuckles and a love too large to comprehend.
Yes, our beautiful son, Sebastian James Doney, arrived on 16 January 2004. As you know, such an event would inevitably inspire a long and rambling newsletter from me. The thing is, with time such a precious commodity all of a sudden I have no chance to edit this, or to wrestle out careful phrases or do much of a poetic job whatsoever. But I wanted to get the sequence of events down on paper, as much for my benefit as yours. And be warned, the contents are probably going to be a bit gory at times and as ever, there is no obligation to read any further!
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I was diagnosed with pre-eclampsia around three and a half weeks ago. This is a pregnancy related illness that can cause possible problems for the baby due to elevated blood pressure and protein levels in the mother. I spent a few days in hospital prior to the birth so they could monitor this condition (which neatly coincided with our moving house, something Wayne then had to handle entirely on his own.) Scans soon picked up that Doney Junior wasn’t getting quite enough blood through my placenta and umbilical cord. So the doctors at Hornsby hospital made the decision to induce me and I was admitted to the hospital on Thursday 15 January. Wayne and I were given a large room all to ourselves, and Wayne was invited to stay the night so as not to miss out on any possible action. A certain kind of gel called Prostaglandin was applied to my cervix to loosen it and prepare it for labour, which caused some mild, period like pains but we were both able to get a reasonably decent nights’ rest. The last one ever, as it turned out.
The following morning, Friday, after a nervous breakfast, we were taken to a delivery room on the other side of the maternity wing. With midwife Christine in charge at that stage, the obstetrician (a young woman named Michelle) hooked me up to a CTG which monitored the baby’s heart rate throughout, and then she attempted to break my waters. With that seemingly achieved, I was put on a drip containing an artificial hormone which brings on stronger contractions. Then I began to labour. The pain was significant, but not unmanageable and I repeatedly congratulated myself on how well I was coping. Wayne played a series of CDs we had brought along for the event and we were able to talk and move around a bit as things progressed. The intensity of the hormone was gradually increased and my contractions became strong and rhythmic, and this pattern continued for around five hours or so. Wayne was always right next to me, gripping my hand and whispering encouragement. However, it became evident at around this stage that the labour was not, apparently, progressing enough. An internal examination revealed that my waters had not been effectively broken and Christine ruptured them a second time, swiftly and unexpectedly breaking all hell loose upon the bed. This time she sent me clawing my way across the ceiling as around 2L fluid gushed out of me. With the oxytocin (artificial hormone thingy) still at quite a high volume gushing through my veins (something that is not ordinarily a factor when they rupture your waters), and no fluid cushioning the baby from the grip of the contractions, the pain instantly magnified itself around a thousand percent. With no warning, I was out of control and in the agony of a lifetime.
I have never experienced anything like it. Like being in an electric chair with some sadist repeatedly flipping the switch. I wanted to badly to be outside my body, to be somewhere else, to pass out, even to die. I writhed and cried and tried all the positions they recommended in the ante-natal classes, but nothing helped. I vomited and pleaded and whimpered and wished for the end of the world.
We were told afterwards that my extreme experience of pain was as a result of not being effectively allowed to “build up” to it, but being introduced to the full extent of it from an almost cold turkey start.
Now, Wayne and I had prepared a beautiful birth plan, which is a guide for both the parents and midwives on how they want to be treated during labour, and what their preferences are in all matters. We had elected to try the nitrous oxide gas, and for me to lie in their beautiful big spa baths so that the water could assist with pain relief etc. Needless to say by this stage (gas on stand-by, bath half-full) I would have none of it. After an hour or two of this new, heroic labour, I squeaked out my desperate plea for an epidural.
In the interim, Wayne’s carefully prepared ministrations (massage creams, back rubs, gentle music playing) were unceremonially slapped aside and I grew snappish with the midwife’s platitudes. (“Come on Andrea, you’re doing really well Andrea, that’s good, that’s good.”) (Fuck off woman, shut up, piss off, leave me alone!) The might and dark colours of my thoughts were alarming, even to me.
At last the anaesthetists arrived dressed for battle. Their full-length gowns, masks, gloves (two pairs!), caps and protective eyewear would have been funny, had I not been gasping for their presence. So much protection to insert a miniscule tube into your spine! The midwives, by contrast and exposed to the full gore of the event, were dressed in nothing more than work blouses and skirts. The anaesthetists then provided a bit of a briefing, reading a disclaimer as it were, about what they would do and what the potential risks would be. I saw their lips moving but I have no idea what they said. It was difficult trying to sit still on the edge of the bed as the contractions continued unabated (around four per minute at this stage) while they inserted the epidural, but once the tube was in the relief was instantaneous.
The epidural only affects the bit of the body beneath the boobs and above the hips, so I could still move my legs (although not walk on them) and feel the contractions. I was also able to push, once the time came. But till then, I could just revel in the sense of relief of being back in control, able to look around, and talk, and engage with the moment.
Being on shift, our midwife Chris had said goodbye to us at around mid-afternoon and introduced us to her replacement, the young, pretty and incredibly competent Brooke, who stayed with us for the remainder of the birth.
After about eight and a half hours of labour, the obstetrician announced I was fully dilated. Then, chin tucked in, eyes shut, face bright purple, I began an hour or so of pushing. It was surprisingly hard work, and Wayne fed me fruit juice through a straw when he could. But given what was at stake, I pushed like my life depended on it (I suppose it did, in a way.) At one point, Wayne’s face bobbed in front of mine, his blue eyes rimmed with tears. “I can see his head” he breathed. “What colour is his hair?” I asked. “Dark.”
Now, I had been strapped to a machine throughout the process, which allowed the team to monitor the baby’s heart rate. I was told at this point that they were a bit concerned because it had dropped to a level slightly lower than optimum, and they asked if they could use a vacuum extraction. Desperate not to take any unnecessary risks, Wayne and I nodded instantly. Two more frantic pushes, and this warm, dark, glowing bundle slithered onto my chest! The tremendous emotion defies retelling, but Wayne and I were crying openly as the football team descended, rubbing and coaxing our little morsel of life to make his first few tentative squeaks. It became apparent he had quite a lot of mucous in his mouth and nose, and this was rapidly suctioned away before he eked out his first squeaky hello. It was an anxious few minutes for Wayne and I, but the two midwives and two obstetricians in the room never missed a beat. It was incredibly reassuring to be surrounded by such supreme confidence. And the love and congratulations that they extended to us once it was certain that all was well, was genuine and heartfelt. Wayne and I felt like Kings.
Doney Junior, at the moment of his birth, was unmistakably the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. He had dark hair and wide blue eyes that seemed alert to every nuance in the room, the sleepy trust of his expression was the most powerful I have ever encountered. He weighed 2.94kg and was 49cm long. He has his dad’s chin and mouth, and his mum’s nose. But the strength of his little fist as it grasped my finger could only have been heaven sent.
With the baby awarded an Apgar score of 9, he was wrapped up and handed to us for a cuddle. We were still unsure of his name at this stage, so his card reads “Baby Boy Moller” (since they go by the mother’s name in the hospital.)
With the baby a little mucousy, and me pale and shivering, and at risk for haemorrhage (an incomplete placenta was suspected) we were invited to spend the night in the delivery room. They bundled the baby into a bassinet and Wayne slept on the (insanely uncomfortable) two-seater couch. But we were all together, our new family in one room for our first, sacred night together.
Now, as parents everywhere already know, and we were quick to discover, sleeping babies are incredibly noisy. It was not exactly a restful night, but it was magical to know that there was a new life in the room and a new light in the cosmos. I lay there in the gloom for hours, tuned in to the bleeps of the drip in my arm and the irregular whimperings of my son, humbled and tearful by the experience.
A midwife checking on us in the early hours of the morning recommended that we put the baby in the nursery for a while, since the amount of mucous still in his lungs and mouth put him at a bit of a risk for vomiting etc. No sooner had she said this than a stream of clear fluid erupted from his mouth and he was quickly wheeled down the passage so that the team could monitor him more closely. Suddenly panicked at being separated from my son for the first time (and unable to get up, still plugged in to half a dozen machines) I made Wayne go with him and make sure all was well.
Of course, in the end it was. We are now back home after three nights in hospital, and doing beautifully. I am learning the Great Mystic art of Breastfeeding, which is a lot more complicated and painful than it looks. And baby sleeps well even if mum and dad don’t. In fact, I doubt we’ll ever sleep the same way again.
We chose his name, Sebastian James, out of a short list of three, for several reasons. Sebastian is Wayne’s middle name, and the middle name of his father and grandfather. Sebastian means “honoured,” “venerable” or “revered.” More than that, it is a name I have loved since forever, since before I met Wayne even. It has literary connotations (Shakespeare, The Never Ending Story) and sporting ones (Sebastian Coe etc) and we felt that its strength and dignity would stand him in good stead through life. Inevitably, his Aussie mates will shorten his name, but even so the “Baz” part resonates with the name of my grandfather, who was Basil James. So it has family connotations for both sides. A grand name for such a scrap of a boy, but he’ll grow in to it.
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Apart from the sheer magic of this experience, Wayne and I have been deeply touched by the overwhelming support of our friends. The visits, gifts and love we have received have made this daunting experience incredibly special. Also, the assistance with moving house, the advice, hand-me-downs and emotional support, such as driving to the pharmacy on my behalf or sitting with my niggly baby one tearful morning so that I could snatch a few hours sleep, has been fantastic. Thank you to one and all.
As I come to the end of this epic, our little morsel is lying in his (borrowed) carrycot, sleeping on the floor of our study while I type. Since we only just moved in, he’s surrounded by dregs of unpacked boxes and unsorted piles of junk. The chaos he has brought into our lives is palpable; I have cried for no reason more times in the last two weeks than in the previous ten years put together. Most notably on discovering I had forgotten to bring home a barbequed chicken from the supermarket. That one set me off for hours! We have inched our way through the long nights as we battle uncertainty and panic and physical pain. (I have stitches from the birth, still experiencing those after-birth contractions and yes, breastfeeding can be agony!)
We have been run ragged; trips to the supermarket at 10pm to buy cabbage leaves, trips to the car dealership as we contemplate a second car. The epic proportions of my first solo trip to the doctor and the Early Childhood Centre with Sebastian in tow. Wayne has been doing it tough too, trying to settle into a new contract he has negotiated with Samsung while at the same time single-handedly moving house and bringing his wife and son home from the hospital. We have both recently written major exams and endured the excruciating wait for our results. It’s been a huge upheaval, and the chaos of our new lives has been colossal.
Yet bizarrely, I have never experienced such tangible peace in all my life. Or such a gargantuan love. My feet are kept running, fetching dummies and diapers. My heart runs right around the block every time my beautiful son cries, or my husband’s hand reaches for mine. My cup runneth over.
Andrea Möller
29 January 2004