Many of my what-should-be-special moments since conceiving the Champ have been somewhat tainted:
After spending a night in the labour ward, after my husband and I heard upwards of three babies being born before the pethadine and sleeping pill took its effect…I experienced what I am sure very few soon-to-be moms experience, I went home, baby still tucked inside. To be truthful, I do not remember being collected, I don’t remember leaving and I don’t remember arriving home. You can read about our night in the labour ward here: https://sheetsoflightning.wordpress.com/saturday-night-fever/
My baby shower had been scheduled for that day, a Sunday. Of course, given the circumstances, I had been informed of the arrangements. I got myself ready, put on a silky black blouse, did my hair but I didn’t feel right. I didn’t want to socialize and I certainly didn’t want to be the centre of attention.
Mildly put, it was a horrible occasion.
I was still groggy from a combination of drugs, sleep deprivation and disappointment. I began having contractions again while I went through the motions of opening gifts and feigning interest and delight. We had moved into the same street as my parents so some of my guests naturally wanted to see the nursery.
A few of us carried some gifts up the road and left them in the nursery. Upon returning to my parents’ house, to the remaining guests, husband and toddler now in tow, without hesitation of discussion, I announced we would be going to the hospital. I thanked everyone for coming, left my son with my mom with not so much as a clean shirt and we left. I did, however, remember to grab a chocolate pudding on the way out.
The drive to the hospital was awful, there was no buzzing of nerves and giddiness. I remember just thinking, I want this baby out now but I did have a very uneasy feeling. Nothing about this experience felt right. Anyway, after arguing with my husband about the chocolate pudding which he suggested I shouldn’t have in the event I may need an emergency C-section, I told him that after everything, I damn well DESERVED this chocolate pudding.
I arrived at the labour ward, all the same nurses were on duty as the previous night, I had arrived there just 24 hours earlier. With not a word, I was ushered to a different room and informed I would need an emergency C-section and the paperwork commenced. The air was frantic as hospital staff spoke over my head discussing how far the anaesthetist was and how long it might take the gynaecologist and the paediatrician to arrive, and who was going to assist. We were in a private hospital, private healthcare, although this meant you always had doctors you knew well at your side, you do at times need to wait for them to get to you. Just our luck there had been a marathon that day and although the race was over, no one was sure of which roads would be open and how soon the team could begin. And as this was all swirling around me, someone zoned in and asked, “When last did you eat?” As I hummed and hawed, my husband glared at me before telling them I had eaten a pudding in the car.
Not serious, I had to down a vile potion in little brown bottle to ensure I wouldn’t vomit. It was 6pm when we were told that everyone was ready for me. My anaethestist, a petite women wearing tight jeans and a leather jacket came and discussed the epidural with me before I was wheeled into theatre. She already in her scrubs to meet me when I arrived in the deserted theatre. Voices echoing, bouncing off the cold metallic surfaces, we chatted with her casually about her line of work and how her life was as an anaesthetist, I hear all about the structuring of shifts in the partnership, all the while being prepared, scrubbed down, catheter inserted and all the other gory bits. The gynae waltzed in, greeted me and began.
I had seen the gynae only a week prior and he had felt my belly and given me a weight estimate, so as he rummaged inside me to get a grip of my little boy, he asked me, “So how much did I tell you he would weigh?” I told him 2.6kg. As he lifted my second son up above the screen, I saw the longest legs in all my life and the doctor introduced him to me; words we will never forget…”This is one lean, mean machine.” That was a very special moment and one we have remembered, they knew he was tough the moment they delivered him.
The Champ was handed to the paediatrician, a man who was to become a very significant part of our lives, a man who has earned his own post, before he was wrapped and handed to us. The Champ had arrived. I was exhausted!
Sheets of Lightning 