In HuffPost Birth Diaries we hear the extraordinary stories of the everyday miracle of birth. This week, Fiona Scott shares her story. If you’d like to share yours, email amy.packham@huffpost.com.
I was 41 years old when I went into labour with my son, David, in 2007. It was my third birth and the third time I was induced – I have a condition known as essential hypertension, which is high blood pressure for no particular reason, so it had to be done.
There were no major hiccups during my labour, I was just excited to meet him. The problem for me came soon after he was born, at a healthy 8lb 9oz. As my husband, Steve, was cuddling our son – looking absolutely besotted – I sat there wondering why the placenta hadn’t come out.
After about 20 minutes, I realised the midwife was anxious about it, too. “We might have to take some action about this,” she told me – and as she did, I suddenly felt a warm gush. Blood hit the wall of the room right in front of me. Everything was in slow motion and it took me a while to realise that the jet of blood was coming from me.
Within seconds, people rushed in and crowded around me. My husband was told to sit tight as I was quickly wheeled down the corridor – laying on the bed in an undignified state.
Someone thrust paperwork into my hand, telling me I had to sign it so they could go ahead. I remember trying to read it upside down, but all I could focus on were the words: “May have to do manual hysterectomy”. It was in that moment I realised this, whatever this was, was very serious. I signed, then started thinking to myself, “keep me alive, keep me alive”.
In the operating room, post-birth, I had an epidural – something I’d tried hard to avoid. But there was no choice. The anaesthetist kept telling me to look at the clock and my repetitive thoughts continued, “don’t let me die, keep me alive”. I even started to say it out loud. I could actually feel the blood pumping out of me, still with no idea what was going on.
And then I heard the anaesthetist say it. “Hurry up, we’re losing her”.
A doctor was between my legs with a yellow machine, which looked like a small vacuum cleaner. He explained he was going to suck out my placenta. It had ruptured, he told me, and it needed to come out so the bleeding would stop. It was like a scab that had been picked and kept on bleeding. I felt nothing when the procedure happened – it was cold, like a smear test done in a huge hurry. I wanted that placenta out.
Then, just as suddenly as the drama started, it stopped.
Strangely, in that moment, my maternal instinct around having more babies literally ebbed away. I knew that was it – I’d have no more. Even though I’d got pregnant with David very quickly, aged 40, I decided my body was telling me enough was enough. I’d diced with death and I needed to stop and be grateful.
I was in hospital for four days and the doctor with the yellow machine came to see me every day. He said I’d lost a lot of blood and it was 50/50 chance that I might need a blood transfusion. My skin was so white during this time, it was frightening. There’s pale and then there’s deathly white – and that’s what I was for weeks. But thankfully, I didn’t need one. Recovery was tiring, but I got there – slowly.
Our son was healthy, happy, and a very easy baby. It helped because I was very lethargic in those days after giving birth, more so than I’d been before. Now, David is 12; he’s as tall as me and still growing! He’s the most loving, kind-hearted young man and a huge blessing in all our lives.
My birth advice?
It’s more parenting advice, than birth advice, but it’s important – take time each day, especially as they grow, to give your child a hug and say, “I love you”. No parent is perfect, not one. However to know yourself loved is so important. Children then grow up knowing they are special even when things go wrong and it builds their resilience.