Childbirth Companion

                Our daughter was twenty months old when I gave birth to our second child.  This pregnancy had gone very differently.  Although I’d had some swelling in my feet, none of my previous complications showed up.  This one was a summer baby, and we spent a lot of family time walking.  I even biked until my growing belly made it too awkward.  We became very familiar with all the streets in our little town, and I believe being so active aided me in having such a healthy pregnancy. 

                Though I’d given birth before, there was one unknown that made me edgy.  That was going into labour.  Having been induced last time, I wasn’t sure what to expect or what would be normal for me.  We now lived 45 minutes from the hospital, and knowing that subsequent babies tend to come more quickly, I was concerned about when to head to the hospital.  I wanted this experience to be different from before.  I wanted to go natural – no pain meds, and I figured it would be easier to achieve since the local hospital didn’t yet offer epidurals.  Just the same, I wasn’t inclined to want to head in too soon, but I also didn’t want to wait too long and have the baby in the car.  As my due date approached, I was surprised that I hadn’t gone into labour yet.  Braxton Hicks were a familiar companion, but none of my tightenings were strong enough to cause action.  My doctor indicated that at my due date we would talk about when to induce.  I was excited to meet my baby, and, by this time, quite willing to go along with the idea.  When I went to my 40-week appointment, I fully expected to go home with an induction date in hand, and was disappointed when the doctor said we’d wait until the following week before moving in that direction.  With no date to focus my attention on, I felt like I was going to go on being pregnant forever.  It was frustrating at the time, but in hindsight, I was very thankful that my doctor wasn’t in a hurry to start things artificially.  As it turned out, my time was just around the corner.

                My due date had landed on our nephew’s first birthday, and two days later, we joined the family for an outdoor barbeque party.  As I was getting ready that morning, I noticed some show that appeared to be my mucus plug.  Stronger than normal contractions began coming every ten minutes and continued that way all day.  I was sure something would come of it, and limited what I ate for fear that it would come back on me during labour.  When evening came with no apparent progress, we decided to stay over at my husband’s parents’ who were only minutes from the hospital.  Surely something would take a turn that night.  We thought we’d see if a walk would help.  Frustration and determination gave me wings as I pushed our daughter’s stroller paces ahead of my long-legged husband.  He wanted me to slow down, but I was not out for a stroll; I was on a mission.  And a successful mission it appeared to be.  By the time we got back to the house, my contractions were more serious and intense.  However, as my activity ceased, so did they.

                The next morning I was irate with my lazy uterus and once again played the taskmaster as we headed out to beat the pavement.  I was awarded with a few mediocre contractions, but nothing more.  It was as if my body was mocking me, telling me that it would bend to my demands only so much.  Ultimately, it was in charge – not me!  I gave in and, since it was the weekend, we spent the day relaxing at my in-laws’ – just in case.  Evening came, but baby didn’t.  We had to head back home, because the weekend was over, and the next day was work.  Before we left I noticed some brighter show again.  I kept this bit of information to myself, not trusting that it could mean anything imminent, and not wanting my mother-in-law to make a big deal about it.  We tucked into bed, resigned to being back at the old grind the next morning.

                In mid-July in southern Manitoba, daylight comes hours before most care to crack their eyelids open.  Such was the case at 5:55 A.M., when an “unusually strong and somewhat painful” contraction forced my eyes to reckon with the sunlight already streaming through our bedroom window.  In my sleepy fog, I managed to note the time before drifting off again.  Fifteen minutes later, another one!  This one got my attention.  I lay there next to my still sleeping husband debating whether or not to trust that this was the real thing.  After another 15-minute interlude, I woke my husband, certain that these contractions meant business.  Although they weren’t that close together yet, we started preparing for the day ahead.  As they come more frequently, I called the hospital to find out when they recommended that I come in due to the distance and this being my second birth.  The nurse didn’t seem to be too concerned, but finally suggested that once the contractions had been 5 minutes apart for an hour we might want to head in.  No sooner had I gotten off the phone and they started coming every 5 minutes.  My husband decided to run into work to get a few things in order for his co-workers (much to his boss’s horror!), and I started getting everything together for the birth.  By the time we were ready, an hour had passed and my contractions were still in a regular 5-minute pattern.  Not in a hurry to actually go to the hospital, we decided to head to my sister-in-law’s (whose son’s birthday party we were at just two days earlier) where our daughter would stay until my sister was off work.  She lived on the way to town, so we’d be closer while killing time.

                The half-hour drive proved to be very frustrating as my contractions became spaced out and irregular.  While they ranged from 5- 12 minutes apart, I began to wonder if this was just another game my body was playing with me.  How could this really be labour?  Weren’t they supposed to get closer together rather than further apart?  Once we arrived at my husband’s sister’s there was no improvement, so I turned to her step machine when I thought the next contraction was taking too long to show up.  This activity would quickly bring one on, and I would move back to the glider rocker and breathe through it.  My labour continued in this fashion for the remainder of the morning.  Then around noon, we decided to head into town to my in-laws’, just minutes from the hospital, while my mother-in-law was home for her lunch break.  I wasn’t sure whether these contractions were doing much of anything, but we figured something was bound to happen eventually.  After lunch, which I didn’t eat, I settled to down to watch TV while my husband fell asleep on the sofa.  If I hadn’t had a contraction when a commercial break came on, I would get up and walk through the house.  I wore a circular path from the living room into the kitchen, through the dining room and entry way back into the living room.  Each time I was rewarded with another contraction, but don’t recall them ever developing a regular pattern. 

                I always enjoyed watching “Columbo” back then, and, wouldn’t you know, it was a double feature that day!  Good!  It looked like I would have time to fill while this labour decided to get down to business.  Little did I realize how much work was actually taking place.  It was a good lesson on how a normal labour doesn’t always follow the textbook and can’t be fit into a box of standards.  At 2:00, as I started into Columbo’s second mystery, something changed.  My contractions were still as sporadic as they had been, but I was now feeling a steady cramping in my lower back and my pelvis.  Annoyed about being unsure of what was really going on, I called the hospital again.  Based on my labour pattern, the nurse didn’t seem to optimistic that it was time to come in, but told me I could if I “really felt I was in labour”.  I decided that I just wanted go in and get checked.  At least then I’d know!  I was feeling irritable and edgy when I sweetly (or so I assumed!) suggested to my husband that I thought “it was time to do something other than sleep”.  He, however, thought I could have relayed the joyful news in a more pleasant way.  Looking back, I realize that it was my progressed stage of labour talking, and we were both perceiving things quite differently!  As we were getting ready to head out the door, the phone rang.  My father-in-law came out of his office to tell me that it was my sister wondering how things were going.  He had told her that nothing much was happening.  I informed him that we were, in fact, headed to the hospital at that very moment.  He seemed genuinely surprised, and I wondered if I had been labouring too quietly.

                While not tiny, the local hospital was a far cry smaller than the big city, multi-block, health centre our oldest child had been born at.  We checked in at the front desk and were told to wait for a nurse to come for us.  The waiting room was part of the main lobby with regular traffic flow and people waiting for their turn to be seen in the emergency room.  Quite uncomfortable by this time and feeling awkward coping with my contractions in front of a curious audience, I stood against the gift shop wall – the most obscure place I could find.  It ticked me off that we couldn’t just walk down to Labour & Delivery since we knew where it was, just down the hall and around the corner, but policies are policies.  So we continued to wait and my discomfort continued to increase.  Then the desk clerk came over, and much to my relief, asked if we were okay with heading down to maternity on our own.  Apparently they only had two nurses on shift, and one was on break.  Since I wasn’t the only labouring woman that day, the other nurse wasn’t free to leave the ward.  I sometimes wonder if the nurse, assuming I wasn’t actively contracting, thought I could wait until her partner returned from lunch.  Perhaps the clerk noticed my discomfort and obvious state of labour and wanted to spare me the spectacle of giving birth on the waiting room floor.  At any rate, I fairly sprinted down the hallway, so eager was I to remove myself from that waiting room fishbowl!

                The nurse greeted us as we came through the doors and directed us to the birthing room.  It was a small simple room with an adjoining door to a very cold, sterile-looking delivery room.  When we had toured the hospital prior to the birth of our oldest daughter, we had been shown a labour room with two beds and only a curtain to divide them.  I was thankful that this new and “improved” room was private, and, BONUS, it contained a birthing bed!  As it would turn out, this piece of luxury equipment became the pivoting point from “overly uncomfortable” to “outright painful”.  The nurse was still obviously not convinced that I was beyond early labour, and I remember feeling annoyed with her for asking questions while I was in the middle of a contraction.  As she told me to change into a gown so she could check my dilation, she warned me not to get too comfortable because they were “going to get me up and walking.”  My irritation only increased.  Didn’t she realize how tired I was?  I had been walking practically all day just to keep my contractions coming.  Now I just wanted it to be over.  I wanted to sleep or at least rest.  I was emotionally done with walking!  I so wish now that I’d had been offered another option such as sitting on a birthing ball where I could have remained out of bed but in a semi-restful position.  But not only were doulas not heard of back then, the only type of inflated ball in the hospital was on the physiotherapy ward.  Who had ever thought of encouraging a pregnant woman to sit on one in labour?  I climbed onto the bed for the examination and was literally relieved when then nurse announced in a state of disbelief that my cervix was 7 cm dilated!  She began rushing around, setting up the equipment for birth and calling the doctor to come over from the Walk-In clinic across town.  Only an hour had passed since I’d given up watching Columbo, and within 30 more minutes I had dilated 2 cm more.  During this time the pain had become more challenging to deal with, and I growled at my husband to “speak for himself” when he commented that this time was so much better than the last birth.  He seemed offended that I wasn’t very agreeable, and I felt hurt that he wasn’t more attentive and sensitive to how I was feeling.  In many ways he was right, but in the transitional phase of labour, I was not sharing his point of view. 

                As we waited for the doctor to arrive, the nurse set me up with a routine IV.  It hurt and felt so restrictive.  The baby was almost here, for crying out loud!  Why would I need one now?  Just in case I needed an intervention or a cesarean, I was told.  Ironically, that sounded sensible to me at the time, although I instinctively knew I wouldn’t require any interventions.  Suddenly a strange, disturbing sensation came over me.  It felt like I was vibrating.  The nurse looked at me oddly when I asked her if there was a vibrator on the bed.  She had no explanation when I explained the buzzing, tingling sensation I as experiencing in my hands and my butt.  Both hands seemed to be in spasm.  Although it wasn’t painful, I couldn’t open them from their involuntary clenched form.  It felt like I was struggling against an invisible power.  I asked my husband to pry open my fingers and press his palms against them to provide relief from the spasms, but my left hand was a tangle of tubes and tape from the IV.

                When the doctor arrived, I was still hanging out at 9 cm dilated.  The minutes ticked by and still no progress.  He kept checking me, and I began to worry that at the last moment my body might be failing me.  I could tell he was unhappy to be sitting there while he had a clinic full of people waiting to see him, but I could do nothing to make my body function more quickly.  Had he been patient and calm, I would likely have birthed my baby within the next half hour, instead, it was about three quarters of an hour later before he decided I was dilated enough to start pushing.  Push?  But I didn’t have the urge.  I didn’t feel like it.  Oh, well, if he says I’m ready, I may as well get this over with, I thought.  With the next contraction, I pushed.  It felt awful!  It wasn’t right.  I didn’t want to do it.  But the doctor seemed in a hurry and I was holding him up, so I did my best to comply what was expected of me.  With each contraction I would push as directed.  It hurt.  It was exhausting, and I hated it!  Where was that urge?  This was supposed to feel good, productive.  It was supposed to be exhilarating.  It was nothing like my previous experience.  As I struggled to reach for the handles on the bed, my doctor joked about me needing to grow my arms longer.  Although I normally appreciate a good sense of humour, this wasn’t the time.  His eyes met my dark glare, and he literally backed away from the foot of the bed.  “I’m sorry,” he apologized.  “You get enough of that from your husband.  I should have known better.”  (Now, I should explain that my husband’s family possess the British sense of humour.  If something causes someone else pain, it is quite hilarious!  My husband had worked with our doctor on more than one occasion.  Couple that with our prenatal visits…need I say more?)

After twenty minutes of pushing, the baby’s head was not moving down.  It became apparent that as I reached for the handles, I ended up sitting on her head.  The nurse asked me if I would like to move into a new position.  Move?  Are you kidding?  Remaining still between contractions hurt.  The thought of moving sounded excruciating!  Next thing I knew, the head of the bed was being lowered.  I didn’t want to lie down.  I knew that wasn’t a good position for the second stage and had been excited that the birthing bed would allow me other options.  Though my mind balked, I was too exhausted to argue.  Now it was impossible to reach both of the handles.  Instinctively, I grabbed the one handle with my left hand and my right leg with the other hand.  This put me into a semi-side lying position.  Pushing was much more effective this way although the urge never really materialized.  A couple of times I felt a hint of it as a contraction peaked, but I longed for it to take over, for my body to direct this discordant orchestra.  It never did.  Not because it wouldn’t, but because it wasn’t given a chance.  I learned a hard lesson about birth that day.  If it doesn’t feel right, something is not right.  If a position is uncomfortable, than change it.  If it doesn’t feel like time, then WAIT!  The nurse warned me that my baby’s face might be bruised from that early part of pushing.  Twenty minutes later, our second daughter emerged into the world.  Her face was beautiful!  The nurse wrapped her in a blanket and handed her to me.  I refused to give her up even when the doctor suggested I should do so in order to focus on delivering the placenta. 

As the doctor repaired my second degree tear, my husband took our little girl’s hand.  Her fingers curled around his one.  She looked so much like him with her hair and skin colouring.  Dark, newborn lanugo covered her body and I remember wondering if the doctor had mistaken her gender.  As she settled in my arms, her howling abated while she eyed her new world with a disgruntled expression.  I was so glad it was over and that she was finally here.  Then I asked what I should do about my prenatal appointment scheduled for the next day.  My doctor assured me that they would take care of it as I obviously wouldn’t require it now!

  I was so glad that I had given birth naturally with no pain medications and minimal interventions.  (IVs, being restricted to bed, and directed pushing are considered intervening in labour – introducing something outside the realm of normal.)  I agreed with my husband, it was better than last time.  At least until I got to the hospital.  Even that wouldn’t have been so bad despite the IV and being restricted to bed.  Knowing that full dilation isn’t a magic number for pushing and not being pressured to push before I was ready would have made a real difference for me.  I’m quite sure that with patience the urge would have kicked in at the right time like it did with my other births.  As it became obvious that my body had endured the brunt of the misdirected pushing fiasco, I was thankful that my baby’s sweet little face hadn’t suffered any of the bruising that the nurse had warned me about.  In comparing my births in the future, I would feel that this experience was my best labour, but my worst birth.  Interestingly, the parts of each birth which I consider the best were all where nature trumped medicine.  Still, I was thrilled!  I had done it on my own!  I had a beautiful, healthy, full-term baby who took to breastfeeding quickly with no lengthy hospital stays.  Transitioning to home was relatively smooth even with both girls under the age of two.  I was happy and healthy and proud of my achievements.  When our son was born very premature two and a half years later, I treasured this birth experience all the more.       

                He was baby number three with two sisters at home.  The oldest was also born prematurely by induction due to the same complication – pre-eclampsia.  When I realized that it was happening again, I thought it would be no big deal.  We had been through this before; I could handle it again.  But nothing prepared me for how our son’s birth would forever change the direction of my life.

                I was young when we married – only eighteen.  To much of today’s society, I was barely more than a child myself, but where I grew up in a small southern Manitoba farming community, it wasn’t really such a big deal.  It was a way of life.  Though many girls did pursue further education and a career, quite commonly we married and stayed home to raise families and support our husbands.  Sometimes we might take on a side job here or there or turn a hobby into a little extra “egg money” you might say, but mostly our focus was on being mommy to the little ones God sent our way.  I myself grew up in a family of five which was, oh, moderate, I suppose.  Some of my cousins had seven or eight siblings to their name.  In fact, as one of the oldest of forty grandkids, some of my cousins are younger than my own children.

                Having grown up around pregnancy, babies, and breastfeeding, it was perfectly natural to me to be thinking about having my own babies after not many months of being newlyweds.  So it was, by our first anniversary, that I found myself the proud owner of a very pregnant belly.  The problem was that not only was my midsection obviously enlarged, but my previously thin face and petite hands and feet were puffing up like an allergic reaction.  Boots no longer fit, and snow spilled into my oversized shoes, stinging my mammoth feet with the intense fiery sensation of pins and needles.  Assuming it was only regular pregnancy related swelling, I jauntily waddled into the clinic for my 34 week appointment with not an inkling of what the outcome would be.  Following comments of high blood pressure and ketone levels and questions about any headaches or vision problems, I was allowed a quick detour home to pack a bag before being admitted to the hospital for some tests.  After a transfer to the big city hospital and a week and a half of strict bed rest and an even stricter sodium-free diet, my blood pressure began to stubbornly remain high.  One minute my husband and I were unwittingly enjoying a family visit, and the next the doctor entered to announce that it was time – the baby must be born.  Now suddenly they wanted me to walk the halls as if I had been training for a marathon rather than lounging often uncomfortably in bed for the last ten days.  Later that evening I was moved to “labour & delivery” while the doctors argued between themselves as to whether I should be induced immediately or allowed the night to rest and see if the mild contractions I had developed would amount to something.  The doctor in favour of waiting won out and a fold-down chair was wheeled in for my hubby to make himself comfortable on.  That was hardly how either of us would end up describing the night.  Anxiety over our premature baby’s wellbeing turned my poor husband’s stomach inside out, and our short snatches of sleep where continuously punctuated by the hollering, cursing woman who arrived high on drugs of the recreational type and required a security guard stationed outside her room.

                The following morning, with spontaneous labour nowhere in sight, I was treated to a full-fledged induction – the works.  Contractions were instantaneous and so much harder than the Braxton-Hicks I had lots of experience with.  I found it difficult to catch my breath from the shear unexpected shock of them.  Where was this gradual build-up we had learned about in prenatal classes?  No one had prepared me for the intensity of induced, bedridden labour.  My position changes were limited to lying on one side or the other while attached to tubes and wires belonging to an IV, fetal heart monitor, and a blood pressure cuff set to go off every 15 minutes without regard to whether a contraction was also strangling my midsection at the same time.  Rolling over was extremely awkward and painful, but essential to keep my bones from locking up in spasm from the hard surface of the “luxury” birthing bed.  I subconsciously picked out the stern of a rowboat in the picture on the wall as my focal point and bravely struggled to use my breathing to get a handle on these contractions.  One after another they bowled over me almost knocking the air right out of me as they peaked about every three minutes, but eventually shear willpower aided me in finding my rhythm.  The disrupted night combined with the physical drain of labour rapidly took its toll on my body, and I unbelievably drifted off to sleep as a contraction subsided only to awaken to the sound of my patterned breathing as another contraction crested – my eyes rapidly seeking out the rudderless boat in the picture.  Oh, the irony of it!  That rowboat, beached at the edge of the pond, going nowhere though the water lapped at its bow; my contractions, like waves, crashing more intensely at the hull of the vessel of labour, and yet,  also going nowhere.  Or so it seemed as I again locked onto my focal point and fought to keep my breathing even.

                Three hours passed.  My poor, dear husband was experiencing a labour all his own as his insides continued to battle against his will.  I drew comfort from just knowing he was there beside me even when his hand was too heavy to reach up and hold mine.  My labour was intensifying and exhaustion swept over me.  This was more than I had expected, more than I was prepared for.  I wanted to sit up, move around, change positions.  This hurt more than anything I remembered ever experiencing.  My plans for a med-free birth took wing and I asked about my options for pain management.  They were glad I had asked because my blood pressure was rising.  I felt reassured.  This was the right thing to do.  I chose Demerol.  It worked like a charm!  Oh, the bliss!  I could sleep, only occasionally becoming aware of the slight discomfort of a tightening sensation across my belly.  Three more hours passed, and suddenly a contraction brought me to a rude awakening.  The medication was wearing off and I was no longer prepared to deal with them.  I asked the nurse for another shot of Demerol so I could enjoy a few more hours of bliss, but alas! I was too far dilated.  At nearing six centimeters it was too risky for the baby if it should be born soon after.  My only other option was the dreaded epidural.  We had seen one in a video in prenatal class, and were both certain that no one was sticking a needle in my back!  But the pain won out and I asked my husband if he would be okay with me changing my mind.  If that was what I wanted, he would support my decision, but he couldn’t stay and watch.  His current delicate state couldn’t handle that right now, and he took himself off to the outpatient pharmacy to stock up on his own drugs – Tylenol and Pepto Bismol.  He would make some phone calls to the family while he was at it, he said.

                The hardest part about getting the epidural was enduring the contractions throughout the procedure.  The best part was that I got to sit up.  A sweet young nurse was covering break for my nurse, and she reassured me with her personal experience of using an epidural during her own birth a few months earlier.  I clung to her as I hunched over a pillow on the bedside table placed in front of me, my feet planted on the stool by the side of the bed.  I was so thankful that she was there for me, when someone asked where my husband had disappeared to, I suddenly couldn’t remember.  The epidural took quickly – if 15 minutes seems quick enough – and effectively.  I was again a happy camper although now a little more alert.  I was disappointed when my nurse couldn’t stay and chat, and looking back, I can see how much I could have benefited from a doula had that been an option available to me.  Three more hours passed while I dozed in between much more vigilant observation from the nurses.  Then it happened again.  The contractions caught my attention as the epidural began to wear off.  I mentioned it to my nurse when she looked in on me.  After determining that I was only about 6 centimeters, she headed off to locate another bolus of the euphoric drug.   Then suddenly an unusual sensation gripped me, and I struggled to comprehend the change.  Could it really be?  Another contraction came, and this time the sensation became more of an urge.  I felt myself bare down involuntarily just ever so slightly as the contraction peaked.  It felt good and I wanted to give in to it, but something from prenatal class made me fearful of yielding – the concern that my cervix might not be fully dilated.  I can’t push without the doctor here, I told myself, but as the next contraction crested, I realized that willpower had very little to do with it.  “I think I’m pushing a bit,” I blurted out.  My husband informed the nurse as she started up the new bolus.  It was too early she told us; my cervix wasn’t dilated enough yet.  I would just have to breathe through it.  Each contraction progressively proved that breathing wasn’t going to cut it.  My body was taking over and giving my baby its eviction notice.  Twenty minutes had passed since the nurse had checked me, and she agreed to examine me again since “stranger things have happened”.  I was almost fully dilated!  Just a little lip of cervix left!  She switched off the epidural and had me give a little push.  The remaining cervix gently slipped aside and I was fully dilated!  I no longer felt pain with the contractions.  My little rudderless boat no longer seemed like it was going nowhere.  I had a job to do – push my baby out!  My body moved into full gear and everyone started rushing around.  My husband suddenly came to life, his voice overriding the nurses.  She kept trying to get me to push to the count of ten.  He was in tune with me and started over when I started a new breath at seven. 

                Since our baby was a month early, I wasn’t allowed the privilege of giving birth in my birthing room.  Instead I was prepared for a move to the high tech delivery room down the hall.  At the nurses desk we stopped to swap paperwork or something.  The hallway suddenly seemed like grand central station.  The husbands of other labouring women gawked at me when another contraction hit.  “Can I push?”  I begged the nurse.  Sure, if I wanted to.  Wanted to?!!  Not in front of this audience!  But it wasn’t really a matter of choice!  I pushed!

                It only took a total of forty minutes, and ten hours after that first induced contraction, we were greeting our new baby daughter.  She was perfect, and I glowed as I cuddled her briefly before they whisked her off to the intermediate care nursery.  She spent the night there under observation, and I staggered down in the middle of it to try nursing her.  I don’t remember being very successful, but I do remember the nurse repeatedly scolding me for touching my “dirty” hair after I’d just washed my hands.  I’m surprised that she didn’t make me wear a hair net.  I was in love with my baby and just happy to hold her, but the nurse was impatient to getting her feeding.  Finally I headed back up to my room with plans to try again next time.  Breastfeeding proved to be a bit of a struggle with a sleepy premature infant whose mommy’s labour medication was still on board.  But it never once occurred to me that it wouldn’t work or to give up.  With the help of a dedicated nurse, we were successful and after five days we were headed home to begin our life as a new little family.

My name is Sandi van Niekerk and i'm a friend of your sister Wendy. The following is my birthing story.
   In November I was due to give birth but was having consistent false labour. It was my second pregnancy and was very reminiscent of my first. My 1st child a baby boy was born on November 2nd 2008 by c-section after 29 hours labour in the hospital and days of start and stop contractions prior to that. Repeatedly during my labour with my son I was offered a C-section but each time I asked "Is the baby ok?" and each time I was told "Yes" so I continued "trying" . Seemed strange to me that they thought I would opt for major surgery when there was still the chance to deliver naturally. Unfortunately my son's head wasn't quite in the right position , he got stuck or his head began to mould and we had to have surgery. This was not what I wanted ...He was a healthy baby and required no interventions. I briefly saw him and kissed his head and he was taken out of the operating room. My husband went with him with instructions to remain with him at all times. We were fortunate to have a lot of family support at the hospital ...unfortunately my son was passed from one family member to the next all wanting to hold and love him before I had the same opportunity.(I believe that this was over stimulating and confusing for him) In the recovery room my blood pressure dropped and I was not allowed to have my baby. This delayed me having the chance to bond with him and to nurse him when he was rooting and obviously wanting to nurse. By the time I finally held my son he was too tired to nurse and we had a very hard time getting started. In addition to this I had a hemorrhage 12 hours later and was weak and iron deficient.  Thankfully I was persistent and the two of us eventually got breastfeeding figured out! I was able to nurse him until I was 5 months pregnant with our second child !My body couldn't keep up with the demands of nursing a 29 lb healthy active 20 month old and growing a baby!
  I was told with my second pregnancy that I would be given a "trial of labour" but as I went past my due date (November 8th) I was strongly encouraged to pick a date for a repeat section. I had such a horrible experience the first time I was desperate to deliver naturally. This is when I asked for prayer on Face book and I heard from Wendy. I talked to her on Thursday November 11th. She said she had spoken with you and gave me a list of suggestions of things to do to get the baby into a position to deliver naturally! It all was very encouraging and made sense that baby's position wasn't ideal as that was our issue the first time..poor positioning! Unfortunately I didn't have your advice in 2008 !It amazes me however that no medical professional that I spoke with had any alternate suggestions for me! I immediately started to try each and every suggestion you passed on to Wendy so unfortunately I don't know what it was that worked or if it was a combination of everything. I started on the Friday doing exercises, had a chiropractic pelvic adjustment on the Saturday , acupressure , reflexology and walked a couple of miles...Monday November 15th at 4:20 am I started very strong contractions about 5 minutes apart. I got up thinking it was just a repeat of the false labour i'd been having all week but the contractions became more intense and I decided to head for the hospital. My husband and I arrived there shortly after 6am and by the time we checked in and got hooked up to the fetal monitors I was fully dilated and ready to push. At 7:52am I was holding my precious baby girl Alexandria Jessica Susan van Niekerk..She started nursing immediately. A natural birth No interventions no drugs no surgery! I went home at 6:30pm that same day!
  Thank you so much for passing your knowledge on to Wendy so that she could help me!! I truly believe without that information I would've had my second C-section and missed out on the Wonderful experience of delivery and immediately holding my baby girl!