The tale of two baby girls: Part One

I started writing this post about four weeks ago, and haven't quite had the time to finish it properly (heaven knows why?!?) During that time, my beautiful new niece has settled in at home, allowing her mummy and daddy to actually enjoy being new parents. The poor buggers had the roughest introduction to parenthood imaginable - it's hard enough having your first baby, let alone one who is sick and in hospital for the first few weeks of life.

So here is part one of a story about two baby girls, born in the last weeks of 2011. Both babies are here safely, which gives me the luxury of writing about their births at my leisure (particularly since I am not the mother of either!!). Both babies surprised us in ways we never dreamed of. And both babies are already the centre of much adoration.


My baby niece, Asha Jane, was born on November 27th, 2011. When I began writing this post, she was almost two weeks old. While I understand that this makes me quite the terrible aunty, there are two reasons why I have not heralded Asha Jane's birth story to the world:

1. Drugged bloggers are ugly. Considering I am still quite dependent on my little white pills following my surgery (think the love child of Lindsay Lohan and Michael Jackson - ignore the scary, scary genetic implications of all that silicone - and you'd be getting close to me at the mo'), I have refrained from writing about such an important topic until my brain is somewhat sensible.

2. Asha's first few weeks in the world have been anything but smooth, and I suppose I wanted to wait until all was right with the world before I made a public record.

However, Asha's beautiful, strong, amazing mother prompted me to write this now. Not consciously, mind you. But as harrowing as the past few weeks have been for my sister, I thought it would be worthwhile mulling it over....all the while preparing for the good that will come. That is sure to come.

Like so many women before her, my sister hoped for a natural birth. You would be hard-pressed to find a better-prepared first time mother than Miffy. Her best-case scenario was to have a homebirth with her two midwives in attendance, with minimal intervention. Despite this plan, she had also booked in with the local hospital just in case. As it turned out, she needed both.

Miffy's labour began very quietly on the Thursday afternoon, fourteen days after her due date, while she was spending the afternoon with me. She said not a word to me, but laboured calmly at home through the Thursday night, the Friday, and the Saturday. I was meant to have been part of her support group. However, by then I was in hospital myself, sleeping off the effects of my surgery on the Friday, groggily aware that my sister was labouring without me. So the events that followed were relayed to me after the fact. I wish with all my might I had been there - if only for what happened next.

At 3am on the Sunday morning, Miffy's midwives decided that it was time to abandon the home birth. When my sister was deposited at the front entrance of the hospital by her partner, she was met by a contingent of the local constabulary. Apparently, she politely declined a wheelchair, preferring to keep gravity in her favour, and waddled slowly into Casualty to be admitted.

In the waiting room, my 42 week pregnant, 3-days-in-labour sister found a group of drunken, drugged, bloodied men (the reason for the heavy police presence out the front door). For whatever reason, one of them decided she was an ally, and began telling her that he had nothing to do with any of the trouble, that it was "Bad, man, it's soooo bad. This is just bad, man, y'know? I dunno why I'm even here, but it's bad!"

Now, my sister has always had a fire in her belly. She can be quite fiesty when she wants to be. Throughout her three-plus days in labour, not once did she lose her self-control, or become temperamental or emotional...except when that moron began to converse with her in the waiting room.

Apparently, bent double and grasping her belly, she looked him in the eye and growled, "Bad? You think this is bad? I'll give you BAD! Bad is being in labour with your baby, with no painkillers AT ALL, and coming into hospital after three days of trying to have that baby, and having to wait with druggy, bloody bogans like you who don't know how to behave themselves!!! That's BAD!"

And with that, my sister turned on her heel and began the long walk to the maternity ward to try and have her baby (as far away from those low-lives as possible!).

As it turned out, despite Miffy's unbelieveable efforts - with no pain relief, not even Panadol - by lunchtime on Sunday the doctors performed an emergency caesarean to get her baby girl out safely. Poor little Ashie had been trying to exit via the top of her mother's femur, which is not the first choice for a birth exit point. But after that marathon, my sister's herculean efforts were rewarded - she had a beautiful, healthy, 10lb 4oz daughter. Which, as anyone can attest, is all you can ask for regardless of the type of birth you envisaged or hoped for.

And thank goodness Asha was such a chubby bubby, because at six days old she was readmitted to hospital. It took three days for an infection to be diagnosed, and in that time she lost 2lb 4 oz in weight. Had she been a tiny tot, we would have lost her. All of her bracelets of fat around her wrists and ankles melted away, and she was so little. It took eleven days to get Asha well enough to go home, and even now at nearly six weeks old, she still has not regained her birth weight.

Throughout the whole ordeal, my amazing sister never once faltered. Despite being pregnant for ten-and-a-half months; despite being in active labour for over three days; despite swapping her home birth for the ultimate intervention; and despite living in the paediatrics ward instead of enjoying her first days at home as a new mummy, my little sister held it together. The strength that came from within her during that time was incredible. You could literally see her drawing on her reserves of strength for her baby girl, keeping calm, doing only what was necessary, but doing it without fail.

I want Miffy to know how proud I am of her. I want her to look at what she did for her baby, both during her pregnancy and labour, and afterwards, and recognise the love that went into preparing to meet her daughter. I want her to see that letting go of her dream birth was simply another expression of love; that, as a mother, she was already putting the needs of her child before her own wishes. I don't want her to waste time thinking about what went "wrong" with the birth - if a healthy mother and child is the result, then any birth is a good one.

It took me almost two years to get over my disappointment, guilt and shame over Jack's birth. Two years of thinking I could have pushed harder, could have held on longer, could have done something to prevent the emergency caesarean that brought my son into the world. Grief for a "natural" birth prevented me from acknowledging that nothing could have changed what happened; nothing could have made my pelvis big enough; no pushing in the world would have been enough to birth my son. I don't want that grief for my sister.

My sister is now a mother to a beautiful, dark-haired, blue-eyed baby girl. And it matters not whether she arrived heralded by dolphin song or by the surgeon's scalpel - she is here, and she is safe, and that is enough. But I tell you what - when Asha's 21st birthday is looming, I will be making very sure that the story of the bogans in the emergency department is told...