My Birth Story – Part 2 – Delivery

So… My waters had broken (I think just those of Twin 1 – Henry πŸ€”) There was meconium in the waters so they monitored his heart rate closely. I had two big bands across my bump connected to a machine which was constantly churning out a printout of their heart rates. A lot of that morning is a bit of a blur really but I remember walking up and down the corridor a lot and having an internal examination to check my cervix which was about the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced. I was transferred down the corridor to a delivery room where I met my midwife Susan – the most beautiful, amazing gem of a woman, who was 33 weeks pregnant herself but hopped about like a sprightly gazelle, speaking in soft, lilting Irish tones. I was hooked up to an internal heart monitor – I think to ensure they were getting an accurate reading of each twin’s heartbeat – this involved an electrode being inserted and placed on Twin 1’s scalp. I really can’t remember the timings of everything at all but I also had an epidural at some point. I’d always known I would be having an epidural as the consultant strongly advised it when we discussed having a natural delivery. I was on the gas and air but I think I must be about the only person who hated it! I really disliked the lightheaded feeling it gave me so I didn’t use it properly. It was so difficult to stay still while they administered the epidural, especially during contractions. Anyway that was fine and I think at some point in the afternoon I slept for a while but again, I can’t remember when. I wasn’t allowed any food due to the high risk of needing a C-section but I ended up pleading (I am not a nice person when I get hangry!) and was eventually given a tiny, slightly manky banana to keep me going πŸ˜‚

Eventually the lovely midwife said it was time to start pushing. It is the weirdest feeling ever trying to push when you have no idea what it should feel like as you’ve never done it before, but then you can’t feel anything anyway because everything’s numb. I remember I kept asking over and over β€˜Is this ok? Am I doing it?’ as I literally had no idea. I couldn’t feel the contractions so it was a case of watching the machine and pushing as hard as I could every time the spiky things went crazy. I had no idea (and still don’t) whether I pooed myself or not – if I did it was obviously handled very discreetly πŸ˜‚ Before the pushing started, I was so anxious that it might happen but once I was β€˜in the zone’ I couldn’t have cared less. It was almost like the start of the maternal instincts kicking in – at that point, the babies were more important than anything else and I just wanted to do everything possible to push them out. I also didn’t give a crap about the fact that I had my legs up in stirrups with everything out for all to see – and I had a lot of visitors popping in and out to check on my progress (not like family and friends – I mean medical people! Ha can you imagine?! πŸ˜‚)
Unfortunately it became apparent that it wasn’t really happening. I pushed with all my might for two solid hours. I didn’t register feeling tired or anything (despite being fuelled solely by that one manky banana) – some kind of crazed determination had taken hold I think. It wasn’t having twins that was the problem – it was the fact that Twin 1 (Henry), although only on the 50th centile for weight, was on the 98th for head circumference (obviously we only knew the specifics after he was born – however, at one of our growth scans previously, they had called in a consultant as they were concerned that his head was measuring so big. They decided it was fine but it was quite amusing when the sonographer looked Rob up and down then said β€˜yeah I think it’s probably inherited’ πŸ˜‚). Anyway that kid has a lot to answer for as he’s basically singleheadedly responsible for the destruction of my undercarriage 😭 But more on that later (ooh I bet you can’t wait πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚)
Back to it… As soon as a consultant became available, I was transferred to theatre to have some assistance with pushing, in the form of a ventouse. The theatre was in stark contrast to the delivery room, which was almost friendly by comparison. Everything was glaringly white and clinical, and instead of my one lovely midwife, I suddenly had about 15 people around me. They gave me some sort of f**k-off super-strength epidural which made me extremely woozy (my memories are very hazy too) – I remember the guy spraying cold water on me to check that I couldn’t feel it. The pushing began again and I was vaguely aware that the consultant lady was doing stuff down there (otherwise known as an episiotomy). I’m sure I remember seeing Rob’s face at one point and his expression was pretty much pure horror πŸ˜‚ Birth for us was certainly pretty far from the beautiful, magical moment you dream of πŸ™ˆ Rob later informed me it looked like a car crash scene πŸ™ˆ Eventually Henry Arthur was born/yanked out at 7.20pm (Friday 3rd July 2015) weighing 7lb7oz. They held him up to show me but all I remember is feeling quite horrified at the amount of blood and just feeling really out of it. It makes me so sad to think about it now. I didn’t even get to hold him as he was whisked off and I had to focus my attention on getting my next bubba out. I do remember breathing a big sigh of relief when I heard him cry from the other side of the room.
So I was lying there on a table in the middle of this theatre with basically a crowd of people around me. My amazing midwife was still there – she stayed by my side encouraging me through the whole thing. Someone was holding tight around my stomach to ensure that Twin 2 didn’t start having a party because of all the space she suddenly had and turn the wrong way. Anyway I started to push again and at 7.33 pm Cora Ann was born, weighing 5lb9oz. I did get to hold her briefly but then she was also taken off so that I could get stitched up. I think it was around then, once the babies had been cleaned, weighed and wrapped up, that they were put into a clear plastic cot and wheeled out with Rob. My midwife also said goodbye and told me that her shift had actually ended quite a while ago but that she couldn’t leave without knowing the babies were born safe and seeing them, which even in my semi-conscious state, I remember feeling so so touched by 😭😭 I felt properly out of it by this point – a mixture of exhaustion, relief and being absolutely off my tits on all the drugs. I remember feeling very sick while the consultant was doing the stitching and actually having to puke but having nothing in my stomach so it was just gross bile stuff 🀒 Anyway, after what seemed like forever, she was done and left the room and I think I probably fell asleep or something, presumably not for long. All I remember is coming round and being aware of all the people in the room starting to flap (probably an unfortunate choice of word!πŸ˜‚) and hearing the word ‘haemorrhage ‘ and feeling really quite scared. It turned out that my stitches had suddenly come apart and I was losing a lot of blood. Another consultant came in and restitched me and I was eventually reunited with Rob and the babies and moved into the High Dependency Unit.

I don’t remember a lot about that first night at all – I was out of it and so were the babies. I do remember a male nurse milking me like a cow during the night as I struggled to hand express – what a picture πŸ™ˆ Anyway I was in hospital for five days (lucky enough to be in a private room which was fab) and during that time I ended up having a blood transfusion due to the amount of blood I lost during the birth. This made me feel a lot stronger, as for the first couple of days I was gradually turning greyer (my skin not my hair – that came later! 🀣) Being so weak didn’t help with the difficulties I had trying to breastfeed (I’ve already written a post about that so won’t go off on one again πŸ™ˆπŸ˜‚) Anyway as I said it’s all rather blurry in my memory but I know I was extremely emotional and overwhelmed and relieved and terrified and guilty and overjoyed and probably a whole host of other things too. I definitely remember being gripped by a feeling of utter terror when we were finally discharged to go home – how were we going to cope looking after two tiny creatures who were entirely dependent on us yet we had no clue what we were doing? How would I manage without having a midwife come running at the touch of a button? The weight of responsibility was huge but looking at those tiny, innocent little faces, I knew we had everything we’d always wanted and somehow we’d make it work.


(Me and Cora 😍 I don’t have a photo of me with both of them 😭)

IMG_0672.JPG(My beautiful babies 😍)

My Birth Story – Part 1 – Labour

I had a traumatic birth. To many others, it probably won’t sound that bad and in truth I know it could have been a lot lot worse, but for me it was traumatic. I think afterwards, you’re so focused on the baby/babies (or in my case completely overwhelmed by them πŸ™ˆ) that you just push the birth to the back of your mind and don’t really talk about it all that much. Also, when the outcome is basically amazing and you’ve been lucky enough to end up with healthy babies (especially for us, having twins who didn’t need time in the NICU or anything) you feel guilty and almost ashamed to admit just how much the birth affected you. I really do think that mine had a detrimental impact on how I bonded with the twiglets initially. I’m sharing this partly for my benefit as I want to write about it and think it will be helpful, but also to encourage anyone else to try not to feel guilty for admitting that their birth was traumatic and to also try to talk to someone properly about it if you can.
So anyway… my birth story (as much as I can remember – it’s all a bit hazy!) I was induced at 37+3 weeks pregnant. I… Was… Huge. I mean, a proper whale – could hardly move, pelvis was in agony, sharp pains down my leg from Henry resting on a nerve, feet so swollen they resembled Elephant Man – I could go on for probably a very long time. Don’t get me wrong, I loooved being pregnant (I might write a post about my pregnancy another time) but the last two weeks were pretty hellish. Twin 1 (Henry) had been engaged for a while and we were on for a natural birth as he was head down (the consultant said it didn’t matter if Twin 2 was head down as they’d β€˜yank her out by a foot if need be’ 🀀)


So I was admitted to a room on the antenatal ward on Thursday 2nd July 2015 and given a pessary to hopefully start things off. By the evening I was in early labour although I didn’t really realise it immediately- I just remember being really restless and uncomfortable and feeling the need to keep moving all the time – rocking around on a birth ball, swaying, getting onto all fours on the bed (not graceful when your bump is the size of China πŸ˜‚)

Anyway fast forward a few hours and I was in quite a bit of pain – the worst part was the pain in my lower back which was constant and didn’t subside between contractions. I was allowed to have a bath on the birthing suite which was actually magical; I can totally see why people want to have water births – the pain-relieving power of warm water is mental. Having twins I’d accepted that things like that weren’t an option for me – I hadn’t even written a birth plan as I knew the likelihood was that it would be totally out of my control. I really wanted to experience labour and hopefully a natural delivery – however I was quite prepared that it might not be possible as most twins I think are born by C-section. I wouldn’t have had a problem with this but as it’s likely to be the only time I give birth, I just wanted to experience it if possible. Anyway, I stayed in that bath until I was a wrinkled prune and as soon as I eventually got out, the pain came flooding back. The one thing I’d been adamant about on my non-existent birth plan was that I didn’t want to have pethidine. So of course, I had pethidine πŸ˜‚πŸ™ˆ I think the reason for not wanting it was because it can cross over to the babies? I can’t quite remember but anyway the midwives/nurses assured me it would be far enough in advance to be out of my system so I had it to enable me to get some sleep as there was no way that was happening otherwise. I remember leaving it a bit late after I’d had it to go and brush my teeth, and feeling it kick in while I was still in the bathroom down the corridor. So I then staggered back down to my room feeling super dizzy and woozy which was kind of amusing.
Anyway I had a great sleep and woke up at 4.45am pissing myself πŸ˜‚ Only it went on for a bit too long and didn’t seem to be stopping… I finally realised what was actually happening and got out of bed for it to continue on the floor πŸ™ˆ

To be continued… 😊

When every First is a Last

FB_IMG_1503699793762Ok so bear with me because I do have a point to make … (I think πŸ˜‚) Previously, when the twiglets would wake from their nap, they would both desperately want to be carried downstairs as they were still a bit sleepy, wanted a bit of a cuddle etc. So rather than take one at a time and leave the other crying, I would carry them both down, one on each hip, and everyone was happy (for a whole five minutes anyway πŸ™ŠπŸ˜‚) The other day, I suddenly realised that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d carried them both down the stairs. One maybe, but not both. I’m not sure that I could safely do it now, given the weight and size of them. Just a silly little part of our daily routine but the fact that I hadn’t even realised that it had ended got me thinking about all those β€˜lasts’ and how you just don’t always know when that last time will be. The thing is, for us, as we won’t be having any more children, (almost definitely not, at least), every last really is a last.
Recently I’ve seen a few posts in which people have talked about feeling sad as their last child achieves milestones as they know it will be the last time they see a child of theirs do these things. This has made me feel a bit more justified in how I feel about every milestone the twiglets reach; happy, excited and heart-achingly proud, but each one tinged with a hint of sadness. I think that when you have twins or multiples or one child but you know you’re not having any more, this β€˜last-child syndrome’ is heightened because every first is a last as well. For example, both the twiglets hit three months (at the same time – funny that πŸ˜‚) and bang! That was it – I’d never have a newborn again. When they turned into toddlers, that was it – no more babies. I remember a friend I used to teach with being an absolute sobbing wreck on her twins’ last day at primary school and at the time I couldn’t understand how it could be quite that upsetting. She tried to explain that it was because she didn’t have another child coming up through the school after, to soften the blow by allowing her to experience it again in a few years – that was it. This was pre-twiglets so at the time I just couldn’t relate at all – now however, I totally get where she was coming from and am quite sure that I will be exactly the same when the time comes.
The reason I mentioned feeling β€˜justified’ in how I feel about these bittersweet first-lasts is that I worry I could come across as ungrateful, moaning about being sad when milestones are reached. This is so not the case. I feel so so lucky to have two beautiful, amazing children; I love being a twin mama and, despite the amount of whinging I do, I actually wouldn’t change it for the world – it’s so amazing and special to experience double of everything at once (though hard work of course!πŸ™Š) But I like to be honest and share my true deep-down feelings and I know that there are lots of other mamas who probably feel the same way. I think for me, it’s heightened at the moment because it seems everyone is popping out newborns left, right and centre and I’m SO broody at times (that is, until I actually think back to the reality of those early daysΒ πŸ˜‚) But our little family unit feels pretty complete and pretty flipping perfect really 😊😍 So I will just deal with the extra bit of emotion at each birthday and each β€˜first-last’ and try to just focus on celebrating all the fabulous new things the twiglets are learning to do (and get my newborn fix from cuddling other people’s babies πŸ˜ŠπŸ˜‚)

Breastfeeding – when it all goes t*ts up


So last week I had a lady imply to me that the reason my twins got chicken pox was because I didn’t breastfeed them… I’ll be honest, it hurt. I don’t really believe it but it still hurt.

Before I go on, I am not disputing that breastfeeding gives babies antibodies etc etc and I genuinely take my hat off to anyone who breastfeeds their babies, particularly mums of multiples – actually don’t know how you do it, just amazing! Equally I have no problem with anyone who bottlefeeds – it’s what I did. This post is NOT a breastfeeding vs bottlefeeding debate in any way – I am very much of the ‘each to their own’ mindset and think everyone should just be allowed to get on with doing things their way for their own children.
BUT… I did object to the insensitivity of the comment and I genuinely think it was borne out of ignorance. I am always seeing phrases like ‘if you choose to bottle-feed’ or ‘it’s your choice how you feed your baby’ etc. Plenty of women choose not to breastfeed and that’s fine – having experienced it now I can totally understand it. For me though, I don’t really feel I had a choice. In a nutshell, I really really wanted to breastfeed but just couldn’t f**king do it. And I was devastated. I’ve spoken to a lot of mums of both singletons and twins who felt the same. Yet somehow it still seems to be divided into the two camps – those who breastfeed and those who choose not to. And no-one seems to really realise about the third camp who feel they had no choice.
I’m going to tell the story of my breastfeeding journey (it was a short journey, barely left the bastard station πŸ™ˆ) When I was pregnant, I always knew I wanted to breastfeed. I went to an NHS antenatal class run by militant breastfeeding Nazi midwives who basically said your child would die if you didn’t breastfeed them (ok not quite πŸ™Š) But they also said a lot of things like ‘your body knows what to do’, ‘your body is capable of producing enough milk, even for twins,’ ‘the baby’s instincts will tell it what to do’ etc. I left thinking yes it was going to be easy and I’d perfect the rugby ball hold with a twin on each boob in no time. Oh how naive. WHY can’t they be bloody realistic and warn you that actually sometimes your body doesn’t know what the f**k to do, it doesn’t produce enough milk, it BLOODY HURTS, some babies don’t/can’t/won’t latch properly and you’ll more than likely end up with bleeding nipples on at least one occasion, never mind the fact that you’ll probably be in a sh*t load of pain from the traumatic birth which was also supposed to be beautiful and easy, overwhelmed by the fear and responsibility of having a small life or two suddenly depending on you and crying hormonally every two minutes when you don’t even know why. But they don’t tell you any of that! I honestly wish I had been better prepared mentally for just how hard it could be. I know it’s not the same for everyone and some are lucky in that it does come naturally and quite easily, but for me and probably many others, there just seemed to be so many factors working against me. I was a wreck after the birth – my episiotomy was buggered, I had a blood transfusion a few days after having the twins, I was in total shock and utterly overwhelmed. Feeding didn’t feel natural – if I’m honest I was such a mess I definitely don’t think I bonded with them straightaway. Cora didn’t seem able/willing to latch at all so we concentrated on trying to get Henry feeding – I had just about every midwife/breastfeeding person in the hospital try to help me but he still kept coming on and off and I didn’t feel like he was really getting anything from me. I kept trying and was also painstakingly hand-expressing drops of colostrum to feed them in syringes but eventually there was blood in H’s nappy from dehydration so I was forced into giving them bottles (we’d been cup or syringe feeding up to this point). I was so upset and already felt like I’d failed. To be quite honest, for me, trying to breastfeed was one huge trauma – I never expected I would be quite as emotional about it as I was. Looking back I kind of wish I’d just accepted then that it wasn’t going to happen and moved on but I didn’t. I decided to pump and keep trying with the feeding. When we went home, I was absolutely terrified and there was so so much to think about – I had been so naive thinking that I’d be bfing them both that I had nothing ready for bottle-feeding so we had to buy bottles, a steriliser, formula etc and learn how to use it all. It all felt so overwhelming that I didn’t really realise that I needed to start expressing straightaway. Although I didn’t have a feeling of my milk ‘coming in’ I guess maybe it did because I got engorged which was sooo painful – my boobs were like actual rocks and just agony, I didn’t know how to use the pump, I didn’t know if I should when they were like that. In desperation I spoke to a ‘La Leche League’ woman on the phone at like 2am and she basically said ‘why are you pumping, just feed them’ which was really unhelpful at that point and did not make me feel any better. Anyway with cabbage leaves and hand expressing in a hot shower I eventually sorted it out but I never got on with pumping – don’t know if I wasn’t doing it right or what but I barely made any milk and my nips were sore and bleeding. Plus it was HARD. The babies were feeding every three hours through the day and night (formula with a tiny top-up of my milk at some feeds), with each feed taking about an hour. I was trying to express every three hours as well which took ages, so I would snatch maybe twenty minutes sleep in between before the cycle started again. Not to mention my stitches had come apart again and they couldn’t stitch me back up this time so I was in a lot of pain and healing very slowly. I was barely even finding time to try either of them on the boob and once my OH went back to work, I could barely find the time to express either. I saw a breastfeeding support worker who advised me to try nipple shields but my nipples were so sore that I screamed in pain when Cora latched on. That was the point where I thought ‘enough’s enough’ – I couldn’t cope with any more. I’d expressed for three weeks but was barely making any milk and just making myself miserable – it was all too much. So the pump was banished and we bottle-fed them fully from then on. I’d like to say I was much happier after but then the guilt was unbearable. I was so upset and felt like a total failure. Looking back, I probably should have sought more help really – I was still very traumatised from the birth as well. I’m aware this is sounding so so negative πŸ™ˆ But it’s genuinely how I remember the very beginning – I don’t really look back on that time very positively, which again makes me feel even more guilty about it all (motherhood is one neverending guilt trip right? 😏) Of course there were so many lovely and amazing moments in amongst all the crap which I haven’t mentioned in this post because I just really wanted to be honest in talking about my feeding experience and how I felt about it all which for me unfortunately wasn’t the most positive πŸ™Š
But anyway getting back to my original point – that is why I don’t really feel I had much of a choice when it came to not breastfeeding. Even now I feel a pang of jealousy/guilt/sadness when I see a woman breastfeeding, and I know I should really have got over it by now – they’re nearly two! πŸ™ˆ But I think more people need to understand that it can be such a sensitive subject and just think before they make offhand comments about women who haven’t breastfed – whether they chose not to or just simply couldn’t do it for whatever reason, you never know what feelings they might be hiding.