Page 51 of So Thrilled For You

‘I’m trusting my dying body,’ I should’ve told the medical professionals.‘Don’t induce me. My dead baby will come out in its own natural time.’

‘Umm. Yes, I had an induction.’

‘Oh . . .’ Cara looks mildly panicked at my admission. ‘Well, every birth story is as unique as a fingerprint.’

‘Woody had stopped growing. They said there was a risk he might die if I wasn’t induced. But, you know, I probably should’ve refused.’

Cara’s eyes widen. ‘Oh, wow, that’s totally different then, isn’t it? You poor thing.’

But Jeanie is having no such sympathy. ‘They say anything though, don’t they?’ she says, her pointy finger carving a trail through the air. ‘To pressure you into induction. It’s impossible to tell how well a baby is growing in a womb, isn’t it? You could’ve probably left it and Woody would’ve come out just fine, at a perfectly normal size.’

I nod slowly, glancing at him in the monitor. I try not to associate Woody with the process of getting him out of my body otherwise I worry I’ll hate him irrevocably. ‘Or he could’ve come out dead,’ I reply.

I didn’t want an induction either. Of course I didn’t. I was going to have a water birth. I was going to do my breathing. I had done the classes and educated and empowered myself about birth. I was going to be calm and confident with the doctors. I followed the BreatheItOut hypnobirthing account and read all her posts religiously. I knew my birthing rights. I’d use the BRAIN acronym before making any major decision and not be bullied into distrusting my body.

But – when faced with a baby that hasn’t grown in two weeks, your absolute terror of still-birth kind of makes the acronym go out the window when consenting to an induction.

B – Benefits.My baby won’t be fucking dead.

R – Risks.If I’m not induced, my baby might fucking die.

A – Alternatives.Refuse the medical advice and maybe my baby will fucking die.

I – Intuition.It’s weird how being told your baby might die activates this intuition to agree to fucking anything that will help it not fucking die.

N –Nothing. I could just do nothing and hope my baby doesn’t fucking die.

‘Was Woody OK?’ Cara asks. ‘His weight and stuff, when he was born?’

It’s strange how she can jump from the induction, to Woody being outside my body in one sentence. Whereas the reality took five days and ripped me apart in every way possible.

‘His birth weight was fine,’ I admit.

‘See!’ Jeanie points her finger right into my face and I imagine snapping it off and the screams she’d let out. ‘Youdidn’t even need an induction. I told you!’ She shakes her head. ‘How was your birth after having one? Awful, I bet?’ she asks it almost gleefully.

‘Yes, how was the birth?’ Nicki asks, softening it, making it sound more caring. ‘You were OK, weren’t you, Lauren?’

It’s far too hot in here. Nicki’s stomach is so swollen. There’s no going back for her. She doesn’t really want to know the truth of it. We can’t handle the brutal truth about how most of us came into this world. What unimaginable trauma a woman so often puts herself through. I’ll never think of the word ‘birthday’ the same ever again. I’m still hardly able to think about my birth without sweat erupting all over my body. The memory is an incoherent mess of a narrative, with just snatches of vivid trauma blasting through my brain like a Hollywood trailer whenever I walk past a pregnant woman on the street.

The shaky drive home from the hospital triage after I went in five days overdue. We were in the new car we’d bought because we were having a baby. The stink of pine from the dangling tree thingy on the rearview mirror. The doctor’s words whirling around my head like poisoned vapour.

Baby hasn’t grown for two weeks . . . Recommend we induce first thing tomorrow . . . You’re five days overdue anyway . . . If we don’t, something could go wrong . . . placenta . . . growth chart . . . risk assessment.

That night, the decision to induce made, Tristan and I triple-

packed our hospital bags, ensuring ludicrous things were in there that we’d never use. A USB fan. A collection of puzzle books and magazines, like labour was a long-haul flight. A comb, hilariously, because the BreatheItOut account told me gripping it through contractions would help with the pain.Sorry, not pain,surges.BreatheItOutsaid we should call the pain of contractions ‘surges’ to trick our brain into feeling them less.

I refolded our selection of babygrows and pushed them into the suitcase. I said to Tristan.‘Just think. This time tomorrow, we could be holding our baby.’

Of course, we knew induction labours usually took longer. Of course, we knew they came with a higher chance of further interventions. Of course, we knew first births are often worse. But maybe we’ll be one of those lucky ones you don’t hear about much because so many women want to freak you out with their horror stories – these selfish, failed mothers who can’t help but try and bring you down, it’s not fair to share these things with new mums and scare the shit out of them, until it happens to them and they gasp ‘why did nobody fucking tell me’ . . .

‘I’m scared,’ I told Tristan. He hugged me as hard as he could with our baby between us. Back when we were still us, when Tristan still had the time and inclination to hug his wife. ‘What if I die?’

‘Shh. Shh,’ he’d said, stroking my hair. ‘Just remember your hypnobirthing.’

My hypnobirthing.

It wasn’t just like bringing a knife to a gun fight, but a handful of fucking rose petals. Breathing out a golden thread was like bringing a dustpan and brush to clean up a natural disaster.

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