I would love to say my pregnancy was full of hearts, flowers, and the bloom and glow you see all over social media these days. Truth be told, my experience with pregnancy and birth was quite the opposite. Alfie was my second pregnancy, my true rainbow baby. Just seven months earlier, I’d had a late-term miscarriage at 20 weeks, and then, only two days after my sister’s funeral, I found out I was pregnant again. The first trimester was spent with my head down the toilet with morning sickness, while being crippled with grief and anxiety. The morning of my 12-week scan, I lay in bed convinced they were going to place the ultrasound probe on my stomach and tell me something had gone wrong — or that I wasn’t even pregnant at all.
But that didn’t happen. On the screen, there was a baby kicking away. Still, I couldn’t believe things would go right. But I made it past 20 weeks, then all the way to viability. At 30 weeks, I finally started to let myself believe I might actually be bringing this baby home.
Because of my history, I was under the consultant team as well as my local midwife. Every visit to maternity seemed to end in a trip to the antenatal ward and at least an overnight stay. I was there so often I knew the menu rotation by heart (and developed a soft spot for the Cumberland sausage muffin!).
It was agreed I’d be induced at 37 weeks, no later. By 34 weeks I was struggling, dealing with kidney stones and feeling unwell, so I was admitted to hospital until baby came. I felt so unprepared — the house wasn’t finished, the baby clothes weren’t folded — and to top it off, I slipped in the bathroom and broke my wrist, ending up in a cast.
Soon enough, I fell into the rhythm of hospital life — mealtimes, monitoring, and hours spent lying there listening to his heart beating, waiting for the day I’d finally hold him.
When 37 weeks arrived, it was time. I was wheeled to the labour ward and given a pessary, but nothing happened. Six hours later, back to antenatal I went. The next day, the same thing again. After a 12-hour break, I walked laps of the hospital, even up and down the concrete stairs outside, desperate to get things moving. Maybe it was coincidence, but after that my waters broke — though at first I wasn’t sure if I’d just peed a little (at that stage, it all feels the same!).
Once my waters had gone, the countdown was on. Baby had to be born within 24 hours. They tried another pessary — still nothing. Eventually, I was put on the Pitocin drip, and the dose was slowly increased. The midwife looking after me thought things were progressing, but when I was checked, I was only 4cm. I was shaking, overwhelmed, and something didn’t feel right. I noticed her eyes darting to the monitor; the baby’s heartbeat no longer sounded as it had all those months. Calmly, she told my partner to press the red button. Suddenly the room filled with people. A consultant appeared with a yellow form, asking for my signature. Baby needed to come now.
I was rushed to theatre. They would try for a spinal block once, otherwise I’d have to be put to sleep. I begged them to call my mum — we hadn’t planned for her to be there, but suddenly I felt so young, vulnerable, and unprepared. As the contractions crashed over me, I curled over a pillow, desperate not to move an inch. I didn’t want baby’s dad to miss the birth — and if I was put to sleep, he wouldn’t be allowed in. Minutes felt like hours before they lay me back and started the surgery.
“He’s here,” a midwife whispered. But the room was silent. No cry. My heart sank. Shouldn’t they be passing him to me? That’s what happens on One Born Every Minute. My partner squeezed my hand, but I frantically scanned the room for any sign of life. A few moments later, a midwife asked him to come with them — baby needed a little help and was going to special care. My world stopped. I had let myself believe in a happy ending, and now everything felt like it was falling apart again.
My partner returned in tears. “They’re taking him, Jodes. I don’t know where.” I told him to go with our son — I was surrounded by people, but our baby was all alone.
I haemorrhaged during surgery and was put to sleep while they stitched me up. When I woke, groggy and disoriented, I thought it had been a dream. But then, as they wheeled me out of theatre, I heard a baby’s cry. A loud, strong cry. And he was mine.
By the time he reached special care, he no longer needed any help. What he needed was me. They wheeled him to my side, and we stayed together. We both caught an infection and needed antibiotics, so we spent a week in hospital before finally going home.
Now he’s a teenager who tests me every day. He leaves his pants on the floor and hoards cups in his room, but I think back to how hard he fought to be here. He showed up when I needed him most, and the bond we share is something I will always cherish.
