It is Friday, January 13, and I am 37+0.
The time is 5:02 a.m., and I wake up with that feeling of really needing to pee - which has not been unusual at any point during my pregnancy.
I stumble to the bathroom, pee, and get up to wash my hands when my water breaks.
Just like in a really bad American movie. (Even though the midwives said that probably wouldn't happen...)
Unaware as I am, I sit back down on the toilet and think that the logical explanation must be that I wasn't finished peeing.
It keeps seeping and I realize that now is the time.
I get up to call the maternity ward and ask how and what to do.
We hadn't been to regular childbirth classes because my husband is a chef (irregular working hours and wanted to participate).
Instead, we had agreed with our midwife that we could talk about childbirth the following Wednesday at the last consultation because ‘all first-time mothers usually go over time’.
As if...
When I get hold of the maternity ward, I speak to a midwife who sounds very sweet. But at the same time, she is a little unsympathetic to my ignorance and ends up calmly asking, 'So you don't know anything? My answer was, ‘Well, yes, I've read birth stories on Cana's blog, but I don't know anything else because we weren't supposed to go to the preparation class until Wednesday’.
She asks how long between contractions, I answer ‘about 10 minutes’ and she says ‘then they probably haven't started yet – because then I wouldn't be in any doubt’. I agree with her and she gives me the address of a website we could look at and we agree that we'll come in at 2 p.m. if nothing else happens before then.
I hang up and go in and wake up my husband, Kasper, and he panics a little in that ‘Woo-hoo, we're having a baby’ kind of way.
Just as I'm telling him about the website and that we have to remember to eat, my water breaks again. Or at least it feels like it does. The amniotic fluid is gushing out.
For me, it explains why my belly grew so quickly and why it was so big.
It must have been like an aquarium. [Physiologically, this is unlikely to be the case, but the theory is very sweet, ed.
For Kasper, there was ‘just a lot of water’ – it gushed so much that I had to assure him that I wasn't peeing.
He laughed and went out to make breakfast.
Exactly one hour after 6:02 a.m., the first contraction came. With full force.
We weren't prepared at all, as we thought we had plenty of time.
So while Kasper packed the hospital bag, I lay in bed and timed the contractions.
And they came more and more frequently.
In the end, I couldn't stand it anymore.
So I took a shower. Four times in two hours.
At 8:30 a.m., we call the maternity ward for the first time, but are told that if I can talk, it's not “bad” enough.
Oh well.
The contractions are getting stronger. I had cried through the last four contractions, and at 10:30 a.m., we call the maternity ward again.
Fortunately, we are allowed to come in.
I call my mother on my way out the door.
She and my sister are already on their way out to buy baby clothes in size 50, pick up a stroller and everything else, because now he was coming – and, as I said, we were a little unprepared.
The drive to Hvidovre Hospital feels like a trip to Jutland, and the contractions are still intense.
However, the heated seat helps enormously, so I actually consider whether we could just give birth in the car.
Kasper thinks it's a bad idea, “but if you want, I can ask,” he says.
Kasper is a good man.
We arrive in Hvidovre, and despite the pain, we remember the parking disc.
It feels strange to walk there knowing that I'm going to give birth, while everyone else is unaware.
It takes me almost 20 minutes to get to the maternity ward because of the contractions, where I end up crying because I'm in so much pain.
The midwife wants to examine me and run a ‘strip’. I get a ‘congratulations, you are 4 cm dilated, so you will give birth today’.
Most people would probably be happy, but I was honestly a little scared.
While the ‘strip’ is being done, I get a whole lot of contractions again. So many that the midwife comes in to check why I'm not lying still.
I am asked to lie on my side and breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. I should “be in the vein.”
Yes, thank you—but I was really congested, so it was harder than you might think.
Finally, the midwife gives up on running the strip and decides that we should go down to the delivery room instead. Because it's probably going to happen relatively quickly, as she says.
On the way down to the delivery room, which feels incredibly long because of the contractions, we are met by none other than our own consultation midwife – the best in the world.
I haven't said much throughout the process, but as soon as I saw her, I managed to utter, “Yes, all first-time mothers go over their due date.” She burst out laughing, gave me a big hug, and said, “Let's deliver that baby, Rikke.”
High on her enthusiasm, I waddled into the shower.
Liberating.
But suddenly, in the middle of my shower, I feel the urge to push.
I panic. Kasper and my midwife are calm and say, ‘If we have to deliver in the shower, then that's what we'll do’. Thank you, friends.
It was a false alarm, but I had a feeling that this was going to happen quickly.
I hurry as best I can in my hospital gown and rush down to the delivery room with my walking frame.
In the delivery room, I am handed a mask and I think, ‘laughing gas – finally’.
In reality, it was just oxygen. I find out after 40 minutes.
I had actually said I wanted to give birth without pain relief, so we tried bee stings until I gave up and asked for an epidural. Or rather, I asked for a full anesthetic, but they wouldn't give me one.
While this is happening, the contractions are still intense, and they are actually intense throughout.
But it's as if they get worse just as we talk about pain relief.
The urge to push returns and they have intensified so much that I ask the midwife to check again.
She starts by saying that for God's sake I mustn't push, because 4 minutes ago I was only 5-6 cm dilated.
She quickly changes her mind to ‘you are fully dilated – you are just pushing with your body’.
No sooner said than done. The pushing phase was liberating after my hellish contractions, and I finally had a little energy between contractions to talk to Kasper.
Throughout all this, Kasper is the coolest guy in the world. Kasper is usually a bit of a joker, so I had been worried that he would entertain himself instead.
But he was so focused and engaged.
So committed that he stood with the midwife at the foot of the bed, helping to hold my legs up against my chest and keeping an eye on the pushing phase.
I never noticed it, but they were apparently a little concerned because the pushing phase was taking longer than normal.
A team of doctors came in afterwards and said hello, and I was told that ‘he had to come out or we would have to find another solution’.
My midwife's shift was also coming to an end. No sooner said than done.
I cheated and pushed outside of the contractions. Not many times. But it helped.
I am told that when the time comes, I should gasp.
Suddenly, Kasper shouts ‘gasp’ and a few seconds later our son is out.
The time is 2:42 p.m. I lift him up to my chest. The little mite. 3160 g and 50 cm of pure love.