The scary truth about childbirth that no one talks about includes a plethora of complications that increase the risk of both maternal and fetal death. There are very few things that are more anxiety-provoking than knowing that the moment you’ve waited nine months for might be a complete disaster. In support of mothers-to-be, Ahreefa, a first-time mom and journalist, shares her delivery story.
Every year, I would read at least one story about a maternal death or a baby that didn’t make it out of the delivery room at the Georgetown Public Hospital. In fact, the very first story I did as a journalist with a byline was about one of those babies. In each one of those cases, the doctors were blamed for negligence. My own mother’s experience at that hospital planted a negative bias in my head. Therefore, it is no surprise that when I found out that I was expecting, I opted to register at a private institution…despite advice from several persons that GPHC was the best place for a first-time mother.
My pregnancy seemed to be a breeze for the first seven months, and the doctors never registered any concerns. The last two months were uncomfortable, with my due date being June 19th. Headaches, pains…it was all concluded to be normal. Then, the aches came during the night. My intuition told me something just wasn’t right. I contacted Dr. Jason James Ramcharan, whose opinion I am very confident in. He advised me to go to the clinic at GPHC for a checkup. By that time, my regular clinic was closed on Saturdays so on the 13th, I made a stop at the Georgetown Hospital. I was expecting to just have an examination, get some reassurance that all was well, and then be sent home. This did not mean that I wasn’t nervous. It was there that I bumped into a former schoolmate–Dr. Kashif Khan. He and I never had any sort of interaction in school but at that moment, assurance from a familiar face was what I needed.
After running some tests, it was determined they needed to admit me to monitor me overnight, my blood pressure was high, it could be risky. He told me I would be fine and made sure that I settled in while Gary went home to grab my overnight bag. It took me everything within me not to breakdown in that hospital. I was terrified. I allowed myself one short meltdown.
I expected rude nurses and uncaring doctors. Don’t ask me why. It was an implanted idea from years of screaming headlines. That was not the case. The nurses were dedicated. They provided advice and even gave me the option to choose another bed that would be more comfortable for me, since the one I was using was proving to be difficult to rest on. Then, at about 05:00 a.m., I was given some shocking news–I was hypertensive. I would need to be induced. The doctors took their time and explained the process. First, they would try the pill, then the drips if necessary, followed by puncturing my water bag. If all that failed, they would resort to my biggest fear of this entire pregnancy–a C-Section.
The process began at about 07:00 a.m. on Sunday. It hurt. A lot! I went to the labor room and after hours, it seemed the pain would not come. Nothing was happening apart from irregular and mild contractions. They continued to try. I saw several other women come into that room, labor and deliver, yet by nightfall…nothing on my end. They did membrane sweeps. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy because I wasn’t dilating past three centimeters. I resisted reflexively. They gave me the drips. By midnight, the pain came but still…I wasn’t dilating. Finally, they saw a little movement and pierced my water bag. I remember the doctors, not by their names but their patience for an impatient patient. The pain is not something would have ever imagined. I bawled, screamed, cried, and said prayers I didn’t even know I knew. I cried out for my mother, for Gary, and begged God for mercy. I thought I would die from the pain.
At some point during the night, I told my partner that if push came to shove and there was a choice, I was ready to give up. Let my baby be born however necessary, even if it costs me my life. Still, after all the other women would have gone, the one nurse that remained seemed unbothered. At some point, delirious with pain, I begged out loud for a C-Section.
Twenty-four hours passed. I was exhausted. I had given up. I felt weak, like I was hanging on to life by a breath. At about 07:00 a.m. on Monday, June 15, the nurse examined me and then whisked me into a delivery room. I can’t remember much except the pain, but the pain of delivery was less than labor. The midwife coached me through every push in a soothing voice. When I felt my baby land on my stomach, I wanted to scream in joy and relief, but the energy was only there to exhale. I thought the worst was over, I WAS WRONG!
I had second degree tearing. The process to remove the remaining placenta was excruciating and the stitches…yikes. I never want to see a gloved hand again. The doctor that fixed me up after spoke to me in a bid to distract me. That much I could tell. Then, the midwife in the most tender manner dealt with my aftercare. The pain didn’t register after I met my baby. I was in awe. But in the 24 hours that followed, it started to make its presence known. During that Monday night, I was in a lot of pain, and caring for my newborn was proving to be difficult. There was one particular nurse on the night shift, an older woman. I felt like she went out of her way to offer me comfort and guidance, making the transition to becoming a first-time mom much easier.
I lay here in bed at home writing this while I can barely turn on my own because I am compelled to admit my guilt. I am one of those persons that have been heavily critical of the public health system. However, from this experience, I can tell…the doctors and nurses are not the problem–lack of resources is the issue. I know to my heart that had I gone to my regular institution; they would have resorted to the C-Section. In those 24 hours of labor, I thought I would die, but those doctors and nurses at GPHC went above and beyond to make sure that my baby and I made it out safe and sound, and for that I am forever thankful. I wish I knew their names to thank them one day, but I was too absorbed in the pain to ask or remember.
