SLICED AND DICED
SEX AND THE SUBURBS
Well, I’ve truly had my smug smile wiped off my face,
as I sit here sliced and diced after an emergency Caesarean. All my plans
for a natural delivery and boasts of a “supremely positive pregnancy”
have gone, quite frankly, tits up, with a sudden inexplicably detectable viral
load and a baby arriving four weeks early. That’ll teach me to have
a little humility. Or, maybe not.
I swaggered through most of the pregnancy with supreme invincibility and four
inch heels, confident I would continue to epitomise text-book-perfect positive
pregnancy. Five weeks before my baby was due, my viral load results came back
as detectable for the first time in two years, hurtling me into paroxysms
of apprehension.
Only the week before I had finally opted for a natural delivery after seven
months of ponderous vacillation. This option was now snatched away from me
and I dutifully booked in for a Caesarean, confident that I would have time
to do my Christmas shopping, conveniently slotting in the birth between wrapping
presents and eating turkey. My baby however had other plans.
I fear my labour began whilst shopping in Currys, somewhere between the Breville
sandwich makers and Teasmades. I wish of course that I had commenced labour
somewhere a little more classy, like Fortnum and Masons perhaps. But babies
are woefully insensible to the importance of status.
Minor contractions continued throughout the night (which I ignored) and into
the next day (which I put down to wind). I did the two hour school run in
labour, popped into the UKC in labour and drove to Charing Cross Hospital
in Hammersmith in labour, all the time wearing my highest heels.
My HIV doctor John was luckily more astute to the signs of labour than me
(an experienced mother of two) and was able to quickly confirm that the baby’s
head was well engaged and contractions were coming regularly.
I was bundled into the car and driven erratically to Chelsea and Westminster
Hospital by my best friend Robert who, screaming “Get out of the way!
Woman having a baby!” nearly ran over a pensioner on a zebra crossing
at 50 mph.
Once at Chelsea and Westminster I was strapped to a monitor that confirmed
that the baby was indeed on his way. My partner Paul, who had arrived equipped
with his laptop, convinced that it was a false alarm or another attempt by
me to get attention, turned ashen at the news. An ecstasy of activity followed.
As I had a detectable viral load I needed four hours of intravenous AZT before
an emergency Caesarean was performed. It wasn’t clear whether the baby
was prepared to wait that long. The midwives became agitated at the volume
of HIV healthcare professionals who appeared during those four hours. Perhaps
that’s why one of the midwives tripped over my intravenous drip twice,
with blood curdling accuracy and complained that she had never seen so many
doctors, nurses and health advisors turn up for one patient. I felt deliciously
protected by the HIV team, who stood guard over me like a pack of white-coated
rottweillers. Thank you guys, you really were amazing.
I was given something to slow down my contractions and four hours later was
wheeled into the operating theatre. I was given a “bloodless Caesarean”
(bloodless for the baby but clearly not for me), so there was a distinct aroma
of barbeque wafting around the room as the doctors sizzled away at my flesh
to prevent blood getting on the baby.
Benjamin Matthew Joshua was tugged out weighing 6lbs 7oz, with startling blue
eyes, dark, spiky hair and a shock of back and shoulder hair, reminiscent
of a tiny werewolf baby. I fell deeply, eternally in love.
I only spent three days in hospital after the birth. The diabolical hospital
food coupled with over-worked midwives who routinely gave me my medication
late, was sufficient for me to plead to be released. Again the HIV team who
continued to visit were exemplary and eventually sprung me from my incarceration.
Two weeks after the birth, Ben sleeps all day and is awake all night. I stagger
around the house like a zombie, crazed with sleep deprivation. My two older
sons have been wonderfully helpful and Paul has taken to fatherhood with aplomb.
I realise I may be a little biased, but Ben is clearly one of the most beautiful
and clever babies ever to exist (along with my other two), despite the alarming
back hair that stubbornly stays put. Who says my recent experiences should
have taught me a little humility?
