That evening after my MRI scan, I felt totally exhausted. Ian and I sat in the day room watching Coronation Street but I just wanted my bed. A discomfort in my abdomen that I had been aware of all day had started to worsen. I waddled back down to my room but by now I could hardly bear to sit down. The pain was worsening by the second. Ian helped me onto the bed and went to find a midwife. I'm not sure exactly what he said to her, maybe there wasn't enough urgency in his voice. All I know is that she didn't come quick enough. I remember seeing her sauntering down the corridor chatting away to a student midwife as I writhed around the bed in pain, my bump now beginning to feel like it was on fire. I had never felt pain like it.
Things began to happen very quickly after this and my memory of it all starts to become a bit patchy. So forgive me if this post may seem a little disjointed. Maybe the patchiness is because of the drugs they started to plough into me or maybe it's because remembering it all is just too painful. I suppose that's why they say you repress your most painful, traumatic memories. A coping mechanism, perhaps.
The midwife came and once she could see what was happening she began to act with a bit more pace. She did my observations, my heart rate had risen to over 130bpm and my temperature was now over 38 degrees. As a nurse I knew these figures weren't good, especially paired with the pain and the fact I felt like I was going into labour. The next thing I remember was a Dr telling me that they suspected sepsis, which I later found out stemmed from me developing chorioamnionitis (an infection of the womb). She also said that I was now 1cm dilated. She told me that this was it now basically, my baby had to be born. The next person to enter the room was the anaesthetist. She talked at me about epidurals and general anaesthetics but I couldn't take in what she was saying. I told her that I didn't want to be awake through this and she agreed that because of the infection, a general anaesthetic was the safest option.
At about 11pm I was transferred. I remember passing a new mum cradling her newborn baby as I was wheeled onto the delivery suite. I knew that wasn't going to be me. This was meant to be such a happy time, not a living nightmare. I remember feeling awful for not ringing my Mum to tell her what was happening but I couldn't bear to wake her up at midnight. If she was asleep she was oblivious too all of this and that to be honest felt like the kindest thing to do. An influx of Drs and midwives ensued. More bloods were taken and another cannula was inserted into my hand. Intravenous antibiotics and fluids were pushed through my veins. The Dr that was to perform the c-section came in and went through the consent form with me. I recall her telling me that if it didn't go to plan and there was difficulty getting my baby and the tumour out, my womb could become damaged and a hysterectomy would be the only option. I was absolutely petrified. A mobile scanner was brought in to check that she was still transverse. The neonatal consultant arrived and told me that his team were ready to go into theatre to try and save my baby. He told me that if she couldn't be saved then she would be for "comfort care" and that she would be placed in my arms. It was at this moment that I realised I may never get to see my little girl alive. Everyone else in that theatre would get to see her apart from me because I would be under a general anaesthetic. Life had become so cruel. The next person to enter the room was a consultant anaesthetist, someone who I will be eternally grateful for seeing that night. I told him I wanted to be awake to meet my little girl and he said that although a general is what they usually do in cases of infection, in my case a spinal would be the right thing to do.
So off I went, into theatre. Ian told me later that day that there were 16 members of staff in theatre that night. 16 people with different specialities and different skills, all with one thing in mind; saving me and my precious little girl.
So, with Ian holding my hand on one side and the anaesthetist reassuring me on the other, at 00:56 on the 26th May 2018, we welcomed our first born, Tilly, to the world.
She was whisked away to the neonatal team in the corner of the room immediately but after only a few minutes the Dr came over and told Ian and I that they weren't going to be able to save her. She was brought over to me wrapped in blankets and placed on my chest. She was moving her little head and I could feel her breath on my cheek. She was the most beautiful little life I had ever seen and I felt so proud to be her mum.
She lived for just 34 minutes before passing away peacefully. It may sound strange to say that I feel lucky but I do, I feel lucky for every single one of those minutes that Ian and I got to spend with her.
Things began to happen very quickly after this and my memory of it all starts to become a bit patchy. So forgive me if this post may seem a little disjointed. Maybe the patchiness is because of the drugs they started to plough into me or maybe it's because remembering it all is just too painful. I suppose that's why they say you repress your most painful, traumatic memories. A coping mechanism, perhaps.
The midwife came and once she could see what was happening she began to act with a bit more pace. She did my observations, my heart rate had risen to over 130bpm and my temperature was now over 38 degrees. As a nurse I knew these figures weren't good, especially paired with the pain and the fact I felt like I was going into labour. The next thing I remember was a Dr telling me that they suspected sepsis, which I later found out stemmed from me developing chorioamnionitis (an infection of the womb). She also said that I was now 1cm dilated. She told me that this was it now basically, my baby had to be born. The next person to enter the room was the anaesthetist. She talked at me about epidurals and general anaesthetics but I couldn't take in what she was saying. I told her that I didn't want to be awake through this and she agreed that because of the infection, a general anaesthetic was the safest option.
At about 11pm I was transferred. I remember passing a new mum cradling her newborn baby as I was wheeled onto the delivery suite. I knew that wasn't going to be me. This was meant to be such a happy time, not a living nightmare. I remember feeling awful for not ringing my Mum to tell her what was happening but I couldn't bear to wake her up at midnight. If she was asleep she was oblivious too all of this and that to be honest felt like the kindest thing to do. An influx of Drs and midwives ensued. More bloods were taken and another cannula was inserted into my hand. Intravenous antibiotics and fluids were pushed through my veins. The Dr that was to perform the c-section came in and went through the consent form with me. I recall her telling me that if it didn't go to plan and there was difficulty getting my baby and the tumour out, my womb could become damaged and a hysterectomy would be the only option. I was absolutely petrified. A mobile scanner was brought in to check that she was still transverse. The neonatal consultant arrived and told me that his team were ready to go into theatre to try and save my baby. He told me that if she couldn't be saved then she would be for "comfort care" and that she would be placed in my arms. It was at this moment that I realised I may never get to see my little girl alive. Everyone else in that theatre would get to see her apart from me because I would be under a general anaesthetic. Life had become so cruel. The next person to enter the room was a consultant anaesthetist, someone who I will be eternally grateful for seeing that night. I told him I wanted to be awake to meet my little girl and he said that although a general is what they usually do in cases of infection, in my case a spinal would be the right thing to do.
So off I went, into theatre. Ian told me later that day that there were 16 members of staff in theatre that night. 16 people with different specialities and different skills, all with one thing in mind; saving me and my precious little girl.
So, with Ian holding my hand on one side and the anaesthetist reassuring me on the other, at 00:56 on the 26th May 2018, we welcomed our first born, Tilly, to the world.
She was whisked away to the neonatal team in the corner of the room immediately but after only a few minutes the Dr came over and told Ian and I that they weren't going to be able to save her. She was brought over to me wrapped in blankets and placed on my chest. She was moving her little head and I could feel her breath on my cheek. She was the most beautiful little life I had ever seen and I felt so proud to be her mum.
She lived for just 34 minutes before passing away peacefully. It may sound strange to say that I feel lucky but I do, I feel lucky for every single one of those minutes that Ian and I got to spend with her.
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