From the moment I found out I was pregnant, I knew I wanted to hypnobirth. I wanted to be as prepared as possible with no regrets, no hindsight. I confidently worked through my birth preferences, planning for every eventuality. My husband was fully on board, ready to advocate for me.
At 39 weeks, I had just finished putting my daughter to bed while my husband cooked dinner. I went to the bathroom before heading downstairs to sit on my birth ball. Suddenly, I felt a release, followed by a warm wetness.
"I can’t have wet myself—I’ve just been to the loo!" I thought.
Standing up, I had my classic movie moment, my waters gushed everywhere. I rushed back upstairs to the toilet while my husband grabbed fresh clothes for me and called triage. They reassured us that since labour hadn’t started, I should rest.
Knowing I needed to get my oxytocin flowing, we curled up on the sofa, watching a comedy and eating dinner (which, by then, had to be microwaved). The lights were dim, the excitement was building, and we indulged in chocolate fueled anticipation.
I decided to get an early night, wanting to conserve energy after a long labour with my first baby. But in the middle of the night, I woke to intense surges.
"Oh, this must feel different because my waters didn’t break last time," I reasoned.
I managed to drift in and out of sleep between surges. Eventually, I knew I was progressing quickly and told my husband to call triage. Following my instructions, he made the call, but forgot to mention I was hypnobirthing.
When the midwife asked if I had taken paracetamol and he said no, she casually responded, “She can’t be that far along then.”
Realising things were moving fast, I told my husband to call my mum to help with our daughter. By the time she arrived, I was mooing through contractions, trying to decide whether to stay home or head to the hospital.
My husband bundled me into the car, started my playlist, and drove through the empty early morning streets. As we arrived, I told him to drop me at the entrance while he parked.
I half expected someone to come and get me, but instead, I found myself bearing down, right there on the curbside.
Out of nowhere, my husband appeared with a wheelchair and whisked me up to the labour ward. They barely had time to get my knickers down before I was pushing my baby out. Somehow, I managed to climb onto the bed, get on all fours, and within a few pushes, he was born.
I scooped him up before the midwife could rub off his beautiful vernix and held him close to my chest. I had this overwhelming urge to nurse him, and he latched immediately.
I opted for a natural third stage, enjoying skin-to-skin cuddles. Over an hour passed, but with the cord now white and still, I was eager to get home. I decided to have the oxytocin injection to speed up placenta delivery.
It arrived in no time, and after a quick check, I asked if there was any medical reason I had to stay. The midwife, surprised, said no.
So, just like that, we were discharged and home in time for lunch, baby in arms, heart full, and a birth experience I will forever cherish.
