An Arabian Birth Story

Tomorrow my little girl turns 5. How did that happen? Where did the time go?

It seems like just yesterday she was born, but then life before her is a blur. A world that doesn’t seem real anymore.

In 2003, when she came into the world, we were living in Saudi Arabia. We’d been there for just over a year and thought my enforced career break (not being employable given I was female) was a good opportunity to start a family.

My pregnancy was a little stressful. There was a lot of morning sickness and a lot of vomiting right up to 31 weeks. There was also some high blood pressure and after an abnormal result on the triple test, we had an amniocentesis to find out if our baby had Down Syndrome. The results were clear, but in the ultrasound they picked up that she had talipes equinovarus (club feet) which would require treatment immediately after birth.

As the birth drew closer, the situation in neighbouring Iraq grew more and more heated. We tried to get a visa for my mother to visit for the birth, but it was impossible in that tense political state. When I was 36 weeks pregnant the US and allied forces invaded Iraq and toppled Saddam Hussein. We didn’t know how this would affect our safety in Saudi and whether the locals would direct anger or worse at the visible foreigners in their midst. We didn’t know if we would have to be evacuated from the country and if any airline would agree to fly a pregnant woman so close to term. I had always covered myself in the traditional abaya (black cloak) worn by Saudi women but for several weeks I went further and covered my head when out in public to avoid drawing attention to myself and my blonde hair.

The “official” period of the Iraq war (supposedly about 4 weeks) passed without incident and we relaxed, thinking that life would probably continue as “normal”, at least until the baby was born. 40 weeks came and went without the slightest twinge of labour pains and by 41 weeks my OB/GYN, a lovely Syrian woman would would delicately say that she was going to examine me “Down There”, was keen to get things moving.

The next day I was booked in for an induction. First thing in the morning I presented at the hospital. Weighed, poked, prodded, undressed, examined, IV inserted, enema delivered, gel applied.

So we waited. And waited. And not a lot happened for he first 6 hours. More gel applied, still nothing much - a few twinges here and there. We played a lot of backgammon and emailed our family, saying “Not yet”.

In the afternoon the doctor was keen to sweep the membranes, but apparently my body was having none of that and they broke of their own accord. The first time I had actually made a step towards having the baby without medical intervention!

That’s when things started to get interesting. Induction drugs cranked up, the contractions start making themselves known. The pain took my breath away. Like someone had put my pelvis in a vice and was tightening and tightening and tightening…

And I am only 2cm dilated. The despair and disappointment is shocking. All this for only 2cm!

Time to rethink that lofty no-drug birth plan. I don’t think I ever thought I would make it without pain relief, but it’s the thing to do, isn’t it? It’s shameful to write on your birth plan - “I don’t want to feel pain. I just want to get the baby out!”

The gas does nothing. Except make me throw up. And give me something else to concentrate on while I am desperately trying to suck enough in to actually make a dent in the pain that is coming 2 minutes apart. I give in on my “no-pethidine” stance, even though I know it will make me feel sick.

When that doesn’t work, I beg for an epidural and wait for the anathestist to be called in from his dinner table. By this stage the contractions are coming 1 minute apart, so his instructions to “hold completely still”, while he inserts the needle big enough for a horse into the precise space in my spinal column, are… well… *difficult* to comply with. It take several goes to get the needle inserted, each attempt bringing excruciating pain to rival the contractions. Once it’s in, relief is quick and I relax for the first time in about 8 hours. For a blissful hour, I labour away, happy in the knowledge that the worst of the pain has gone. That yes, I will get through this and will be having my baby soon.

But I am only 5cm dilated.

And then the epidural starts to wear off.

I receive a top up, which lasts for 15 minutes before the pain comes back. As strong as it was before the horse needle went in.

And my dilation - now 3cm.

Yes, I have gone backwards.

My OB/GYN tells me its probably because I am getting stressed and tense.

Well, I’ll just relax then shall I? After 17 hours of labour, now with no pain relief and none on offer!

Of course, you know what’s coming next, don’t you?

Caesarian delivery.

But the epidural has failed!

General anaesthetic it is, then.

The wave of relief is palpable. And end is in sight. It is the complete opposite of my birth plan, but I don’t care. The baby is coming out.

When I find out later that the time between deciding on a Caesarian under GA and being anaesthetised is 15 minutes. I am shocked. I could have sworn it was hours.

I am transferred to the operating table in the middle of a contraction. I have no idea how they managed to lift/drag my writhing, whale-like form. I remember seeing the anesthetist who I simultaneously hated for screwing up my epidural and loved for bringing the divine general anaesthetic. The last thing I remember is screeching “Just stick the f***ing thing in” at him as he fumbled with the IV tube. Those nurses tiptoed around that foul-mouthed foreign lady the next day, I tell you. Nothing like those quiet Saudi women.

Minutes, hours later (no sense of time) I wake up whilst being wheeled to recovery.

Rocky is there with a little bundle wrapped in pink.

The most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

I stayed in hospital for a few days until the stitches could come out. Feeding was difficult to establish, but we got there in the end. Rocky was keen to get away from the hospital environment and get home to start creating a new normal. I was…nervous and apprehensive about leaving the security of a team of medical staff. The day we arrived home, he bustled around the house like an excitable child, while I quietly freaked out at this immense responsibility. The first 12 hours were a dream - Guerita ate and slept like an angel. Then all hell broke loose and she realised we had no idea what we were doing. The second night at home culminated in a midnight dash to the supermarket for formula after all latching and expressing attempts ended in tears from Mother and Baby.

We settled into some sort of routine over the next few days and the feeding started to sort itself out. We were too preoccupied with our new bundle of joy to think of life outside the walls of our house.

So we were surprised to be awoken one morning, about a week after she was born, by a phone call from a relative in New York, making sure we were OK and hoping we weren’t affected by the latest terrorist attack. A militant group, affiliated with Al Q, had driven explosive filled trucks into a residential compound in another city, gunning down the security guards and detonating their bombs in an effort to take out as many westerners and western-sympathisers living there. 35 people were killed and 160 people injured, including a colleague of Rocky’s, a friendly Canadian bloke we had had dinner with a few months before.

Although the attack took place in another city to where we lived, the targeted compound was very similar to ours and almost immediately the security around our gates was increased ten-fold. Every time we left the house and saw the concrete bollards and National Guard with rifles trained we were reminded of what might have been; what could happen. We could barely make sense of it through the fog of caring for a newborn.

For the next month we carried on our tense existence, counting down the days till our planned trip back to Perth to show off the new baby. Rocky kick-started his job search while were home; by this stage we were eager to cut our 2 year contract short. Thankfully, he found work quickly and we returned to Saudi for one month to pack our house and move on.

Looking back on Guerita’s birth, it all seems a bit unreal. For so many reasons it was not a “normal” or straightforward experience.

Thankfully, my second attempt was much less dramatic.