Author ALICE PUNG writes about having a baby at the Women's. Here is an excerpt from the essay that appeared in The Monthly
I am in a room in the physiotherapy department at the Royal Women’s Hospital in Melbourne with ten other women.
We’ve all been referred by our doctors, midwives and, in some cases, social workers. We range from our late teens to our early 40s, first-time mothers, second-time mothers, Turkish, Scottish, Scandinavian, and even a mum who identifies as Gypsy. I only know this because during the introduction we were asked to say our names and explain how we got them. We are all strangers to one another but the anonymity is comforting. We don’t share personal stories, because this is not therapy.
When I had mentioned to my hospital midwife some of my worries, she enrolled me in the hospital’s antenatal mindfulness course. The five-week Mind Baby Body group-learning program is facilitated by a perinatal psychiatrist, Dr Kristine Mercuri, who explains that anxiety is the most common ailment of pregnancy. Six years ago, the hospital paid for mindfulness-trained practitioners to run programs for oncology patients. Kristine then devised a similar program for pregnant women. She had studied under Professor Jon Kabat-Zinn, the creator of the Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction program that is used in hospitals worldwide, who defines mindfulness as “paying attention in a particular way: on purpose, in the present moment, and non-judgmentally”.
Kabat-Zinn’s original mindfulness program is eight weeks long, requiring one to two hours’ practice per day. This program is shorter, Kristine says, because “I couldn’t ask pregnant women who are already so busy to commit to this level of practice. Yet the great thing about pregnancy is that there’s a deadline, and having this deadline focuses women’s attention. And if they are paying attention and focused, their practice will be concentrated.”
We’re all sitting on the floor, a large plastic mat spread out in front of us, holding ice cubes in our hands, as many as we can fit into each fist. Kristine advises us when to let go of them, and when to pick them up again. First, we hold the ice for 60 seconds. It’s a cold day and the ice stings my palms, but when we’re allowed to let go, my fingers feel suddenly suffused with warmth, and I exhale with relief.
Kristine draws a diagram on the whiteboard of a series of peaked hills. She explains that these represent labour contractions, with crests being the height of pain and the dips the reprieves. “Most people are scared of pain, so in between the pain they worry about the next wave and tense up,” she says, “but if you learn how to be in the present moment, you will not fear the pain.” After a 60-second reprieve, Kristine instructs us to pick up the ice again, but this time to breathe into the stinging sensations. We are encouraged to count our breath, make a low humming voice, even smile. The more aware I am of the pain – noticing that it comes in waves – the less energy I waste in fighting it.
“When you go into labour, cover the clock,” she suggests, “because you have no control over how long your labour will take.” Kristine says that birth plans were originally intended to give women back control over the medicalisation of their delivery, but they can set up unrealistic expectations. “Your bodies know what to do,” she reassures. “It’s growing a baby without your mind having to direct itself to it.”
The program was originally intended to help women deal with the pressures of impending parenthood and pregnancy, but Kristine discovered that a lot of expectant mothers also wanted coping techniques to deal with giving birth.
“The present moment is the only time you can make appropriate decisions,” Kristine explains. “People who remain present under pressure will make better choices, instead of reacting automatically based on past experiences.”
In our final session, when Kristine takes the roll, one of the mothers in the group is already in the labour ward. We finish off with a “loving kindness” exercise, before we go our separate ways.
After the first trimester, the rest of my pregnancy is a surprisingly happy time. There are moments of worry, of course, like getting food poisoning and an eight-day migraine. There are moments of annoyance, such as being told off by my mother for transgressions I don’t understand, like walking faster than a geriatric shuffle or eating walnuts. But, on the whole, each day brings more and more energy and optimism. Sitting alone in my flat one afternoon, I have the unassailable feeling that things will work out, and, if not, then I am resilient enough to cope. I still feel a little like I have been carrying the “replacement” for lost relatives, but rather than a burden, it now feels a comfort.
I’d begun the Mind Baby Body program as emotional insurance against postnatal depression. What I did not expect is how the mindfulness practice suddenly comes to fruition when I go into labour.
My waters break on a Saturday evening after dinner at my parents’ house. My husband, Nick, and I return home, I pack a bag and we walk to the Royal Women’s Hospital, feeling excited anticipation. Something is happening, and when it does happen, it is not the worst pain I’ve ever had in my life. Who knew that 45 minutes holding melting ice in my hands could prepare me so well for the next five hours? In labour, you realise how finite your energy is. I don’t want to waste it by crying, so I start humming instead, louder with each increasing wave. I know I must sound ridiculous to the Thai woman in the next bed, the one who insisted that I wash my hair, but I no longer care. I now understand why monks chant, and cows moo. Someone arrives – I wonder if it is the nurse with the shower cap. “The nurse told me that I’d find a very happy singing patient in Bed 21,” the midwife says when she sees me, “and she was right.”
Our baby is born at 35 weeks, but when he is put on my chest, I don’t understand that he is premature and small. Because I am also small, he seems a perfect size for me. He’s a strange creature, looking up at me with one grey eye and two yellow eyebrows, one curiously raised. The other eye is stuck shut. Marvelling over his matted black hair and miniature nipples, I cannot believe that this little person folded inside me has come out in one piece. I am euphoric. I look at Nick, battle-weary, still holding my hand. Like an Olympic runner I’ve been fully concentrating on getting through the task, but patient Nick had to wait out the protracted minutes and hours as a spectator.
When the nurse takes our baby upstairs to the Newborn Intensive and Special Care (NISC) unit, my midwife Ellen gets me a sandwich and helps me into the shower afterwards. Just like my mum 34 years ago, when she gave birth to me, I cannot believe the kindness of the hospital staff. As a new mother, I am luckier, though – the nurses are looking after my baby in intensive care, I can eat the hospital food and keep it down (Mum couldn’t stomach Western food at first), and, most importantly, I can speak English. My mother once told me that when I was born and she was left alone in the room with me, I wouldn’t stop crying. Her milk hadn’t come in yet and she had no idea what to do, so she fed me Nescafé with sweetened condensed milk from a plastic spoon.
In the Victorian public hospital system, if the mother is healthy and fit, she will go home after one night’s stay. Ellen takes me to my room and tells me to rest, that a nurse will check on me soon. When the nurse comes, she hands me a card with our baby’s bed number. She says that if I can’t breastfeed him, I should still be waking up every two to three hours to hand-express milk for him. A physiotherapist comes with some handouts about pelvic floor and abdominal exercises, and advises me to begin them as soon as I can. Then a pharmacist comes with a sheet of medications and vitamins I should take. A final nurse comes and tells me about wound care, and about correct sleeping techniques for the baby to prevent cot death.
The staff at the hospital are kind, helpful and, as I can see, often stretched to their limit with the endless rotation of birthing patients. I am in very good shape, so am discharged from the hospital two days later. I walk home from the hospital with Nick, feeling a little sorry to leave, my bag heavy with printed instructions.
Our baby stays in the NISC for another week. He is in a humidicrib, and two days after his birth he has a feeding tube put in his nose because his blood glucose level is low. I wake up at six in the morning and visit him until 11 at night. I am there so he can have a feed every three hours, and I also hold him against my chest so we can bond. It feels a lot like falling in love, but without the agitation or self-doubt. For that one week I am lucky enough to do nothing but be with my baby. I’m also lucky enough to be able to return home and sleep through the night, while he is in the expert hands of the nurses. I walk home, grateful for our public health system and happy to be a taxpayer. Tax away, I think, if this is the kind of treatment every mother and child gets.
Read the full essay by Alice Pung in The Monthly