Just like an ant bite

At around 9am on 22 May, my waters broke. I was still exhausted from having slept very little the night before and tried (weakly) to wring out a few more precious minutes of sleep from the morning. My tummy was enormous (recall Doc Rabner's sagely observation, "This is not a small baby.") and I was at the mercy of gravity and a very insistent foetus. Anne had a clearly articulated preference for the left side: whenever I rolled onto my right (to get the circulation going), she would fidget and squirm as if the sky were falling. So I was pleasantly surprised when I managed to manoeuvre out of bed and into the loo rather neatly when the gush came.

I rang Ste, who had gotten to the office a little while before, and started putting last minute items into my hospital bag. The contractions were very mild all the way till the late afternoon, when I skinny dipped in the hot bath - the water was at a comfortable temperature and was carefully scented with ylang ylang essential oil ("I thought you might like that scent because you're Asian," said the midwife). The most unpleasant thing up to that point were the invasive vaginal checks. As the pain intensified, I buttressed my deep breathing with an indiscriminate selection off the drug cocktail menu: from homeopathic medication (the most harmless-looking little white balls which are, in reality, the most harmless and useless little white balls of ****) to Buscopan, to the eventual call for the almighty epidural.

And that's when the real action began. The anaesthetist was a senior member of staff and introduced himself warmly. He explained the procedure at some length, then told me to bend forward as low as I could (while seated, with my legs dangling off the side of the bed) so that he could find The Spot to inject in my spine. He got into position behind me, while the midwife and Ste stood next to the bed. I leaned over as far as I could ... but it wasn't enough. I tried again. And again. And again. But couldn't get low enough. We kept trying ... half an hour passed ... then an hour. A nurse would pop in ever so often with a telephone message for the good doctor. Ste told me later that his wife was trying to reach him, and that they probably had tickets to go to the opera or something.

I just remember thinking what a circus it was right there in the delivery room: me, the immobilised, elephantine mass in the centre of the rink, draped in generous amounts of last season's Hospital Robe and held down by two determined keepers. Ste was on my right, gallantly pulling my arm down, and the first midwife was on the left, tugging at the other arm. The second midwife stood on a chair in front of me and pressed her elbows down onto my shoulders. So hard that I could barely breathe. Someone was counting out loud ... people were telling me to bend over ... the automated blood pressure band would inflate, stop the circulation to my left hand (really annoying) ... and ever so often I said, "Stop! Contraction ..." whereupon all activity would cease, till the pain passed. Then the routine would begin again. Doc Rawlings had injected me a number of times, but was dissatisfied with something or other each time. The encouraging, cheerleading tone we'd first started out with turned into agitation and frustration after an hour. No one had said anything harsh to me; they didn't have to. I was very nearly distraught by that time - shaking from the nerves and from the pricks to (the nerves in) my spinal column. I felt dejected and defeated. The strength I had derived from everyone's encouragement and praise (for my stoic composure) in the first half of the day evaporated ... leaving me bone tired and lost. We carried on like that for another hour.

Finally, and I don't even remember how or when or what was different that time, it happened. Alicia Altorfer-Ong was epiduralised. Doc Rawlings, evidently as relieved as I was (except perhaps for the fracas that would ensue re: the missed opera when he got home) came round to my side of the bed and wished me all the best for the rest of the delivery. He had maintained his composure throughout (observed Ste), though he chuckled (in German, to Ste) as he was leaving that this was the hardest case he'd faced in 20 years on the job. I simply felt broken and wasn't sure if I could take whatever else was to come.