by Gem Joyce

Created on: June 16, 2008

Why is it that there seems to be a cloak of silence surrounding child birth? While I was pregnant with my first (and only) child I was terrified about the labour and would ask any woman with children, wide-eyed and hopeful for good news, "is it really that painful?" I never got a straight answer though; they'd always go all dreamy and reply they don't really remember the pain, "Once I saw Little Harry/Jilly/Junior I just forgot all about the labour... it really is magical!"

I was not convinced and watching those reality birthing programmes did nothing to convince me that I wasn't about to experience something quite horrendous. Well, ladies and gentlemen I'm about to blow that dreamy little cover of "magical" and tell the truth about labour. And yes, it does hurt. It really hurts.

My baby decided he was ready to make an appearance two weeks before I was expecting him. The first sign of imminent child-arrival was my waters breaking. I'd always imagined a slight trickle, a gentle passing of about an egg-cupful of fluid, not the Niagara Falls that actually erupted. I shan't go into intimate detail (at least not this early in the story), but I will tell you that queuing to buy previously forgotten cotton wool from Boots with amniotic fluid dribbling down both legs is not the most dignified way to begin a supposedly "magical" experience.

At this stage I'd had no contractions but went along to the hospital to be checked out anyway as advised. The particular hospital I was heading for is right next to the centre of a lovely town and, due to the fact I was not (due) and the lack of contractions, I had every intention of popping to the hospital then heading off for a bit of shopping then perhaps even a spot of lunch if I could stem the amniotic tidal wave of course. This was not to be the case, for as I arrived at the hospital my distended midriff suddenly tightened. I was quite excited; my first contraction! And it didn't hurt at all! Phew, I thought, all that worrying and it turns out those dreamy post-birth mothers weren't lying after all.

How wrong could I be?!

Fast forward a few hours and there I was on all fours screaming bloody murder and begging for the epidural that I'd so glibly decided when drawing up my birth-plan would not be needed. "Sod the plan," I sobbed, "give me drugs, whatever you've got." The midwife looked at with an expression I can only describe as pity and informed me "There's far to worse to come yet dear, I'll get you some paracetemol." Paracetemol?

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