Piles and the Sanctity of Motherhood

With a new(ish) baby in the family and a happy announcement from a very dear friend, I find myself reminiscing about previous confinements. Hubby gets all nervous when I start on this one, fingers in ears and la-la ing like a crazy loon! I'm not broody, but like many a lady I love to wax lyrical about pregnancy and childbirth. (Run for the hills, boys, you know what's coming). However, when I start this conversation with any of my fellow mums it often turns into a sketch from Monty Python, for when called upon to recall these experiences we find ourselves vying for the 'worst birth experience possible' like manic teenage pageant princesses! "I was in labour for 36 hours and went through 3 canisters of gas and air"....."I broke my husband's hand/jaw/pelvis"....."I was in labour so long thay called Guiness"..."You had it easy: I was in labour for 56 hours, survived a car crash, had to be induced and then had to have an emergency caesarian and 'got up at 4 o'clock in the mornin' to lick road clean wi' t' tongue'!"

We range from pure martydom; "Oh, maybe just a little gas and air then – to ease my discomfort", to utter hedonism; "GIVE ME THE DRUGS!"

With my first, I had been in labour for a millenium, sucking on gas and air so hard my eyeballs were inflating, when my wonderful midwife murmered in my ear "you might want to think about an epidural, that way you can get some sleep and I think we might go to an emergency section in which case you'll be prepared for surgery".

Oh, to sleep. I'd have been happy with a forty wink catnap on the floor for just a few moments respite.

The anaesthetist arrived and asked me to try and hold still whilst she inserted a 7 inch long needle into my spine. Keep still? I'm sitting on the edge of the bed leaning over a bump like a medicine ball with epilepsy. And then the jobsworth jinxed the whole thing with her spiel, starting with the ubiquitous statement " this might scratch a little" and trailing off into, "Oh and by the way 1 in 3000 women are sometimes left with a pocket of pain.............."

Once again the medical profession astounded me with it's mastery of understatement.

 Pocket of pain? POCKET of pain? What unearthly garment supported a pocket of these proportions? And how come I was voted the One in 3000?

Sleep? I could barely keep a grip on the gas and air mouthpiece, let alone sleep!

I remember glancing over at the spectre that had once been my hubby and thinking, I wonder if he's eaten his cheese and pickle sandwiches yet?

3 years later we decided to go through it all again!

With the wisdom and wordliness of seasoned parents, about a month before my due date, we shipped our first-born off to nanny so that we could enjoy a romantic evening together before the onslaught of sleepless nights and formula. But on the journey home I realised all was not quite as it should be in the, how can I put this delicately?.... haemorroid department. So much so that I took myself along to the GP.

Her audible gasp heralded not only her complete lack of professionlism, but the start of the worst evening of the entire pregnancy. The GP phoned ahead to A&E. I was bustled into a mixed ward full of the sick and dying and left for a couple of hours with my feet raised. Hubby was sent home and I settled into waddling between my bed and the day room, racked with sobs of self pity.

Then I was made the fortunate recipient of the pinnacle of the NHS' s innovation, engineering and technology: a diposable glove filled with water and a knot tied in it, fresh from the freezer. "There you go dear, pop that on them and see if the swelling goes down".

I spent the next couple of hours foetal on the bed with what felt like a dead hand nestling my 'Ronnie Corbetts'.

The following morning the consultant arrived to see me. Sporting the prerequisite yellow paisley waistcoat and matching bow-tie, he came to the head of the bed followed by an entourage of six white-coated, clip-boarded, bespectacled students who formed an orderly horseshoe at the foot of my bed, pens poised. " You don't mind if a couple of the student doctors take a look at your bottom, do you?" he ventured. Well, 18 hours of discomfort, disappointment, displeasure, despair and demeaning glove antics exploded to the surface in volcanic proportions of utter disgust with, "Yes I ****ing do mind!!!!" At which point, wide eyed, they all obediently scuttled out through the curtains to wait in the corridor.

And that is, I am pleased to say, in fact, the one and only time the medical profession has ever been on the receiving end of my expletives, in spite of the numerous times I have been on the receiving end of their endlessly painful and humiliating procedures!

Would I do it all again? Not on your Nelly! I am far too old and wise now. All I have to deal with these days is a genius but bored 9 year old, a hormonal teenage girl and an insomniac of a husband. Go back to all those sleepless nights and difficult, clingy, needy children? You must be joking........

*rhyming slang – sore bits