Induced. It’s just a word. It’s not hard to pronounce or even difficult to understand, we all know what it means, and can even insert into sentences with varying contexts in varied conversation. But, no other word can ‘induce’ the same horrors in the minds of mothers-to-be as that one little word. In. Duc. Ed. Shudder.
A friend of mine is, like me, pregnant with her first baby. She was due a week and half ago. She’s irritable, uncomfortable, aching, over it, and most of all, just desperate to meet her little one (and probably get her body back, though she’s not admitting to that). Her last check-up suggested that if she hasn’t ‘gone’ by the end of the week she’ll be induced [insert sharp intake of breath here].
For me, induction conjures images of days of frustration at home, heaving around a massive belly, with swollen face, hands and feet to match. I imagine being short-breathed, huffing and struggling to get up off the couch, wrestling with my own legs to get a pair of socks on, pointing my fat accusing finger at the next person who suggests a bath, a walk, a curry, a dose of castor oil, or God forbid, a romp… I’ll acquire glances of a pained mix of sympathy and dread from unknowing strangers, scare the poor dog with my thumping waddle on the back patio, and need help getting off the toilet seat. Then I’ll arrive at the hospital, where, in my mind, a miniature doctor whom I’ve never met cowers beneath my enormous frame, and politely attempts to insert a probe resembling a crochet hook into my vagina ‘to get things started.’ I visualise an almighty gush as my waters emerge, knocking mini Doc off his feet at the end of the bed, and immediately being overcome with a contraction so intense I could operate a small power station. At this point, I grip my poor husband by the collar and scream like a wild banshee; “get me drugs!” From there, I endure 37 hours of agonising labour before my 11lb baby tears it’s way out, leaving me with 43 stiches, haemorrhoids and a hoarse voice. Oh, but it was all worth it, of course…
Hmm, drama queen much?
Ok, so obviously not all labour inductions are like that, maybe none are like that, but, and some of you mothers reading this can probably take some accountability here; I didn’t simply imagine that story. Somewhere, at some point, more than one lady has relived an experience, centred around how hideous her labour and birth was. Why was it hideous? Not because, as you might suspect, she squeezed a 7lb baby out of a small hole, no, it was because she was induced. Because for her, it all happened too fast, or not fast enough, or she wasn’t prepared, or it felt out of control, or, or, or…
What is it about our psyche that commits us to sharing these stories? Is it a subconscious need to feel connected? To attempt educate, or warn? Maybe we want to know that there are others worse than us, and are desperate for our story to ‘topped.’ No doubt for some of us it comes from a deep seeded martyrdom fixation, and we’re probably not even aware that we’re committing that most dreadful of sins – instilling fear in others. The lesson I urge here is; when recounting your story, invoke the waiver; “but of course, it’s different for everyone.” Needless to say, this won’t end the panic that can surround this most wonderful and frightening phenomenon, but it just might help us first timers put it into some greater perspective.
Having said that, I can still employ my rational mind (sometimes) and have no reason to believe it will be outrageously awful. I am visualising a serene, natural, relaxed labour and birth experience. I’m prepared that it might not go as hoped, and realise I may need to re-assess my birth plan at some stage. Just please, please, don’t let me go over…!