Giving birth leaves a woman at her most vulnerable. Yet it is also a time for joy — and an opportunity for family members to rally round. ...
Giving birth leaves a woman at her most vulnerable. Yet it is also a time for joy — and an opportunity for family members to rally round.
But when you’re having a baby in the middle of a pandemic, all bets are off.
This week, families and partners have been banned from many delivery wards; visits from healthcare staff are being cancelled in some areas; some home births have been moved to hospitals because ambulances are needed for Covid-19 patients; and even basic care is under pressure. The Royal College of Midwives is pleading with NHS bosses to ring-fence maternity provision as it was revealed one in five midwifery posts are unstaffed. In the midst of the biggest peacetime crisis ever faced in modern Britain, each story of new life is extraordinary . . .
I SOBBED SILENTLY IN THE DARK WITH MY SON IN MY ARMS
TV producer Sammy Summers, 30, and husband Wayne have one son, Teddy, born on March 8.
Sammy Summers, 30, who was told that her husband couldn't sleep on the ward with her, had a traumatic birth and required a blood transfusion. Pictured: Sammy with baby Teddy
Sitting at home alone with my baby, while my husband Wayne drove from shop to shop for two hours, desperately searching for formula milk, not for the first time I wept with sadness and anger.
Thanks to people stockpiling formula then selling it on eBay for inflated prices, I’m terrified I won’t be able to feed Teddy.
I spent nine months imagining how magical it would be bringing our baby home. Instead, it’s been the most frightening time of my life. Leading up to Teddy’s birth I wasn’t particularly anxious about Covid-19. UK infection and death rates were so much lower, it didn’t feel too serious.
But after I went into labour, I was told rules around visitors had changed and my husband couldn’t sleep on the ward with me. I had a traumatic birth and required a blood transfusion. I didn’t sleep a wink that night, silently sobbing in the darkness with Teddy in my arms.
I spent four days in hospital and it was halfway through my stay, around March 10, that I felt a perceptible shift. Staff were visibly anxious, having whispered conversations, and if someone coughed everyone would look at them.
Our families met Teddy the day after we brought him home; the first and last time for the foreseeable future. The next day my community midwife told me we had to completely isolate to protect Teddy. Exhausted, in pain from labour and hormonal, closing the door on our support network was devastating.
Neither the midwife nor health visitor has been able to visit since Teddy was five days old so I have no idea if he’s thriving like he should.
Wayne and I are both incredibly anxious and tired. At night I sit feeding Teddy wondering, when will this terrible time end? I feel so protective of Teddy and sad I brought him into the world at a time when he’s at so much risk.
AS A DAD, I’M LUCKY TO BE IN LOCKDOWN WITH MY NEWBORN
Author and wellbeing expert Charlie Hoare, 36, and his partner Pip have a seven-week-old daughter, Willow.
Charlie Hoare, 36, admits he and his partner were paranoid, after hearing about an eight case of COVID-19 being confirmed at West Sussex Health Trust. Pictured: Pip, Willow and Charlie
Just 36 hours after Pip gave birth we were back in hospital with our brand new daughter uncontrollably shaking. This was terrifying in itself — but we’d also heard on the news that an eighth case of COVID-19 had been confirmed in our West Sussex Health Trust. Paranoid and lathered in hand sanitizer, we waited for the test results, which thankfully showed she was simply very dehydrated.
We’d had a complicated pregnancy — reduced movement scans, a bacterial infection and a last-minute breech presentation. A pandemic was the last thing we needed.
Our 6lb 11oz little girl, Willow, arrived two weeks before her due date; perhaps she knew it was best to make an early arrival. It was the best day of my life. I usually struggle to express emotions, but it hit me like a ton of bricks — I was sobbing.
And, during lockdown, we have a wonderful opportunity to bond as a new family. It’s a privilege to be snuggling up at home.
There are drawbacks: healthcare appointments are over the phone, and the main outside social contact Willow is getting is video calling. Our NCT catch-ups consist of ‘House Party’ calls with eight babies babbling.
We remain paranoid about going back into hospital. We had to go back for Willow to have a hip scan last week and I was forced to sit in the car — only Pip could go in.
But Willow gave me her first smile the other day, which was a moment of pure joy. Were it not for the lockdown I might not have seen it.
I’VE STOCKPILED BREAST MILK IN CASE I GET ILL
Writer Laura Topham, 39 and husband Douglas have a nine-week-old son, Elijah.
Laura Topham, 39, who has been stockpiling breast milk, fears the lockdown has reduced her nine-week-old son, Elijah's stimulation. Pictured: Laura with Elijah
When I looked forward to having a baby, this is not what I imagined: staying inside a small London flat with only a balcony for outdoor space and being unable to introduce Elijah to friends and family.
His first FaceTime attempt — with my godparents — was aborted after 15 seconds when he vomited all over me. Before the lockdown, I would take him out in his pram to get him to sleep. Now, after my one walk outside, I crunch the furniture together and wheel him round the kitchen table, cringing when I crash into a chair leg and jolt him awake.
It reminds me of Room, the hit book-turned-film in which a boy spends his childhood trapped in a small room with his mother. When he finally escapes he is overwhelmed by the outside world.
At two months, Elijah is starting to construct an image of the world, which right now extends to a bedroom and open plan living room/kitchen. For him, only two people exist, his mother and father. He will not be held by anyone else for a long time; maybe not before his first birthday. When he encounters other people — other children — I don’t know how he’ll respond.
The shutdown has also reduced his stimulation. Gone are the brain-boosting baby classes; gone are the chats with grandma; gone are the weekly visits from the health visitor.
I haven’t stockpiled food or nappies but realised I have, in fact, been ‘prepping’ breastmilk. Sorting out the freezer, I counted over 30 bags of frozen milk, expressed in case I get ill (or worse).
Friends postponed their babies’ immunisations, but I’m more grateful than ever for the vaccinations that do exist. He had his first lot last week —the doctor’s surgery was eerily silent and empty.
But overall, there is no better antidote for corona-worry than a baby; a few days ago, lying awake anxious at 3am, I peered into his cot and found him beaming up at me.
He looked so happy and gorgeous, all I could feel was joy. The gratitude I feel to have him, and deep love, is a huge tonic.
LIVELY CHARLIE IS BOUNCING OFF THE WALLS
Cookery writer Sarah Rainey, 32, and her husband Michael have one son Charlie, 11 months.
Sarah Rainey, 32, and her husband Michael decided to leave their South-East London flat, to spend lockdown with their in-laws. Pictured: Sarah with son Charlie, 11 months
There hasn’t been a single day since my son, Charlie, was born 11 months ago, that we haven’t gone outside. Even as a tiny baby, he loved feeling the breeze on his face and grass between his chubby toes.
My husband and I live in a cramped, two-bedroom flat in South-East London, and with no garden the nearby parks were our salvation.
But for a week, we were stuck indoors. Michael’s lost his sense of smell, I had a dry cough, and even Charlie seemed under the weather. So we were self-isolating — and going slowly mad.
Charlie, even ill, is a whirling dervish of energy, literally bouncing off the walls.
The idea of working from home was a joke, and my husband’s conference calls were punctuated by piercing exclamations of ‘Dada!’, our stir-crazy toddler’s favourite word.
I spent my days scooting round on hands and knees as he felled everything in his path, and only just managed to stop him from pulling a bookcase down on himself when I turned my back for a second to take a work call. With a pounding headache and lack of sleep from worrying, it was a pretty painful seven days.
Mercifully, I have generous (young, healthy) in-laws who live in the country — so we eventually packed our car and left London for a while.
There’s a lot more space here (and we’re steering firmly clear of them for the time being). Charlie’s already tried to paint the dog and had a mammoth tantrum when I stopped him playing with electrical cables, but we’re getting by.
Every morning I stand at the window with him in my arms and Charlie waves to the birds in the tree across the road.
I wish he could understand this state of affairs isn’t for ever, and soon we’ll be back to normal, in our little flat, near the park with the ducks and the boats on the river.
My husband and I are trying to make the most of isolation, this unexpected wealth of time together. Mealtimes, baths and bedtimes are much easier with two pairs of hands, we’re on our third Scandi thriller and I’m determined my mother-in-law is going to teach me to knit.
At least there’s never a dull (or quiet) moment; Charlie makes sure of that.
MY MIRACLE PREGNANCY FEELS LIKE A TIMEBOMB
Author and presenter Emma Woolf, 40, is six months pregnant and newly single.
Emma Woolf, 40, (pictured) who is six months pregnant, revealed most of her routine check-ups are now being done over the phone
For every pregnant woman the 20-week scan is a milestone: for me it was also the day the UK went into lockdown.
At 20-weeks you’re over halfway. But leaving hospital, clutching a grainy image of the five-month-old baby inside me, I had no one to share the moment with.
And yet just being pregnant is a miracle for me. I’ve been trying for years, and suffered a devastating pregnancy loss last year (a son, at six months). Having recently turned 40, I was facing the emptiness of never becoming a mother. Now, my miracle baby feels like a timebomb. I’m due to give birth in July, but I wonder whether we’ll still have a functioning NHS by that time.
Virtually all my routine check-ups have been transferred to phone, although my midwives are supportive via text, and I can still enter the hospital for antenatal scans.
I’m also doing this alone, having broken up with my fiancé at the start of the year. When I found out I was pregnant again it forced me to confront difficult truths: was this the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with?
Many relationships don’t survive the death of a baby and now I understand why — there was so much unspoken grief on both sides.
There are existential fears too. Strangely though, the little things upset me more — rites of passage I won’t be able to share with girlfriends, no shopping for baby clothes, no antenatal classes. In the midst of coronavirus, this is trivial. But there is still a sense of loss.
I’m lucky enough to have people I can ‘connect with’ over social media but nothing comes close to human contact, a cuppa and a cuddle.
My baby has started kicking. Feeling every magical wriggle, I can’t share it with anyone. But it’s still special — and a reminder that, however far away the rest of the world feels, I’m not alone.
I GAVE BIRTH, THEN CHECKED MY TESCO DELIVERY SLOT
Author Lucy Tobin, 33, and her husband have sons aged four and two and a daughter Emily, ten days old.
Lucy Tobin, 33, said the hospital's birthing centre that she was desperate to use, was closed due to midwife shortages. Pictured: Lucy with daughter Emily, ten days old
As an expert worrier, I thought I’d imagined all the things that could go wrong with my pregnancy. I must confess, though, that giving birth while the world battled a pandemic hadn’t crossed my mind.
As my March 20 due date approached, I kept holding my belly, mentally willing my baby to come speedily so I could be back to the safety of home.
My amazing midwife visited me at home and kept updating me on the latest procedures, the isolation rooms for mums infected by COVID-19 and I imagined giving birth surrounded by hazmat suits. I went into labour at 10pm on the eve of my due date. The Whittington Hospital, in North London, had coronavirus warning signs and the midwife took my temperature and asked about any cough. I worried, though, that no one asked my husband the same questions.
The hospital’s birthing centre, I’d been desperate to use, was closed due to midwife shortages. The labour ward was full, too. Still in triage, my waters broke. Two minutes later my baby was born on a trolley, at 1am on her due date.
I was overjoyed. I kissed her tiny head and mentally apologised for the scary world she had arrived into.
As I lay dazed with my newborn on my chest, I logged into my Tesco app to see if any delivery slots had become available. I couldn’t risk running out of food or nappies.
Emily and I were discharged before lunchtime. I felt a mixture of happiness, fear of the virus, and sadness that we couldn’t properly introduce her to family and friends. We’re hoping we can soon all be reunited in a healthy world.
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