When I first fell pregnant with my daughter Daisy, I imagined myself giving birth inside a hospital or birthing centre, like most people I knew.  

It just seemed like the done thing.  But then the pandemic worsened, and I began to hear stories of birth partners being banned from labour wards.  

Rich, my fiancé (now husband), had already had to miss all my scans and appointments because of Covid and that had been tough.

I’d had some bleeding at the start of my pregnancy, when we’d been told by a midwife that there was a 50% chance of losing the baby in the first trimester. Lying on the bed waiting for the scan technician to tell me everything was fine was even more nerve-wracking without Rich there.

After going through that, doing what I’d heard was one of the most intense experiences possible without the support of someone I love did not appeal.  

So, I rented out an inflatable birthing pool from the charity Hackney Home Birth and started planning to give birth to my daughter in our living room, where Rich’s presence was virtually guaranteed.  

I’d never considered a home birth before Covid and knew nobody else who’d had one, so the idea felt very alien. But once we had decided on it, I felt excited at the prospect. 

I found out that home births meant a lower likelihood of having an intervention like a C-section, episiotomy or forceps.

But if I did end up needing a C-section, I was told the time it would take to get to hospital from my house was the same amount of time it took to prep the room for surgery.

And I discovered that all my midwife appointments would be within my own home, which, during the height of the pandemic, was a relief. 

The evening I went into labour at home, I had some mild cramping pains. Unsure if it was just one of many false alarms I’d already experienced, I carried on as normal.  

Around 10 o’clock at night, Rich and I got into bed and, as was our time-honoured night-time pregnancy tradition, he started to read me the birthing affirmations we had been given from the hypnobirthing instructor who was helping us to prepare for a home birth.  

I found hypnobirthing, a method of pain management used for birth that includes a mixture of visualisation, relaxation and deep breathing, helpful for preparing myself mentally for labour.

It was particularly useful in terms of its emphasis on relaxing the body through breathing and accepting – rather than resisting – the pain (easier said than done).

However, I do find a minority of its cheerleaders can lean towards shaming women who choose or must by necessity have a medicalised birth, which I think is unfair.

Pregnancy and birth can be difficult enough without external pressure and perfectionism being placed on those going through it. How to give birth is a highly personal decision. 

No sooner had Rich started dutifully declaring the affirmations, ‘my body is designed to do this’ and ‘I trust my instincts’, I realised the pain had become too intense to remain vertical. I jumped out of bed. The time had come. I felt exhilarated but also slightly alarmed, I’d been expecting to go to sleep and now I was in labour.

We rushed downstairs and Rich started inflating the pool and setting up the fairy lights and tealight candles, which we had read would help create an atmosphere conducive to a positive experience of birth.  

Every few minutes I would call out and he’d drop whatever water pump or other contraption he was holding and leap over to massage my lower back during another contraction (or surge as the hypnobirthing woman had called them) pulsed through my body.

Having him there as support helped keep me calm and I felt so grateful for his presence. I know I would have struggled without him reassuring me I could do it.

I very quickly found myself swearing and yelling out in pain, hoping the neighbours weren’t too concerned about what was going on behind our all-too-thin wall.   

We had been told many times by books, midwives, and antenatal classes that during labour, couples often call the midwife or go into hospital too early.  

So even after my contractions started merging into one another, through the sheer force of shared denial, we both put off giving our NHS home birth midwife a ring.   

When we did finally call, I was very far along. It was Rich who took the initiative when he realised I was no longer able to speak.

It was the middle of the night so our midwife answered from bed sounding sleepy. She asked Rich if we were sure we weren’t ringing too early, obviously assuming we were in the camp of couples who call too hastily, as opposed to those who refuse to admit the reality of their situation until the very last minute. 

Still sceptical, she asked to put me on the phone, but when Rich held the mobile up to my mouth all I could respond with was a guttural groan. 

There was a short pause, followed by a quiet voice saying, ‘OK I’m on my way’. 

Rich filled up the inflatable birth pool but, in his haste, accidentally made it boiling hot. While I got into our full upstairs bathtub as a stopgap to ease the pain, he and one of the midwives poured bags of ice cubes into the one downstairs.  

Finally, the temperature was just right. The midwife explained gently that it was time to go downstairs and get in. The real bath I was in, she explained, was too small and it would be hard for her to see what was going on.  

At the stage of labour I was in, the prospect of making the treacherous journey down our steep Victorian staircase felt like descending Everest and I instinctively knew if I had to move it would slow my labour down.

Imbued by the strange sense of confidence that comes over someone in intense pain and concentration, the midwife was very surprised to see me channel all my defiance into pushing the baby’s head out, meaning we were all staying firmly put. 

I’ll always remember her shouting, ‘Francine! Francine! The head is out, the head is out!’ to the second midwife downstairs.  

Even through the pain, it felt almost comical. I don’t remember feeling fear in those moments, I was relieved as I knew my baby was almost here. Nobody can tell you how long your labour will last but once the head is out, you have a good idea that you are in the last stretch.

Francine rushed upstairs to assist and a few moments later I had pushed out my new daughter Daisy and we were sat in a bath of blood.  

The rush of endorphins I felt was incredible. I was so happy the birth was over and that my daughter was here. It had been eight hours in total, which is short compared to most labours.

A few moments later my new baby, fiancé and I were all tucked up in bed eating Digestive biscuits and drinking tea. I had some difficulty expelling my placenta so the midwives needed to help with the removal. But an hour or so later and they had left us to enjoy our time together as a new family.  

In the days following, all our post-birth appointments and checks were held around my bed, rather than having to go into hospital, which meant I could relax without thinking about travelling with a new baby after having just given birth. 

Now, when we’re giving Daisy her night-time bath, we always remind her that this was where she was born.  

Even though it wasn’t my original choice, I wouldn’t hesitate to have a home birth again. Being somewhere more private, calm and familiar can help encourage the production of oxytocin, an important aspect of labour.

So, for me, being at home makes sense. Hospitals can be bright and noisy, with lots of people coming in and out. I’d take the bath any day! 

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