A photo-story reflecting my time bringing a young-one into the world (and what a time to do it). Last year was mental, and this one seem’s no different. But as it stands I’m motoring through my maternity leave, dipping in and out of the freelance world where I can. Work and home-life is such a balancing act, I see both just as important in keeping me afloat. It was no different when storming through pregnancy with a 60+ hour week of location shoots, until the time came to hand in the towel.
The working mum
Prior to the brew, the production industry has surrounded itself with equality issues (or lack of) for a number of years. Jumping headfirst into projects which would be both physically and mentally demanding meant I had to block out homelife at times, in order to simply stay afloat. Throw that into the pot with finding out your pregnant with your second child, eight years after the first and it seemed like a recipe for disaster. I instantly put up a barrier, I was terrified, and although I had the upmost backing from some of my higher colleages, who on retrospect I cannot thank enough, I just didn’t believe I could do it. I was surrounded by a solid team, but often felt isolated, like I was jumping into the unknown, taking too much of a risk. I’d dealt myself an uncertain pack of cards, in what’s become more of an uncertain time than ever. I found myself working during heatwaves, in storms, rectifying problems through Plan B’s, battled early starts / late nights, through morning sickness to walking on set, man, what a test.
At about five months in, a chance meeting with my now dear friend Rebekah, meant I’d have a birth partner for the remainder of my pregnant life. Sometimes, we cross paths with others, without reason and everything just makes sense - and meeting with ‘bekah was one of these occasions. Our due-dates were only days apart, and we both found ourselves in this almost unspoken world of the working mum. There are few paths to follow in the route of the film industry Mum. I’d google working mothers for inspiration, I don’t come from an industry background, I’m from a line of strong women, but all have very different careers to my own, if any. I wedged the image of Rachel Morrison holding an Arricam on set at eight months preggers into my mind, and told myself, if she can do it, then so can I. At least I had Rebekah; we’d share a glance in passing, and I’m massively grateful for that experience, but you’re talking about life on set where the ratio of male to female is 95% at times...
I can’t leave this segment without thanking my working producers at this time, who organised trips in range rovers to locations in order to pass a field of sheep safely (that’s VIP service right there). The underlying issue of health and safety was a frequent worry, I lost a lot of sleep over it, often asking myself if I was doing the right thing. My colleagues pushed me through what was in retrospect, quite a hard few months.
Give up or die
A month to go, and things naturally started to slow for Christmas, so my maternity leave came naturally. I had one last push with work and planned a two day shoot of my own to sign off for the year. A residency at The Shoe Factory marked the occasion. I piled every last ounce of energy I had into these days. Film and photography were my mantra. I pulled Rebekah in for a collaboration and we showed ‘em what we were made of.
Working on my own project was a release, it bookended what had been a demanding year. I’d managed to cope with doing what I could with my circumstances, I certainly wasn’t as light on my feet, frustrated at the exhaustion at times, but plodding on. Looking at the final products of these days is astounding when I think of it, the amount I shot, and the quality of the visuals is certainly a test of the times, and something to be proud of. I certainly felt like I had something to prove, to let off a final bit of creative steam before all hell were to break loose.
Merry Christmas
The day before Christmas Eve, after wrapping presents and watching Gremlins, it felt like I was essentially putting 2019 to bed (early). Little did I know that a few hours later my waters would break and the family would be extended in plenty of time for the new year, let alone a week into it. Fear instantly set in, this wasn’t supposed to happen, not now. My waters never broke with Sonny, and our planned ceserean quickly turned into an emergency one, throw Christmas songs on in the delivery theatre and let surrealism commence. This was my second C-section, I knew what to expect, which made it even worse. The midwives almost didn’t believe I was in early-labour at first, I could see the look in their eyes, just another over-reacting pregagnt woman they thought. But mum’s know best, and a single swab later and they’re prepping me for theatre.
It’s not long before the anaesthetist is running me through the procedure, handing me my life-line contract to sign, telling me about the odds of anything going wrong. Any odd is bad in my mind, I could be the 1 in whatever… They offer to wheelchair me to theatre, but I walk. It feels like walking the green mile. Im introduced to the surgical team, I remember associating them with a film crew, each having their dedicated job to do, without stepping on eachothers toes. The head surgeon wore a Wonder Woman bandana, which I thought was cool, and another was covered in tattoos, and spoke with the strongest Norfolk accent, these were normal people, normal everyday people.
Sitting in theatre, I say goodbye to the sensation of my legs as the spinal injection kicks in. Being lifted, motionless onto the metal table, the room spinning as the anasthetic does it’s magic. I’m terrified. The clock ticks, and I try to stay conscious, staring at the glowing flouries above (not too closely because the midwives warned me I might see a bit more than I’d bargained for in the reflection… I find myself settling into a state of shock. What had I done? My mind rushes, going through every detail in my head, everything and nothing at all, all at the same time, while a group of doctors work behind closed curtains in front of me.
“Should we listen to some Christmas tunes?” they said. It is the season afterall, even doctors can relax with the novelty of crimbo. With each song that goes by, I wait for the arrival of my little girl. This is insane, I remember saying. Brandon and I don’t do things in halves, this would happen to us. The Christmas playlist blaring, songs flowing and time seems to drag.
Something wasn’t right, the quick procedure suddenly isn’t so choppy, my anasthetic’s wearing thin, and there’s still no sign of a baby being placed above the blue curtain in a big theatrical reveal. The tugging becomes fearce, almost unbearable. Over an hour in and I’m being put through my paces here, it turns out a stomach muscle wasn’t playing ball and an extra helping of surgery is needed, as well as the help of forceps and the surgeons full weight bearing down upon me. I remember the tugging sensation from before, but this is forceful, too much at times, and I feel useless, vulnerable, but like I need to keep it together for Brandon who’s only a few inches away, baring witness to it all. We try to see the funny side of it all, as always.
Anytime now. I remember them saying, she’s almost out. A baby’s cry is the first sign that the delivery is complete. Momentarily, the cry is the only thing I hear, blocking everything else out. The screams ringing in the clinical atmosphere. Then silence. The Pogues playing in the background.
The extra surgery caused problems, I’m left to lay upto another 45mins, while they stitch me back together, layers of damage being singed together again. The smell of burning, and I start to feel the pain. The anaesthetist applies an extra shot, like a jolt to the system, but it doesn’t last long. Pain, like I’ve never felt, I need an extra shot, maybe three in the end, it’s almost unbearable to think about. It’s not until I’m given the all-clear that I rest assured everything’s ok. Let recovery commence. She’s here. Seeing Ivy for the first time, felt different to seeing Sonny, the nurse held her for a moment to check her over, and I remember the moment seemingly freeze. What have I done?
What a Christmas to remember. Poor Sonny’s at my parent’s house without his ‘main present’, and I’m under extreme pressure to wee into a jug unaided three times, until the midwife will consider letting us go. Our overnight nurse is fantastic, working Christmas eve, spreading nothing but good will, and presents to all the festive newborns. I cannot thank her enough, and I don’t even know her name.
Call the Midwife
24 Hours later and I’m signed off. Walking the empty hospital corridor, the true extent to my surgery revealing itself with each step. The drive home emitted some of the worst pain I’ve ever experienced. You know in films, where someone gets shot, but theyre still alive, and being carried by another character, screaming and wincing in pain, well that’s me. Each crack in the road, shoots through my body like a lightning bolt. Keeping it together because it’s Christmas and I’m going home.
Getting back to the festivities, waiting for Sonny to return, a Christmas tree bursting with presents, and a day old baby sleeping in a carseat below, and the weight of the world hits me. Everything comes crumbling down, and I feel like I can’t cope with looking after myself, let alone a new human brew. What have I done?
Boxing day, and I’ve made it through the night, purely on paracetamol power. This is the worst I’ve probably ever felt, both mentally and physically in all my existence. To anyone that thinks a C-section is taking the easy way out, you are absolutely mistaken Sir. The midwife comes round, gives me more of a manageable schedule of painkiller intake, and I suddenly don’t feel alone. This lady, so reassuring, walking the streets of Norwich in the middle of Christmas with her Mary Poppins bag and baby-scales gives me so much reassurance.
We left the hospital with a box load of injections that either myself or Brandon have to insert, like clockwork, at the same time on the dot, each day. The thought of the dripping needle, induced so much anxiety, ontop of everything else, that I knew I woulnd’t be able to cope. Brandon rose to the task in the same way he had throughout the birth-until-now. Childbirth is still so old-fashioned, inquality flipped (for once), but I think men should be given more credit, where due. I know for a fact I wouldn’t have emerged on the other side, even a hint of the same person, were it not for him being there. On the reclining chair in the hospital ward, to home, where the struggle really began; night terrors and hallucinations filled my outlook during these early days, I wasn’t well, I was beside myself in every way.
True Blue
Being homeward bound, ticking each almost impossible day off as it comes is all I could manage. Leaving the living room whenever Red Bull Soap Box is on because it pains me to laugh, cough, or in fact, move. Happiness, and deep, sincere gratitude for everything around me, quickly turns to darkness. I stay in touch with as many people as I can, a Mum friend asks if I’ve had the blue day yet? There’s a name? An underlined title for these feelings. And I start to piece it together, trying to make sense of it all. I’m balancing on Aquarius’ scales between positive and negativity.
Too posh to push can fuck right off
Leaving the house for the first time, walking to the nearest park, with the slightest bit of sun for hope, plodding along like Mr Burns, each step feeling like a Moon-worthy in attempt. The true extent to my recovery hits me, this is going to take some time. This is so much harder than the first time round.
