Nipple pinching, ear-tweaking and chamomile tea By Kate

I never thought I'd have my nipples squeezed and stomach prodded by so many complete strangers, but that's life in a post natal ward, I guess. After Rosie's sudden entrance into the world by emergency cesarean she and I spent four nights in room 11-14 at Hospital La Paz in Madrid, which was quite an experience.

Given the limited nature of my Spanish, my communication with the nurses and orderlies was a bit hit and miss at times, but you couldn't fault the quality of care. We weren't in a large ward, but a room we shared with one other woman and her baby (plus the inevitable legions of friends and relatives), which had its own en-suite bathroom. Our babies were with us pretty much throughout, just occasionally being taken off for baths, jabs, tests and so on. Most of our immediate needs were provided - an unending supply of nappies, cleaning materials and clean hospital gowns for both of us. And best of all, our partners were allowed to stay the night - although they had to sleep in reclining chairs.

Rosie and I were given a lot of well-meaning attention (although, when it came to establishing breastfeeding, some of it was misguided - but I didn't know that at the time) and my (and Theo's) learning curve when it came to nappy-changing, baby bathing, cord-cleaning and general care-giving was steep, but satisfying.

While we were in La Paz, we shared our room with three other families - baby Martin with his mother and English-speaking father (very helpful when I needed translations in those first couple of days!!) and their forty or so visitors; Marie, who had just had premature twins by C section, and her twenty or so visitors (but she was with me for less than one day, so I expect the number went up) and baby Arturo plus his Peruvian parents and their thirty or so visitors. What was very touching about the parade of visitors was how much fuss they made of little Rosie as she and I watched the comings and goings with great interest. "Que rica!!" they cried, "Que preciosa!" It was all very gratifying.

Daily entertainment included the doctor's round - a neat, brisk, cheerful man with a nurse acolyte who would waltz into the room and check each patient as follows:
"Have you peed?" (yes)
"Have you pooed?" (yes)
"Breasts okay?" (yes thanks)
"Any pain?" (not much)
"Baby feeding?" (yes)
"Take good care of your babies, Ladies, take care of your babies!"
And that would be it until the next day.

Another part of the hospital routine that made me smile was the relaxing hot drink before bed time. Except usually the inhabitants of the ward had already retired by the time it turned up. It would be around midnight and the lights would be out, husbands peacefully snoozing in chairs, babies dozing and snuffling in cots or their mother's arms and mothers trying to grab some precious shut-eye before the next feed... Suddenly the tranquility would be rudely interrupted by a blaze of florescent lights and the clanking of a trolley as two nurse orderlies marched in and offered us hot milk or chamomile tea, followed by another with her selection of "calmantes" (pain-killers). I would usually take the chamomile just to calm the sudden rush of adrenalin brought on by the abrupt break in our serenity.

The nurses and orderlies varied in attitude from sweet and smiley (including one who would try out a few words of English with us) to no-nonsense efficient, to borderline rude. Some were reasonably patient with my limited understanding of Spanish, others considerably less so. Thank god for our bi-lingual visitors, who helped explain a few crucial things.
One standout character was Nurse Bossy (not her real name) - a middle-aged nurse in the no-nonsense efficient bracket who oversaw our care of Rosie. She did many useful things, including show me the best ways to change a nappy, clean an umbilical cord, bath a baby and see off a touch of jaundice. She was frighteningly rough in the way she handled tiny Rosie, but my daughter didn't seem to mind - like most babies, she could sense a person's confidence and was reassured. I resolved to stop treating my baby as if she was made of porcelain.

Nurse B was also determined to get Rosie feeding and putting on weight - Rosie was far more interested in sleeping than eating and consequently lost 6 per cent of her birth weight in the first two days.

I was encouraged to breastfeed - something I was keen to do - but unfortunately, Rosie just wasn't interested. Nurse Bossy tried various techniques to encourage Rosie to sup at my breasts, including different positions, ear-tweaking and foot massage (both stimulate the suction reflex), but at best, Rosie was managing two weak sucks before dropping off to sleep - not very helpful.

Eventually, Nurse B told us to get nipple guards and like magic, Rosie began to suck. It wasn't surprising, really as she'd been given formula from bottles in the time she'd been apart from me after the C Section and hadn't had the chance to use the magic first hour of life to make skin-on-skin contact and find and latch on to the breast. She was, as the breastfeeding experts put it, "nipple confused" - latex teats on bottles were her experience of obtaining food, so my flexible, fleshy things just didn't cut the mustard. Not surprising the nipple guard found favour, it was very similar to a bottle teat. BUT at least it got her taking the colostrum I was producing and then my milk, when it came in on the third day.

We were put on a two and a half hour feeding regime consisting of unlimited breastfeeding and a regular 20ml top-up of formula from the bottle. By day three, Rosie's weight-loss had stopped and soon she was gaining her grams again. Unfortunately, the nipple-guard/bottle regime merely made the nipple confusion worse, so I had my work cut out to get Rosie to take the breast. But that's another story.

On the whole, I have to say Hospital La Paz was extremely good and looked after Rosie and me very well - even the food wasn't TOO bad, especially given Spain's general lack of experience with vegetarianism. The downsides of being in hospital were the heat - even the warm-temperatured Hispanic inmates found the ambience sultry, to say the least - and the lack of opportunity to sleep. Catnapping during the day was almost impossible with the endless comings-and-goings of nurses, cleaners, visitors, doctors, paediatricians, meals etc. etc. and night-time sleep was disturbed by the two babies; their parents (some of whom snored bloody loudly) and of course, the sweltering heat.

All in all, it was a relief to go home. I was lucky and recovered quickly from my C section, sore abdominals soon subsided and my incision seemed to be healing well. I can't help laughing in a hollow way about all that rubbing in of cream to avoid stretchmarks. Well, it worked, I don't have any stretch marks, but there's not much I can do about the 5-inch scar just below my bikini line, or the fleshy ridge of "overhang" above it. As souvenirs of the birth go, I much prefer our gorgeous little Rosie.

A Night Of Firsts by Kate

At first I blamed the nut roast we'd had at lunchtime. Shouldn't have been so greedy, I told myself as I took the Metro to Mendez Alvaro where I'd arranged to pay a social call to our former flatmates and pick up some post. While I sat chatting to Pete, I got fidgety. No position seemed comfortable. And I had an urgent need to visit the loo. Bloody nut roast.

After a while I made my excuses and headed back to the Metro. The discomfort was now moving into pain territory. Then it struck me - was I having contractions? Surely not, I had four weeks to go and these were awfully close together and now feeling rather strong. Braxton Hicks, I thought, those "pre-labour practice contractions" I had been told to expect.

Once on the Metro I was finding it hard not to groan and grimace as we trundled back towards Pueblo Nuevo. I was haunted by a recent Metro Madrid advert, which depicts a woman in labour and helped by strangers on the trains as she heads towards hospital to have her baby. I tried not to think about it.

The walk from PN Metro station to our flat seemed interminable and a couple of times I had to stop, trying to remember the breathing techniques I had been practicing ready for the birth. I'll be fine when I'm in a relaxed, familiar place, I thought. A fit of chills shook me, then as I waited for the lift in our building, I felt burning hot. What the hell??

I finally got inside and when Theo saw my face and asked if I was okay I did allow myself a grimace. "I think I'm having contractions", I said. He tried to rub my back and help me but suddenly I couldn't bear to be touched. I moaned on the sofa, trying different positions, but no relief. Then another urgent need to visit the bathroom. Once there I realised I was discharging some blood.
"I think we'd better go and see someone," I told Theo and tried to breathe through another contraction.

With admiral presence of mind, Theo threw supplies into a hastily improvised hospital bag (just in case) - something I'd been intending to organise this week, but never mind - and led me to the car. I felt calm, but couldn't pay attention to anything except the contractions, which seemed to be coming at one minute intervals. Theo, meanwhile, battled with the spaghetti of roads and disappearing signposting that marked the route to Universitario Hospital La Paz - a dry run was something else we had been planning to do in the next week or so.

When we arrived, we explained the situation and I was led away for examinations and monitoring. A very jovial middle aged medic checked by cervix "Only 2cm", she said, "I don't think you need to start pushing yet." Ho ho ho. My contractions were monitored for fifteen minutes then another cervical examination. Despite my imperfect understanding of Spanish, I detected slight consternation. I was now 3cm.

"The problem is," I said, "Is the baby's head is here - she is sitting on her arse." The consternation increased and I was scanned. Yep, I was right. At that point, they obviously made the decision to take our baby "out the window" - although I could only surmise this from the way I was being stripped of clothes and jewellery and given a hospital gown to wear and asked when I had last eaten or drunk anything. Nothing since the nut roast, I assured them.

Then Theo was suddenly beside me. "Are we having her now, then?" I asked, just to make sure.
"They're going to give you a caesarian", he said
"Oh, okay." Another contraction to breath through.
"I love you!" Then I was wheeled away. Watching the passing strip lights above my head I could only think how surreal it all was. I felt completely calm - had done since the beginning, in fact - but couldn't quite take in that I was about have a baby.

In the theatre, the kindly but efficient medical team prepped me for the operation. It was a most odd feeling as the epidural took effect and all sensation in my legs disappeared. Thankfully, so did the pain from the contractions, which was a mercy.

A green curtain was stuck up so I couldn't see my abdomen (although the effect was slightly spoiled by the fact that I could see perfectly in the reflection cast on the highly polished monitor arm above me. I tried not to look.)
"Can I touch my baby afterwards?" I asked. I couldn't remember the Spanish for "hold". Yes, they assured me.

I felt myself being shaved, then something pushing into me, which must have been the incision. Then hands were inside my belly and I felt the baby being physically pulled out, her head finally away from the underside of my rib cage. Very, very strange, but not in the least painful.

A moment later, "The baby's out!" and with startling suddenness she was lifted above the screen for me to see. I was speechless. The only word I managed was an awed "Oh!!" before she was taken from my view. Next the pushing and pulling as they stitched up my wound. "I've just had a baby!" I thought.
"Congratulations!" They all cried.
"This is surreal", I said aloud. The time was 00.15.

The next moment, a little bundle was carried to my head, her face towards mine.
"Little kisses for your baby," said the medic holding her. I complied, the surreal feeling growing. Then she was gone again. I still felt calm, especially as they assured me she was fine. Also, a dawning sense of wonder. I couldn't really take it in.

Soon, the stitches were finished, and trailing a drip trolley, I was wheeled out to the corridor where Theo met me.
"You're amazing", he said.
"Is she alright?" I asked.
"She's perfect!!" he said. Then he told me I was being taken to the intensive care unit on the fourth floor for overnight observation and our little Rosie would be monitored on floor eleven. We would be reunited in the morning. He had been told to go home, but he would come back at the earliest possible time - around ten. He kissed me and I was pushed into a lift up to Planta Cuatro.

Up in the ICU, I was checked and monitored and only here did I suddenly become aware how everything hurt. I requested more pain relief. They gave it to me after pressing painfully on my abdomen. Boy, that was agony.

So, hooked up to various drips, catheters, auto-blood pressure-machines, ECG monitors and gawd-knows-what I tried to get some sleep. Actually, I felt pretty relaxed, but sleep was impossible with machines continually bleeping and the blood pressure sleeve around my arm tightening uncomfortably every half hour. I kept thinking "I've had the baby!" and started to wonder what she was like. All I could remember was a pair of blue eyes and a shock of fuzzy dark hair.

As the clock ticked slowly on, I contemplated my situation. I had never been a hospital in-patient before. Never had anything approaching major surgery. Never been inside an ICU. And - oh yes - had never given birth. And now I was a mother, apparently. Another first.

By morning, I was getting impatient to be with Rosie. I had been watching the clock since I had arrived and now I could hardly contain my impatience as they gave me a bed bath and started unhooking me from the various tubes and wires. I was missing Theo, but all I could think about was meeting my daughter.
"Any pain?" asked a nurse. "Yes," I said. She shoved me in the abdomen. Ouch.

Finally, they began wheeling me away. I was taken up to the eleventh floor and into a room where a woman and her husband and baby were already ensconced in one corner.
"Congratulations!" They said.
"You too!" I replied. And then I heard wheels approaching the door. They belonged to a mobile cot which was pushed over to my bedside. In the cot was a tiny, pink baby - our baby. For a moment I just marvelled at her. Then, despite, the pain in my abdomen, I leaned over and took her from the cot and into the bed with me. I just wanted her in my arms. I smelled her and gazed at her in wonder. This was our daughter. The feeling was indescribable.

Then, twenty minutes later, Theo arrived. We embraced and he joined me in my fascination with this tiny new person we had made. Our family. Now we are three.

Our daughter - by Theo

Our daughter is here. I can't believe it. I'm utterly shocked. Yo no creo. She's about a month early - we'd been expecting here on Feb 21st, but yet here she is. It's all so sudden. She's beautiful, and I feel angry and hurt that I can't be with her and Kate - the hospital has ordered me home.

Kate was out when I got back from work at 9.30pm, so I started to do some marking. She got back about 15 minutes later and by the wheezing sounds she was making it was clear something was wrong. She'd been having contractions, though she thought they might be Braxton Hicks contractions and not the beginning of actual labour. She went to the loo and I went to make her some tea, which she never got to drink. There was some blood. We did what we always do when we're in a situation in Madrid and we don't know what to do - we called Cesar. He ordered us to go to the hospital. We'd known that was the case but it helped us to have somebody say it out loud. I hastily packed bags, trying to anticipate everything - false alarm, long wait, tests or indeed long labour - and then helped Kate to the car.

We made it to La Paz just about - tricky trying to find the right exit off the M-30 - and into the Urgencias Maternales entrance of the Hospital. After a quick chat with a doctor I was sent to register Kate at the reception only to discover I wasn't then allowed back to where they were examining Kate, as it was women-only. I had an anxious wait in a drafty reception area for about 30 minutes before somebody came out to say they would be keeping Kate in the Hospital but I could ride up with her in the lift. I was then ushered through to see her, she seemed calm and relaxed, and that was when one of the doctors told me they were going to do a Caesarian as the baby was the wrong way round. I assumed at this point that they'd told Kate, but if they had they hadn't made it clear as she didn't seem aware of why I was told to give her a kiss and wait once we'd gone up a couple of floors. Once again I had another anxious wait in a non-descript hallway, laden down with bags and thoroughly uninformed.

Thankfully another expectant father, Fernando, arrived - his wife was being wheeled in for a Caesarian as well - at 40 weeks and after induction his son still was budging. I guess Kate and I should be glad that she didn't have to go through any of that. We chatted a bit and he helped explain things a bit to me.

We heard a cry and then later, a second. After what seemed an age a little baby girl - just over 2kgs - was wheeled out, all tightly bundled up. Little Rosie Ines. She was to be taken up to the nursery while Kate is being kept in Intensive Care overnight - a standard precaution. Kate was conscious - somewhat miraculously - and I got to talk to her; she seemed understandably dazed, but OK. Us fathers - clearly extraneous in the eyes of the medical staff - where told in no uncertain terms to go home, sleep and on no account return before 10am.

On the bloody dot you can bet.

Yes, She's Sitting Comfortably by Kate

In the UK, the NHS allocates you two routine ultrasound scans during pregnancy, here in Spain you get three full scans plus a quick once over every time you have an appointment with your obstetrician. Seeing as we got sent to the specialist radiology department at one of Madrid's biggest hospitals for our twenty-week looksee, we didn't realise that our appointment at our usual obstetrics clinic was for the complete scan minus an obstetrician. That's why my boss' lovely wife came too as part of our ongoing quest to get officialdom to decide my bump is at risk if I continue my teaching job too long.

Our next mistake was to join the queue at the wrong room and wait there until our obstetrician's assistant kindly pointed out that we weren't on her list and maybe we should check downstairs. Having taken the details for the appointment over the phone, doubt was immediately cast on my imperfect understanding of Spanish - we hadn't received the usual follow up confirmation by post. But a quick scouting mission by Theo and Marina established that I had got the date and time right, but the wrong room. It turned out we should have been waiting another five doors down.

We amended this and presented ourselves to the assistant who was brusquely herding various other bumpees towards their scans. She was less than overjoyed to see us and only grudgingly accepted that we formed part of her morning's work after we pointed at my name on her appointment list. Marina, having also experienced our doctor at her least helpful (during our abortive attempt to secure the baja), was shocked by her unhelpful attitude.
"They don't need to be so rude!! What's the matter with them?" Theo and I, having by now spent a lot of time among the white-coated acolytes of the Spanish medical system, were more philosophical. I just hope we don't get a bum deal on the staff front during the actual birth.

So, in we went at last and Marina once again launched into her preamble to try and encourage a recommendation for the baja por emarazada del riesgo, only to be briskly headed off at the pass by the information that we would need to consult the obstetrician, not the radiologist for that sort of thing. Another wasted trip for Marina. Although by compensation, she did get to join Theo and I in viewing our rapidly growing offspring looking sprightly inside the womb.

By now, she's pretty much finished developing her main organs, so a quick check of brain, heart and fetal movement was the main order of the day. Everything appeared to be present, beating and twitching as it should be, so the radiologist was quite satisfied and even gave a us a quick tour of our daughter's main body parts in English. The one problem at this stage is that Fosbella is neatly wedged in an upright sitting position - as I already suspected from numerous proddings at my belly's topography and by noting the position of her kicks and hand taps. To use the official term, she's breech, which is not ideal for a natural birth.

Of course, we still have more than six weeks to go and the statistics are reassuring - most breech babies do turn round before labour begins, (some leaving it to the very last minute). I'm very much hoping young Fos will duly oblige as I'd rather not have a C Section if I can avoid it. In the meantime, the advice is to spend time on hands and knees, waggle your pelvis around while it's higher than your head (this is not very easy with a large bump, believe me), sit up straight, do yoga and tell your foetus to please get off its arse and do a headstand. It's all got to be worth a try.