It all started off innocently enough. We had our appointment at the hospital early that morning (once you hit 40 weeks they schedule you in every 3-4 days for a check up, CTG and ensure that all is okay). I was perfectly fine, if anything, the treks to and from the hospital were exciting, but slightly boring in a way as I had no contractions (some minor Braxton hicks but that was all). I’d had a fall at 40 weeks as well and had had a thorough check up done and all was looking perfectly on track. Naturally, I was very impatient too. I wanted to see a contraction or just something as I was impatient to meet our little girl and have the discomfort of pregnancy over with now. I was glad it was not the height of summer but I was big, awkward and could barely eat due to the acid reflux.

Our appointment was early enough in the morning. Himself came along too because at this stage I wasn’t comfortable going anywhere for extended periods (I was 41+1 weeks gone) in case anything kicked off, but despite being fully vaccinated and having a negative PCR test, he wasn’t allowed to go with me and had to wait downstairs in the hospital waiting room. At this stage we had gotten used to being told ‘No’, but it was quite frustrating – thanks Covid!

Upstairs in the maternity ward, as always, it felt like something out of the Handmaiden’s Tale, with pregnant women floating around, in various stages of discomfort, nerves and moods.

Perhaps it was a side-effect of the Covid, but I was always surprised at the lack of chatter or talking amongst us, the pregnant women, at the ward. Maybe it was also the wearing of masks, trying to avoid germs and generally feeling “erghy” with pregnancy that held people back from interacting, but I did feel a smidgen sad that there was no one who smiled and asked “so how far along are you?”.

That Friday was a busy morning in the maternity ward and so I sat down and waited to be called for my CTG. I sat opposite a woman also in her 40th week and for the first time during my visits to the maternity ward, a conversation started up. We had both overheard the phone conversation of another pregnant woman asking her husband to bring her suitcase as she was about to be induced. The woman on the phone sounded panicked but there was an energy too kind like “this is happening!”. The lady opposite me smiled and we both said that we hoped that it wouldn’t come to being induced ourselves but that our babies would arrive in their own time, because judging by the lady on the phone, it was going to be quite a wait and an ordeal!

Soon I was called and had my CTG which at this stage is a little boring as you’ve to lie there for 40ish minutes, trying not to nod off or throw up from the acid reflux. The first few times it’s really exciting, don’t get me wrong, but there is nothing to see only hear and my baby just kicked a good bit and otherwise all was good (which is what you want naturally). On this day, there was no sign of contractions on the CTG, just a few baby kicks and so they said if nothing happened over the weekend that I would be induced on Monday morning (I.e. 10 days overdue). I didn’t really want to be induced, but the hospital policy was that if it went over 10 days, they induced as being induced could still take some time for the baby to come, bringing you up to the 42 weeks of being overdue. I had already been trying the usual ‘alternatives’ to encourage labour to start but this time, before I was sent on my merry way to make an appointment, they suggested I try some castor oil with a special recipe and hopefully it would encourage labour to set in.

For those of you who know about castor oil, you know, for those of you that don’t, well, it basically opens the floodgates of hell. Not just your uterus is encouraged (understatement) to contract but your entire digestive system as well. Anything that has a sphincter-like muscle system that usually contracts to expel certain things, starts to contracts almost of its own volition. Oh the fun that ensued!

Naively I thought it was a mere wives’ tale. I thought it was just like the stories of drinking raspberry leaf tea, bouncing on an exercise ball, nipple stimulation and sexy time, so laughing I decided “well if I’m going to have diarrhoea, I may as well have a kebab and a can of coke”. Famous last words. Going down the kebab was worth it…on the flip side, I cursed myself for thinking it would be a good idea!

We got home, I made up the recipe, using the oil I’d been given in a syringe (and wrapped in a medical glove) and lovingly mixed together milk, ginger, cloves, cinnamon, bit of sugar and the oil. It tasted like a chai latte which was good because I’d read that castor oil tasted rancid. I took the concoction at around 3pm. And hours later…nothing.

I should have known my delayed digestive system would kick in fashionably late. We jokingly started the contraction timer, but more as a joke as if my stomach twists and turns were contractions but it felt more like gas and so we laughed at my husband measuring my gas contractions. We watched some TV and sure enough soon my bowel movements slowly kicked in.

I’m lactose intolerant so I’ve had my share of bathroom dilemmas and this wasn’t any worse than the time I had explosive diarrhoea on the side of the motorway after drinking the wrong milk. I did my business two or three times and waddled to bed, a bit disappointed but exhausted. It was already around midnight and I had dozed off about 10 minutes when I woke up, eyes wide because it was a sharp pain almost like a stabbing inside fart. It felt different but a shot of fear went through me and I convinced myself it was just the explosive shitshow having a spectacular finale. Despite counting down the days, I suddenly was like “oh crap, is this is it?” and felt immediately unprepared for the process and that I was potentially about to shove something massive out of my body and then be responsible for a whole other person. Panic mode kicked in, but I rushed to the bathroom (in Austria the toilet is usually separate to the actual bathroom in a small room, the size of a broom cupboard – think Harry Potter’s under-the-stairs bedroom) and I did not emerge for 45 minutes.

What happened in there, well it’s what my husband would describe as “releasing the hounds of hell”. I alternated between diarrhoea and – what I now could not deny – contractions. Each time a contraction came, I would stand and sort of squat, but had to sit again. Then stand. Then sit. Even if I’d wanted to I couldn’t have left this WC room hell.

Finally, after seemed like a lifetime, I managed to emerge, bowels truly emptied only to face the inevitable…contractions had started and this was happening!

Now I know what other moms meant when they frustratingly said “You’ll just know when it’s contractions!”.

I called out to my husband, who was scurrying around getting stuff ready for us to leave and he asked “should I call an über?” I muttered through clenched teeth that we were well past that point and to call the ambulance (in Austria you can use the services of the Red Cross for non emergency but sorta more urgent than using a taxi cases). They asked him on the call if my waters had broken and I overheard him trying to be as discreet and calm as possibly “I cannot tell you if her waters have broken or not – there’s a lot of everything happening right now including fluids!”

While he dealt with the transport, I managed to shuffle passed him, to the bedroom, and attempted to get dressed. Leggings, bra, pause, contraction, t-shirt, jumper, pause, contraction, eff the shoes… I ended up wearing his slippers.

The Red Cross arrived quite quickly – three young people doing their civil service. They were between the ages of 18-21 – two boys and a girl and in flying form. One of the boys heard us speaking English and got all excited at the thought of breaking out his school English for us. He thought we were American at first until I growled at him that we were Irish and he clapped his hands together gleefully and said “Alright, alright, alright, let’s get this show on the road”. It seemed I was about to be chauffeured to the hospital by Matthew McConaughey.

It didn’t stop there. I was asked did I want to be carried down the 3 flights of stairs (we have no lift) and from past experiences of being carried down with a broken ankle, I declined. I was gonna walk down. We waited for my contraction to pass in our hallway, everyone standing waiting with bags and baited breath and then “you can do this!” as the contraction came and then we all headed toward the staircase. Contractions were about 3-5 minutes apart already. Visions of a slow peaceful “oopsie was that a contraction?” didn’t seem like they were on the cards for me.

We managed to make it down 1.5 flights of stairs before another contraction kicked in. We live in what Austrians call an “Altbau” which literally means “old building” and so not only is everything rustically antique, the acoustics are a singer’s dream – meaning everything echoes beautifully. I tried to be as quiet as possible (it was almost 1am at this stage after all) but a “Fuuuuuck” slipped out anyway which had Matthew McConaughey trying to stifle a giggle and not succeeding. With another “alright alright, alright”, we were on our way downward again, once the contraction passed. We finally made it to the ambulance and I got on this contraption supposedly called “a trolley” (one day I will find whoever invented it, hunt them down and strap them to it while in agonising pain). I was tilted forward and back in order to get into the ambulance and then strapped in. My husband’s face told me I wasn’t just imagining this scenario to be whack. Off we set, as everyone else had piled in, husband beside me in the back along with the female paramedic. I swear they tried to hit every pothole and tram track, corner and speed bump that the wonderful city of Vienna has to offer (the roads are pretty good in Vienna, but that night I felt I was back in good ‘aul Ireland with the crater-sized potholes.

The siren was put on as we whizzed past red lights and around corners. I held onto the side wall of the ambulance for dear life and the other side I held the female medic’s hand. She was a genuine star, telling me I was a superwoman and I had the strength to do this. I felt bad for crushing her hand, but she didn’t seem to mind and kept up the reassuring mantras. On arrival I was wheeled into the hospital, had a contraction in the elevator, in the hall…it was full on labour already. I was carted down the wrong place to the ward instead of to the delivery room – much to the consternation of the midwives on duty in the ward – and then I was signed over to the midwife on duty on the delivery ward, said goodbye to McConaughey and then the real fun began!