During the birth I supped on gas and air to take the edge off the contractions. The key point here is that I only used it when I needed it. Now in hospital, surely the worst was over. The baby is here and I am being sewn up by a truly lovely lady. We had a lovely chat and she told me that she wasn't going to reveal exactly how many stitches I needed, but to relax and breathe in when required. When required. I ignored this and just used it as oxygen.
MrM took the baby into the next room and my dad arrived to meet the little chap who by now we have named Joseph.
I didn't feel any pain. In fact, I started to hallucinate. I recall drifting off to some music on the radio and then I appeared in 1986 which was the last time I used gas and air as a youngster at the dentist in Weymouth. I was back at the dentist and remember hearing the same music that was on the radio back then. I realised that my life had come full circle and that I had now died on the table under the lights, leaving a newborn son and husband.
There was a knock at the door. "Elle est morte" I heard the midwife say to the person who had knocked.
I SCREAMED. I then leapt off the table (still being stitched remember).
"I'm not dead!!"
The midwife reassured me and I pawed at her face to ensure she was real. "Am I in Weymouth or Reading?" I asked.
"You're in Reading," she said. "You've just had a baby and I am stitching you up".
"I'm not dead?" I asked 600 times.
I don't know who was more surprised, but she managed to calm me down and continued to stitch me, blood everywhere. "But you said 'elle est morte' in French" I squealed.
"No, I said 'It's Marta'. Marta was knocking on the door to see if you wanted tea and toast after the stitches".
She contined to stitch me up.
I decided not to continue with the gas and air this time.