Birth Stories

Three children.
Three births.
Three different battles.

When parents get together,
we don’t share birth stories.

We share war stories.

First child, three-day labour, pain came in waves,
Twice through the doors, twice turned away.
Third time, same script, I stood in the frame:
“She’s in full labour. Don’t send us again.”

“Pethidine first — that’s the price of a bed.”
She agreed under pressure while the labour pain spread.
Consent ain’t consent when refusal means street,
When a drug is the toll for a room and a sheet.

Then, “Women-only ward” — I was shown to the door,
Got home, phone lit: “You need to come once more.”
Panic in her voice, so I tore through the night,
Three days ignored — now the timing was tight.

Baby was born, but they left her that way,
Catheter fixed, barely able to raise.
Child by her feet, out of reach where she lay,
I stormed to the desk: “Take that catheter away.”

First night as a mother, no strength left to spare —
Why did rage have to summon the most basic care?

Every parent that I know
Has a scar they rarely show.
Different room, a different name,
Same old pattern, different pain.

Birth stories, war stories,
Whispered low from friend to friend.
Smiles above the baby pictures,
Scars that never really mend.

Birth stories, war stories,
Carried quietly beneath the skin.
Came to bring a new life safely,
Left with damage carried in.

It shouldn’t have to end in pain.
Give her back her voice again.
Ask before you touch or cut.
When she says no, that is enough.

Birth stories…
War stories…

When she says no,
That is enough.

Second child, white room, doctor with a blade,
Moved like the choice had already been made.
Midwife cut in: “Will you ask her consent?”
One line exposed what the silence had meant.

He hadn’t asked; he was ready to cut.
My wife said, “No” — and no was enough.
Still, pressure remained, cold weight in the air,
Like her body was theirs just because she was there.

I filed the complaint, every action and name.
Reply came back clean: “No fault. No blame.”
Polished little phrases, defensive and neat,
But paper can’t alter what happened in that suite.

You can close every file, keep liability blurred,
But the body remembers when “no” isn’t heard.

Every parent that I know
Has a scar they rarely show.
Different room, a different name,
Same old pattern, different pain.

Birth stories, war stories,
Whispered low from friend to friend.
Smiles above the baby pictures,
Scars that never really mend.

Birth stories, war stories,
Carried quietly beneath the skin.
Came to bring a new life safely,
Left with damage carried in.

It shouldn’t have to end in pain.
Give her back her voice again.
Ask before you touch or cut.
When she says no, that is enough.

Third child, bag packed, keys in my palm,
Wife said, “Too late — she is coming. Stay calm.”
Nine-nine-nine on speaker, questions came fast.
I said, “I’m autistic — one step, then ask.”

“Keep it plain, keep it clear, give my head room to steer.”
But the voice kept crowding every inch of my ear.
“Fetch towels,” she said, but not what to do.
I thought wipe her and wrap her — not catch her coming through.

My daughter came rushing, slippery and small,
Slid straight through my hands to the floor in the hall.
The one useful detail that might have helped all —
“Put the towel beneath her” — never came on the call.

Closest thing to peace of the three, in the end,
Was the one in our home, with no ward to defend.
No gate, no forms, no fight for control,
And without that voice, I’d have been calmer alone.

Beds matter.
Staff matter.
Funding matters, yes.

But consent costs nothing,
And listening costs less.

Kindness takes seconds.
Respect has no fee.
A mother is a person,
Not a policy.

Don’t call it safety
When her voice disappears.
Don’t call it helping
When nobody hears.

Bad rules followed perfectly
Still finish in harm.
A chart isn’t a mother.
A partner’s not an alarm.

Babies aren’t targets.
Birth isn’t a test.
Care starts with consent —
Not assuming you know best.

Birth stories, war stories,
Whispered low from friend to friend.
Smiles above the baby pictures,
Scars that never really mend.

Birth stories, war stories,
Carried quietly beneath the skin.
Came to bring a new life safely,
Left with damage carried in.

It shouldn’t have to end in pain.
Give her back her voice again.
Ask before you touch or cut.
When she says no, that is enough.

Birth stories…
War stories…

Three children.

Different rooms…
Same warnings…

Three battles.

Give her time.
Give her trust.

When she says no,
That is enough.

Three children.
Three births.
Three different fights.

And the closest one to peaceful
was the one we handled ourselves
in the middle of the night.