By Josie Sargent, July 27, 2019 for ABC Life
With a final grunting push, my baby arrives, crying and flailing, and is placed gently into my arms. I look down at my newborn, tears of joy streaming down my face as I am overcome with a love like no other.
That is the scene I expected to unfold for me, as I waddled into the hospital, contractions underway.
Instead, mine was a long labour, one that included lots of drugs pumped into my spine, vomiting, concerned mutterings about "fetal distress" and the brutal use of forceps.
After what felt like an eternity, my son was finally placed onto my chest, a slimy, writhing alien-looking thing.
And all I wanted was for someone to take him back.
I watched, numb, as my husband cut his cord and as someone checked him over.
I felt relief that his cries meant he was OK.
I felt glad the birth was over.
I felt completely out of it.
What I didn't feel was an overwhelming rush of love and joy upon meeting my newborn.
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