Teddy's Birth Story

The Truth About My C-Section: A Birth Story I Never Expected

C-sections are often joked about as the “sunroof job.” Some even say women who have them aren’t “real mums” because they didn’t give birth the “proper” way. But for many of us, a C-section isn’t a choice—it’s an emergency. It’s traumatic. And it’s still birth.

I want to share my story to help others understand what it’s really like when everything goes wrong, and what it means to come out the other side with your baby in your arms—but with scars, both seen and unseen.

The Emergency

After four long days in hospital, being shifted between prenatal and labour wards, the emergency buzzer was finally pressed. Everything moved at lightning speed. Medical staff swarmed around me. I could see panic on every face—especially my mum’s.

I was rushed to theatre, alone. The room was sterile, white, lit up like a stage. A green curtain blocked my view. Daddy was at home, asleep. No one knew if our baby was alive—his heartbeat had vanished again, for the second or third time. His rhythm had been unstable, ranging from 20bpm to 280bpm. We had been living in fear.

Hours earlier, they missed my sepsis medication. I was fitting, foaming at the mouth, completely hysterical. I remember someone reading out terms and conditions—I couldn’t believe it. Were we wasting precious seconds? All I wanted was for someone to save my baby.

The drugs kicked in and I drifted away. I was still there physically, but not really there.

Fear and Helplessness

I didn’t want them to start. I couldn’t breathe, paralysed by fear. What if he was already gone?

Above me, surgeons and anaesthetists joked—trying to lighten the mood, another day at work. My mum was finally handed scrubs and told to “sort your daughter out”—and to lie to me if she had to, anything to keep me calm.

I hated everyone in that room. I wanted to run. Rewind time. Just be pregnant again—me and my baby, singing in the car, cuddling in the bath. But I knew it was too late.

I felt him drop. Something inside told me this was the moment. Now or never. Had I already lost him?

I couldn’t stop the spiral. I was in shock.

A Tiny Cry

Then—finally—they lifted him up. A small, purple baby. My mum asked if he was alive. They unwrapped the cord from around his neck and whisked him into a side room.

What were they doing? Was he okay?

Then, I heard it—the loudest cry. One of the surgeons said, “He’s got lungs like his mummy.”

They laid him next to my head. I was crying. He was crying. And I couldn’t hold him. I couldn’t kiss him. It didn’t feel real. Was this my baby?

Everyone else was smiling, laughing with relief. I felt numb. Disconnected.

“Take him to his daddy.”

The Aftermath

Waking up from an emergency C-section is nothing like a natural birth. There’s no hormonal high. Your body doesn’t know it’s given birth. Your milk doesn’t come in. Your baby is gone, and you’re alone.

They say, “You’ll be back to yourself in no time,” but the truth is, you become someone new. And you learn to love that new self—scar, pouch, and all.

The next morning, I woke to babies crying. But not mine.

I couldn’t get out of bed. Couldn't shower. Couldn't use the toilet unaided. The pain was overwhelming. Laughing, coughing, even breathing hurt. I had to twist and drag myself off the bed just to see my baby.

Separation and Survival

Teddy was in intensive care. A day later, he was transferred to a more advanced unit at St Mary’s. He was so far away—from the body that had carried him every second of his life.

I couldn’t feed him. I couldn’t hold him. I couldn’t even sit in a wheelchair for more than a few minutes to be near him. But I forced myself up, leaned over his tiny body, and cried. Wires, tubes, machines—it looked like Star Trek. I didn’t even get to change his nappy. Or kiss him goodnight.

The helplessness I felt as a mother was unbearable. It's supposed to be your job to care for your baby. No one else’s.

The Quiet Strength

I didn’t cry for a long time. Not properly. I just held it all in. I had to be strong—not just for Teddy, but for everyone around me.

I poured all my energy into expressing milk, preparing for the day he’d be strong enough to feed. I became a full-time milking machine. It sounds bizarre, but somehow, we still found moments to laugh. I think it’s a survival instinct.

Eventually, we both collapsed. But it was inevitable.

The Reality and the Gratitude

This was not the birth I imagined. Not the one I dreamed of. So much of Teddy’s first days are a blur. Moments I’ll never get back.

But I also know how lucky I am.

I brought my baby home.

I saw the photos of NICU success stories on the walls. I heard heart-breaking tales shared between mothers. I know how easily this could have ended differently.

To the NICU doctors and nurses: thank you. You gave me back my baby boy. And I will never forget that.

To Other Mums

If you’ve had a traumatic birth, an emergency C-section, suffered a loss or a NICU stay—you are not alone. You are not less of a mother. You are not weak.

You are powerful.

You survived something extraordinary.