THE LONG FORTY WEEKS
A blog by Kate Horne, documentary film producer/director, journalist, and mum-to-be
11th February – Week 1
Amid intake of copious mojitos and energetic
salsa dancing bambino/a is conceived in
Colombia. I would like to say that we were
holidaying in Cartagena, the Caribbean colonial
gem and, come to think of it, that would have
made an exotic middle name… Alas, Bogotá
it was. Dirty? Oh the highs of those kerosene
fumes; Noisy? I can’t hear you; But sexy? You
bet. Well, it beats Bognor any day.
It was my husband, the blonde, blue-eyed
Swede’s first trip to Colombia to visit me on my
recce for a BBC documentary I was producing
about the kidnapping of Ingrid Betancourt, the
Franco-Colombian politician who was held
hostage by Marxist guerillas for 7 years. All this
paled into comparison for what was to come a
few months later.
24th March – Week 6
I discover I am pregnant. I say discover, I had
been feeling extremely nauseous and all I could
manage to eat were Prêt à Manger’s ham and
Emmental sandwiches. While it had hardly been
the immaculate conception, pregnancy took me
somewhat by surprise. I bought four pregnancy
tests from Boots; all positive. The realisation
sank in, there was a film to be made but I was
not compus mentis, in fact I was wretching at
the smell of caffeine and my brain was mush. I
kept thinking that everyone would guess, but I
must keep this under wraps. I’d worked for years
to be involved in the film and I wasn’t going to
be pulled off it because of a… no, that made
me sound like a terrible person. I was full of selfloathing.
No one employs a pregnant lady, let
alone one they are to send off to the Colombian
jungle to film a documentary about kidnapping.
1st April – Week 7
Impatient for the 12 week scan. Is there
something alive in there? I couldn’t believe it and
needed proof. My great friend and obstetrician,
Steph, told me to quit the obsessing and go for
a scan to confirm that there was life. On the
spur of the moment, I go on my lunch break –
7 weeks and there is a heartbeat; I shed a tear.
The Swede is fuming he wasn’t told. I tell him
that I just needed reassurance before leaving for
Colombia. He is not impressed.
16th April – Week 9
I am filming the Colombian army
in the jungle. It is the middle of the
night and a heavy rain has started
to fall. I am drenched and shivering.
The generator is losing power. I am
having a sense of humour failure.
Surely, I will lose this baby I thought.
The secret that I’d done so well
in keeping under wraps slipped
out as I said hysterically to the
cameraman: “I’m heading back to
the base. I don’t need to be here.
I’m pregnant.” Taken aback, he
offered one piece of advice: best
not to tell the director. Not because
he wouldn’t be sympathetic – he is
the nicest man in the world – but
he would have been racked with
worry.
Two days later, back in
Bogotá and speaking to my mother,
husband and brother on Skype, I
was a blubbering mess; I’d mislaid
the all important folic acid tablets all
expectant mothers are supposed
to take, I was living on a hotel mini
bar diet of crisps and peanuts, I was
failing to nurture this baby properly,
I was a bad mother – ALREADY!
6th May – Week 12
My ‘check in appointment’ and first scan. This time, the long-suffering Swede is in attendance when
I meet the midwife at Queen Charlotte’s Hospital. She is patient and reassuring. Blood and urine tests.
All is well. We were persuaded by friends that it was best not to know the sex of the baby (some
psychobabble about avoiding projecting a personality onto the innocent unborn child) though as soon
as we left the scan we wished we did know. How were we going to decorate that nursery after all?
I tried to call my mother to tell her that all was good but there was no mobile reception. Why? Because,
(so the story goes), Wormwood Scrubs is right next door and they have blocked the signal for the
prisoners. “They also had to board up all the windows on the side facing the maternity wing because the
prisoners shout abuse at the mothers,” the midwife explained. Charming.
We chose Queen Charlotte’s because I want to try and have a natural birth and the fresh ‘new’ Birthing
Centre there has a great reputation. I want to have my baby in one of the birthing pools, though the
Swede is initially surprised to hear this. “Reaally?! You’re not very good with pain are you darling?” Oh
the faith he has in me. Many of his Swedish friends in London have already had babies privately. On the
NHS/Private decision front, the Swede soon becomes very supportive when he realises how much going
privately costs. As for Queen Charlotte’s, he tells all: “If the hospital is good enough for Jamie Oliver, it’s
good enough for me.”
We have a tour of the Birthing Centre. The Swede asks if he can get into the birthing pool with me. The
midwife says – only half jokingly – that the rule is no Speedos. “It distracts the midwives,” she explains.
“But won’t my wife be naked, isn’t it more natural for the father to get in naked,” the Swede is being
serious. “Well then we’d call security,” the midwife retorts. Her parting piece of useful information is:
“And we support HypnoBirthing here.” What the hell is that? I felt too ignorant to ask as women around
me nodded knowingly – note to myself to look that one up.
14th May – Week 13
The news is out and I have turned a corner
with the nausea. There was a break in filming
and we left for the South of France for a workholiday.
I headed for the beach and some sun
action. The sun may kill but I have read that
plenty of Vitamin D helps babies grow into tall,
strapping adults which is a great justification for
sunning myself. I didn’t look very pregnant, just
a bit tubby, but more importantly, I didn’t feel
pregnant which was more dangerous. I wanted
to drink rosé and eat mussels, both of which
pregnant women are told to avoid; I did both
and again, was racked with guilt.
22nd July – Week 22
A friend suggests that the Swede and I look into
having a doula. “What’s a doula?” my 22-year
old brother inquired. He Googled it and was very
amused to learn that doula is the Greek word
for ‘woman servant’. “Ha, you’re employing a
slave!” My attempts to explain the real role of a
doula leave him nonplussed and he disappeared
out of the house in his low-slung jeans at the
mention of babies and the sight of my bump
which he says, “gives me the creeps.”
The Swede needs more convincing on the doula
so we go to the internet. We learn that “doula”
now refers to an experienced woman who offers
emotional and practical support to a woman
(or couple) before, during and after childbirth.
A doula believes in “mothering the mother” –
enabling a woman to have the most satisfying
and empowered time that she can during
pregnancy, birth and the early days as a new
mum. This support also helps the whole family
to relax and enjoy the experience. The Swede
thinks that this is a luxury we don’t need but
after meeting Indira he is charmed and changes
his mind. He realises that at under a thousand
pounds for the whole package it’s well worth
the expense.
After meeting Indira, we are now reassured that
we have someone with us advocating for us
from the very start of labour. While midwives
might change shifts at the hospital, Indira will
be the one constant, a calming influence who
can support us both. She will be standing up
for me and helping me have the natural water
birth that I want but, should the pain all be too
much, she’ll talk us through the epidural and if
the baby just won’t come, she’ll see me through
the C-section.
31st July – Week 24
The Swede had long
suggested that we sold my
Mini Cooper S convertible.
I was distraught. It was
my one indulgence. I felt
so attached to it, as babyimpractical
as it might have
been. Eventually, I caved in
but felt my youth slip away.
I had always told my friends
the day that I got a 4x4 to
shoot me… So, I am now
driving a tractor around
London in a bullet-proof vest.
7th September – Week 30
In the John Lewis baby section. I am cringing with embarrassment.
“How much?!” the Swede barks at the salesmen who has, along
with the rest of the world, recommended the Bugaboo pushchair
range. The particular model is as expensive as a second hand car
and that’s without any of the extras. Thankfully, a good friend, a
well stocked-up lawyer, has a spare Bugaboo that she has offered
to lend us. We are grabbing as many hand-me-downs as we can.
I scour friends’ houses for all the things their toddlers no longer
need and leave with Moses baskets and car seats piled high with
paraphernalia; have I no shame?
18th September – Week 31
2 becomes 3. The Swede agreed to attend a one day course
about becoming a parent run by a Christian couple who were still
together and happy since kiddos flew the nest. For the Swede
and me, my pregnancy was still not a reality and I wanted us to
focus on baby. Any course that helped us move away from an
unhealthy fixation on the expense of baby purchases and helped
us concentrate on empowering ourselves to be the best parents
possible couldn’t be a bad thing. My mother always said that she
regretted my father coming second and not giving them enough
time: “And once you’re on the rollercoaster, you just keep rolling
and never give it more thought, before it’s too late.”
We talked about sex during pregnancy, the baby blues for mum
and dad, how to spot post-natal depression, and the importance
of supporting each other. The day helped us re-focus. “The
greatest thing you can do for your children is love your partner.
Let nothing and nobody come between you both – including your
child. Your relationship is the foundation of parenting.” Right, we
decided, we are going to book that weekend away before baby.
I am off to my first pregnancy yoga class with a friend of Indira’s,
Lulu. I hadn’t had the best relationship with yoga in the past,
contorting my body into the most unnatural of positions while
singing a string of “sorries”. “Sorry isn’t allowed in this room,” Lulu
announces; she is patient and with gentle encouragement the
most inflexible of us slowly begin to unravel our stubborn limbs.
22nd September – Week 32
Meeting with Indira à deux. I tell her about a friend’s
hellish account of her Caesarian birth; a 20 hour
labour before the operation because she simply
didn’t “open up”. Will that happen to me? Indira
explains that a lot of people are gripped by fear and
are tense, no wonder their cervix doesn’t play ball.
“You are doing pregnancy yoga and swimming, so
just keep that up,” she says encouragingly. Indira
lends me some of her books. So now no more
excuses, that frightening word, HypnoBirthing,
that I heard back at the Birthing Centre… all will
be revealed. I delve into Marie Mongan’s book:
“The breakthrough approach to safer, easier,
comfortable birthing.” Essentially, HypnoBirthing
works with the belief that pain is not necessary and
that a woman’s body is perfectly designed to give
birth to a baby. Pain is usually caused by fear and
tension and this can be eliminated when the body
is relaxed.
HypnoBirthing is about positive thinking,
visualisation, breathing and physical preparation.
The book advocates massaging the perineum to
avoid tearing when the baby is born. I didn’t even
know I had a perineum! God, am I so out of tune
with my body? I met up with my best friend who
is an advocate of HypnoBirthing and she enlightens
me about the bleeding I will experience for up to a
month after the birth. What? No one told me about
that. I am feeling hormonal and impatient with the
Swede, who I feel should be giving me and the
bump more attention. “And on top of everything,
you haven’t read a bloody thing,” I chastise him
and throw books about “accessing your feminine
power” at him.
The local GP tells me that massaging my perineum
will not help one bit in helping the baby get through
without tearing so no need to bother, “unless you
are enjoying it of course,” she hastens to add.
Oh, please!
29th September – Week 33
No one told me my brain would be totally foggy.
I thought this happened once the baby was born
but no, I am apparently going into nesting mode,
my body telling me to chill out and slow down. It’s
not a laughing matter when it affects my money
making skills; for the past three mornings I have sat
down to write a piece for the Telegraph Magazine
and nothing comes easily. I can’t focus and don’t
know whether what I’ve written is coherent.
I meet up with my mother who is concerned about
my career choices. “Once you’ve had the baby
there’ll be no more running around in Latin America
doing dangerous stuff will there?” Even if I wanted
to, who would be looking after the baby? Not my
mother, that’s for sure. A year before I fell pregnant
and had even entertained the idea of having a
child, I received a message on my mobile from my
ma: “I’ve just listened to a programme on Radio 4
and it says that 60% of carers of the under 5 are
grandparents.” Pause. “I just wanted you to know
I’m not going to be one of them.” God, it was
clearly something that had been niggling her. To
be honest, I was totally with her on that. Why
should she be? She needs a long deserved break
but her way of letting me know amused me. “I’ll be
great with toddlers, darling,” she reassured me and
I know she will be. “It’s just the baby stage”. But
she volunteers to help with the expense of a
maternity nurse.
Every time I meet friends with newborns the
inevitable words ‘maternity nurse’ and ‘night
nanny’ are bandied about. “I couldn’t have done
it without one,” one told me. “Mum,” I say, “you’re
talking about £1,000 a week.” That shut her up.
“Besides, I really want to have a go at coping
myself.” She nods effusively. Only the future knows
if I can manage.
16th/17th October – Week 35
Heading to NCT with a spring in our step.
A great friend tells me a story of her husband
who turned up late to the NCT class when
everyone had already responded to the teacher’s
question, “tell us something nice you have done
for your baby.” Husband looks at his wife and
smiles, “well I just bring home loads-a-money.”
The joke unfortunately backfires and there is a
sense of humour failure in the group. His wife
banned him from further classes.
Thankfully, our class is very laid back, lovely
couples – same fears but all have a sense of
fun. The Swede is on fire with his knowledge – he
had read the book after all! I am proud when he
tells the group about the importance of letting
the pulsating umbilical cord do its thing and peter
out. “Have you got a bloody PHD in this, mate,”
one other expectant dad cajoles him. Though,
when we are asked if we know the ways to induce
pregnancy naturally, he shoves up his hand and
says “nipple stimulation to extract milk which
produces oxytocin”. There are stifled laughs. “Yes,
that is one way,” says the teacher though not sure
it was exactly the one she was expecting. Oh no,
we will forever be known as the lactating breast
couple. Another one of the husbands offers up
another technique to induce labour: “Having sex,
but only if the midwife consents.”
At a hen party of a good friend I have a
slight scare. My bump had gone rigid, and
uncomfortable and my urine is dark. I head to
Queen Charlotte’s and am told I have a urinary
infection, “extremely common in pregnancy.” The
urine infection has caused the uterus to contract
so I am prescribed antibiotics. “Otherwise the
baby can come early.” No! That can’t happen,
too much to do. I haven’t done my tax bill for
January and I need to sort the blind for the
nursery. “Of course the antibiotics tend to cause
thrush so it’s an infuriating vicious circle,” the
doctor tells us, “so best to avoid sugar which
feeds on all this.” Damn! The Swede looks at
me with a knowing smile: “So, no more of those
Dime bars or Hummingbird cupcakes,” he says
with relish, as if enjoying some sadistic pleasure.
A couple of days later at the breast-feeding
course cradling a plastic doll, I try to deafen my
ears to stories of thrush spreading to nipples and
the agony of mastitis. Surely that can’t happen…
get off that sugar.
20th October – Week 36
My first pregnancy massage. Bliss. I am lucky,
masseuse says. I have no water retention and
very little sign of stress in my back. But what
she doesn’t know is that my arse is now twice
the size it was 9 months ago. Indira comes
to the house to talk through our “birth plan”.
Well, our ideal birth plan, as we all know this
can go to pot and you have to just go with the
flow. Indira asks us to hold a clump of ice in the
palm of our hand for as long as possible. In my
case not very long but the Swede thinks he is
iron man. “Well, that’s a contraction.” As she
leaves, she asks us to think about the difference
between suffering and pain: “Pain and suffering
are not the same thing. Pain is a physical
sensation; suffering is how we choose to
experience it.” Now there’s a Buddhist thought
for the day . . .
. . .
Kate Horne is a London based documentary film
producer/director and journalist with a particular
passion for South America.
Her work has taken her to Ecuador to produce
In Search of the Head-hunters of the Amazon
(a co-production for Channel 5 UK and National
Geographic) and Colombia to write articles
on the kidnapping situation for the Telegraph
Magazine. Recently, she produced a BBC film
about the hostage, Ingrid Betancourt.
My Kidnapper, her directorial debut, will be shown in
selected cinemas across Britain next year, followed
by a broadcast on More4 (mykidnapper.com)
Indira Lopez-Bassols is a ‘Doula UK’ recognised
doula and can be contacted on 07956 586 923
www.indirayoga.com