I was in the kitchen at home when a bun decided to pop out of my oven! By Jessica Roberts, 29
The bathroom door flew open and, in the next moment, I was flying downstairs, shouting, ‘Christian! Christian!’
My husband, just back from work, gawped at me.
I waved a little stick at him and gasped, ‘I’m pregnant!’
He grinned.
‘I knew it!’ he said. ‘You were so grumpy last week!’
‘Oi!’ I replied, and we laughed.
Truth was it hadn’t been easy getting pregnant.
We had a son Otis who was three, and we’d been trying for six months without success to give him a baby brother or sister.
Now it had happened, I was overjoyed.
At 20 weeks, we found out we were having a boy and decided to call him Luca.
My pregnancy went smoothly.
But then six days before my due date, I felt a dull ache in my lower back.
It didn’t feel like contractions and had come out of nowhere.
So, after dropping Otis at my parents’ house, Christian drove me to hospital to get checked over.
A midwife examined me and said, ‘It is contractions, but they’re quite far apart at the moment, so you can go home.’
She assured me I had a while to go and scheduled me to be induced in a few days’ time in case Luca hadn’t made an appearance by then.
But back home in Sawtry, Cambridgeshire, I couldn’t relax.
Knowing that I was already in labour put me on edge.
So, after putting Otis to bed, I decided to run a bath to help me unwind.
But before the bath was even full, the pain around my hips and back suddenly got worse.
I rang the hospital and spoke to a midwife.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘You still have a way to go yet.’
So I climbed into the bath, hoping the warm water would ease my pain.
But it didn’t help.
Feeling frustrated, I hoisted myself out again.
But as my feet hit the floor, there was a loud pop and liquid spilled everywhere.
Christian came running in and said, ‘I thought I heard a popping sound.’
‘It’s my waters,’ I said. ‘They’ve broken.’
He called the labour ward and I got dressed ready to drive to the hospital.
But when my parents arrived to look after Otis, Mum shook her head.
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ she said. ‘We need to call an ambulance.’
She was convinced the baby was on his way – and soon.
‘I’ll take Otis back to ours,’ Dad said.
Christian still wanted to get me to hospital, but as we were making our way through the kitchen to the front door, I stopped.
‘I’m not going to make it,’ I said. ‘I think the baby’s coming.’
‘Call 999 now,’ Mum said.
Following the operator’s advice, they helped to lower me to the floor.
‘You need to get some towels and a clean shoelace to tie the umbilical cord,’ the operator told Christian.
He gave Mum the phone and quickly rushed upstairs.
‘It’s going to be OK,’ she told me.
‘I can see the baby’s head!’
Beads of sweat were breaking out on my forehead as waves of pain racked my body.
Then, all of a sudden, there was pressure down below.
Christian was only gone a moment, but when he came back, he gasped and said, ‘I can see the baby’s head!’
He knelt down ready to catch the baby, just as the paramedics burst in through the door.
‘Oh, thank goodness!’ I cried.
The two female paramedics took over.
‘Try to push for me,’ one of them said.
After just four minutes, there was a whoosh and baby Luca arrived.
‘Is he OK?’ I asked.
‘He seems fine,’ the paramedic said.
‘It’ll be a funny story’
He was put on my chest for a quick cuddle, before I was lifted into one ambulance and whisked off to hospital, with Christian following with Luca in another.
On the way, I started bleeding heavily.
I felt dazed and at one point I was sick.
When we arrived at the hospital, a team of doctors and nurses was waiting for me.
Thankfully, the bleeding was under control by then and my condition stabilised, so Christian could visit with Luca.
‘You missed all the drama,’ I said, and told him all about my journey.
Still, the main thing was that Luca and I were OK.
He weighed a healthy 8lb 1oz and, as I held him in my arms, I chuckled and said, ‘I can’t believe I gave birth on the kitchen floor.’
‘It’ll be a funny story to tell him when he’s older,’ Christian replied.
It turned out I’d had a blood clot, so I was given compression socks and anti-clotting injections.
The next day, I was allowed to go home, where I made a full recovery.
As I threw myself into night feeds and nappy changes, I felt so grateful to the paramedics who not only delivered Luca, but saved my life.
Six months later, I met them to say thank you.
Luca is nine months old now, and he’s such a happy, smiley little boy.
But when I walk into the kitchen, I do sometimes stop and think about him being born right there on the floor.
My little bun couldn’t wait to pop out of the oven!