The Daily Mail yesterday discovered yet another piece of evidence that the world is going to ruin, splashing across its front page, with its usual vigour, the headline: "The demise of natural childbirth".
According to the latest Department of Health figures, nearly 20% of births in England are now induced, and a further 18% are caesareans, of which half are performed as emergencies. The National Childbirth Trust described the figures as approaching "ludicrous levels"; the World Health Organisation thinks a level of caesarean deliveries of around 10% would be more acceptable.
Fear of litigation and overcrowded wards have been cited as reasons for the increased level of intervention in childbirth. But the Mail says the trend "has been linked to career women who are said to be 'too posh to push'." The implication is that, despite the well-documented risks, women choose to have a caesarean out of a selfish desire to make their busy lives run more smoothly.
Quite clearly, those who suggest that caesareans are an easy option haven't had their belly sliced open with a knife. I have. Twice. And it hurt.
Operation number one came after 42 weeks of pregnancy and five days in hospital popping pessaries. After the fifth dose I was allowed to go home to watch the last episode of Pride and Prejudice in the hope that it would kick-start the hormones needed to push you into labour.
Unfortunately, Darcy's memorable swim across the lake failed to break my waters, and I was punctured with what looked like a crochet hook. I was then attached to a drip that was meant to give me "fast and furious" contractions and a speedy, if painful, birth.
Ha! Twelve hours later my cervix was still refusing to show any signs of "opening like a flower" in the ways that books had promised me, and the operating theatre loomed. Finally, at 1am, we all agreed that the only options left were a caesarean or letting me and the baby die. I picked the caesarean. Within an hour Dolores was born, I'd been stitched up and my husband had been sent home.
I was wheeled back to the ward in seventh heaven. I'd fallen in love. That was the easy bit. Unfortunately I couldn't pick my daughter up. I couldn't see her in the cot. I couldn't sit up. I had to wear horrible thick white tights. I wasn't even allowed to eat or drink. I did manage to breastfeed by rolling on my side and having the baby in my bed with me. It was agony.
Someone once told me that having a caesarean was like having your head stapled to your knees. It was far worse. Try to imagine instead someone cutting you open, pouring on vinegar and then sticking you back together with Sellotape that you feel will come undone at any point. Get the picture?
When I got home after five sleepless nights in the hospital I honestly thought I would never laugh again, let alone make another baby - it just hurt too much. But I did work out how to get out of bed without stretching the wound, how to lift the baby, and even how to get dressed, so normal life resumed. And we even learned to love the scar.
Pregnancy number two also reached week 42 without any sign of labour, so I was booked in for an elective caesarean as there are fears that a baby left in the womb too long can die. Dolores had weighed 9lb 8oz at birth, and the suspicion was that this baby was going to be even bigger.
The pains started near the dried pasta in Tesco. My midwife told me to go straight to the ward so I could be monitored and - joy of joys - I was 3cm dilated. Hurrah. I was in pain, I was having contractions and the future looked caesarean-free.
But 20 hours later it seemed that, far from progressing, I had actually managed to go backwards. The consultant decided I was in fact now only 2cm dilated and that I was never, ever going to have a normal delivery.
As I lay on the hospital bed outside the operating theatre, I wept in pain and frustration that, despite all my and the hospital's best endeavours, I was going back under the knife.
The second caesarean was worse than the first. In order to reduce the scarring, the procedure involves cutting through the original scars (which, contrary to what I had been told, were still clearly visible). This means that the op takes much longer. And the pain afterwards was much worse.
When I went back to the ward with my new son, I was put on a self-dosing morphine-based drug. The idea is that you get to choose when you get pain relief rather than waiting for the drug trolley. Unfortunately it made me throw up - not pleasant at the best of times, but it takes some beating when you have just been cut in two.
Don't get me wrong. I am infinitely grateful that I have my children, that I didn't die in labour and that the hospital did everything possible to jump-start the natural process of giving birth before an operation became unavoidable. And I am sure that if a caesarean is planned, rather than performed in an emergency, then the recovery is much quicker.
But having a caesarean can mean that the joy of having a baby is spoiled somewhat by the after effects of the operation, which in my case were relatively mild, but which can be very dangerous. In the absence of an emergency, pushing beats cutting any day - and as evidence I offer the track marks across my tum. It's safer, the recovery time is quicker and you don't have to worry about your bikini line.
