...and I thought my births were traumatic.

Having suffered two miscarriages before falling pregnant with Daughter, I was soooooo careful to do everything right throughout her 9 month incubation. As well as all the usual no blue cheese/wine/pate/liver rules, I took my healthy intake one step further and only ate organic, wore organic, washed organic. I drank disgusting Ayurvedic herbal brews (to tone the uterus apparently), switched to formaldehyde-free nail polish and practised positive visualisations on a daily basis.

And having read an inspiring collection of natural birth stories (Japanese women squatting down in the middle of a paddy field to deliver their baby, then getting right back to work with newborn in an impromptu silk sling), decided to go for a home birth. I hired a birthing pool, downloaded some inspiring music on my iPod, filled the room with candles, lined up the homeopathic remedies and practised my pain-relieving yogic breathing.

But sadly, the universe had other ideas about my baby's arrival. For one thing, Daughter was having such a great time in utero that TWENTY ONE DAYS past her due date, she was still firmly ensconced. I was officially a Ten Month Mama. Several sweeps, pineapples, curries, long walks, bumpy drives, hot baths and, yes, all the other old wives tales, later and the contractions finally kicked in. They started, they stopped, they started again. After two days of this, I finally relented and went into hospital, where I knew all the midwives by name, having had daily check ups for the previous 2 weeks. A lovely, senior midwife broke my waters and things finally started to hot up - I was so excited...at last, I was going to meet my little girl and hold her in my hungry arms! But after 12 hours of strong labour on gas and air, I was still only 3 cm dilated.

Some numpty decided to put me a drip to try and speed things up (although this was never the problem as my contractions were already 1 minute apart). Almost instantly, baby's heartbeat went into panic mode, the midwife found meconium and the on-call obstetrician decided enough was enough. Red lights flashed, an anaesthetist was brought in, some nurses tipped me onto a surgical trolley and off I went to theatre to have an emergency C-section. My only memory after that is asking someone to please turn off the Robbie Williams track blasting out across theatre (Angels, I think it was). SO not what I'd had in mind for my baby's birth.

But one hour later, I was giving little M her first feed. Ok, I hadn't had the birth I'd wanted but at least we'd both survived the experience. More than survived. My darling girl was a bouncing picture of health - alert, bright-eyed and beautiful.

Two years on, 10 days overdue with my son, I stubbornly/optimistically thought I'd have another go at a natural birth. Although I knew I couldn't have a home birth because of the Caeasarean scar (fear of rupture during contractions or something), I'd read up on the statistics and loads of women have successful VBACs. But yet again, fate had different plans. J was born in a carbon-copy replica of his sister's labour and birth (3 days of contractions = 3 cm dilated. I was clearly not made to give birth). Only this time round, it was slightly worse because the Russian anaesthetist (nothing against Russians per se but her grasp of language was so minimal, she didn't even know the English for penicillin - to which it turns out I am allergic), pushed the epidural needle in fractionally too far. Result: leaking spinal fluid, ineffectual pain relief, awareness of most of the grossly invasive operation and a splitting headache for three weeks post-op.

Anyway, again all's well that ends well. My baby was gorgeous and wonderfully healthy. He slept well, fed well and smiled at 2 days old.

Fast-forward to last Friday. One of my best friend's, N (not my 'twin family' friend N), was just getting ready for her last day at work before going on maternity leave. Her baby was due mid-July so she was looking forward to a month of pregnancy yoga, making up the new cot and washing babygros in preparation for the new arrival. Only, all of a sudden, her waters broke, contractions started and however much she crossed her legs, it seemed like this baby was coming out - a whole month early.

She too had wanted to try for a home birth (so much more appealing to remain in the comfortable nest you've been feathering for the past however many months than a stark, clinical, brightly lit hospital room with a Robbie Williams soundtrack). But since it turned out that her membranes had broken probably 2 days beforehand, the community midwives were keen to get her into hospital. When labour failed to progress, a scan revealed the baby was breech. Still, my friend insisted on trying for a natural birth. But a kind mifwife took her to one side and explained that now so many breech babies were delivered by Caesarean, the midwives literally didn't know how to deliver a breech any more. She was whipped into theatre smartish.

I don't want to say too much about the details of the birth out of respect for her privacy. But if I tell you that it made me count MY blessings, then perhaps you'll get an idea.

Her tiny baby was taken straight to the neo-natal intensive care unit and put on oxygen to help her breathe. An X-ray of her lungs quickly followed to check there was no physical damage (thankfully, all fine). Meanwhile, N was taken to the maternity ward, without her baby. Armed only with her determination and a hundred photos of the little one, amazingly, she managed to express some breastmilk, which was then fed to her baby through a nasal tube.

For the next few days, N was not allowed to either feed directly or even hold her baby, for fear of over-stimulating her - she needed all her energy to grow. The doctors wouldn't commit to anything but they've suggested she may have to stay in the NICU until term (ie: another 4 weeks). N is over the mental shock of having an unplanned Caesarean (she's one tough cookie) but worries about bonding with the baby girl she's not even allowed to touch. The little one lies in her incubator with tubes everywhere, hands bandaged to protect the IV drips and dressed only in a nappy. To change her, the nurses have to put their hands through holes in the sides of the incubator.

I've been praying and fretting and thinking of them all constantly and happily, thankfully, as I was writing this post, just had a joyous text from N, saying baby P has turned a corner today. She's thriving on the drip-fed breastmilk and N had actually been able to hold her briefly today.

I am so relieved. But am still off to light a candle and say more prayers. If you can spare a thought, please send one their way.