The top breastfeeding tips for new mothers
New mothers are encouraged to focus on what works for them and their baby, rather than adhering to external expectations or societal pressures.
Seeking support is crucial if breastfeeding becomes physically or mentally challenging, or painful, as pain often indicates an issue with the baby's latch.
Preparing in advance with essential items such as nipple cream and breast pads can help ease the initial stages of breastfeeding.
Professional guidance from midwives or breastfeeding consultants can significantly improve the experience and address difficulties.
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The Guardian
4 hours ago
- The Guardian
The year after my son died in childbirth
Everything was golden in the weeks after my son died. Glimmering threads of light spooled through my kitchen window and illuminated the most mundane objects, making them look sacred. Sunlight danced on the concrete in my garden and dappled the laundry drying on the line. On a walk, I remember all the grass as wispy strands of ochre and burned yellow. I was having an extended golden hour, pumped full of maternal love with no baby to hold. Hormones, I suspect – which I was surprised to find that you get, even if your baby dies during delivery. 'Will I still get the baby blues?' I asked one of the midwives who sat beside me on my sickbed. 'A bit more than that I think, babe,' she said. I had taken an antenatal class with her, back when I was still sure of myself: specific about what I would need during labour, encouraged by what had been a healthy pregnancy. And now, we were here. My son Mo Ibrahim Lingwood-Noor was born on 15 July 2023. There is an old adage that this date will set the tone for the rest of summer: if it rains that day, the whole season will follow suit. I cannot remember if it was glum or sunny outside on Mo's birthday. From my aseptic hospital bed, I didn't notice the weather. But weirdly, I remember that whole summer as warm, hazy, almost shimmering. I was in the middle of labour when I found out Mo had died. Perhaps I should have known when the nurse started making comments about my baby 'hiding' while I was having contractions, or when she called doctors to get a second and third opinion. But it did not make sense to me: I had braced myself for something to go wrong for me this far along. I never thought it would happen to him. I had gone into the hospital frequently in the weeks preceding Mo's birth in the way that first mothers often do: to check on a leak, to enquire whether a lack of movement indicates something awry. None of these visits had flagged anything to be nervous about. In fact, my pregnancy seemed so routine that often I suspected the midwives wondered why I had come in at all. About two weeks before Mo was born, a midwife recommended I get checked at the hospital. I had been leaking clear fluid she said would be worth looking into. 'You'll be OK,' she giddily told me and my husband, Louis. We headed up the pale blue staircase into the stuffy waiting room for the emergency obstetric unit, which was always too hot and too full with expectant parents sitting sullenly on their phones, waiting to be called in. 'Something is definitely happening!' the midwife shouted as we disappeared around the corner. All the signs pointed to a successful labour – days, if not hours, away. But the experience that followed was deeply unpleasant. The emergency unit's midwife, a nun whose headgear made her appear even more strict than she already was, chastised me for coming in for something so trivial. 'If you're so sure your waters have broken, I'll just induce you!' she threatened. Her tone felt disbelieving and calculated, like she was trying to catch me out for being over the top. I tried to explain that I wasn't sure of anything, and that I had just been sent here by her colleague. I required pain relief during cervical checks, because (unusually, for me) examinations had become unbearably uncomfortable – to the point of tears. But when I told her this, it was like I had crossed a line. 'Fine,' she said. 'I'll give you a paracetamol, and you can wait three hours in the waiting room for it to kick in.' Her response angered me, and I asked to see another midwife. My request was granted, and the rest of the visit was lovely. I left safe in the knowledge that the baby and I were fine. So you can imagine my horror when I arrived at the hospital on the night of Mo's birth, only to be greeted by the same dismissive midwife. I had been awoken that night by a pain so preoccupying I could not see or speak. I walked into a wall on my way in and pushed it away, thinking it was my husband. I could not sit in the car. I could not pee. I could not be examined. I have gone over the following events so many times that I know them better than almost any other detail from that night, including the actual birth. My first instinct when faced with the midwife was to get away from her by any means possible. But then she started asking questions, all of which seemed, to me, like they would lead to more time under her care. 'How are your son's movements? Have you felt him in the last few hours?' she asked. 'I don't know, I'm in labour,' I said. 'If you can't feel him you're going to have to go to the ward,' she told me. She was gentler this time, but I still found her punitive. I felt scared, feral and alone. I wanted to go to the natural birthing suite, where you could lie in a double bed with your partner, and have your baby in a pool. I was terrified of being dragged through one procedure after another, of having my body needlessly decimated – only to greet my son as a shell of myself in a noisy ward where everyone was screaming. But in my state, I had little means to communicate. And I felt so certain that he was going to be OK. So I lied. 'Sure, I can feel him,' I said. Sometime later – maybe hours, but probably less – I ended up going to the ward anyway. That is when we found out Mo had died. They traced a wand over my gelled-up tummy, trying to will a different answer into existence. When they turned the screen towards me, it was like Mo had gone floppy: no longer the animate, sturdy, little figure that responded to prods and presses. Instead he swayed lifelessly at each prompt like an idle jellyfish. 'I'm very sorry,' said the senior doctor who had come in to look at the screen. I do not remember his words after that, just that our baby had died. I did not let out an anguished scream. I did not cry. I just felt sluggish and unavailable. I can still recall the exact feeling: like hot concrete was being poured down me, leaving me stuck in place. 'How can you tell me that?' I repeated blankly for the next few hours. When the clumsy anaesthetist came in around 3am – he looked about 24, with glasses that magnified his terrified expression and long limbs that accentuated the sense that he was out of his depth – I asked him to knock me out and cut me open. He concurred that I had chosen the best course of action. So I went to sleep. At some point between early morning and dawn, I turned sheepishly to Louis to ask: 'Lou, what will happen when he comes out? Will you look?' 'I don't know,' he said, conveying, in one expression, all the confusion and bewilderment that I felt. 'You have no good options here,' our consultant told us. 'But some options will be less bad than others.' It was around three in the morning, several hours after we had been admitted to the ward. I was still having contractions, with no pain relief other than gas and air. I tried to take in our options. The more involved we were in our son's birth, she explained, the more we would be able to process his death. No part of me wanted to deliver vaginally – the thought of Mo's limp body between my legs too much to bear – so I opted to have a C-section, but to stay awake. 'There is one more thing,' she said. 'You have to meet your baby. It is up to you how you do that, but you have to do it.' She gave us choices: they would bring Mo into our room in a crib, and we could hold him and dress him if we wanted. If we found that too hard, we could just look at him from a distance. The hospital had a special ward for babies who had died where we could go and visit him. We could keep doing so for as long as we liked; his crib would be temperature controlled, so he would continue to look alive, or somewhat alive, for a few days. To my great shame, just a few hours earlier, I had convinced myself that I could forgo meeting him. Perhaps I could go to sleep, have him disposed of, pretend like my entire pregnancy had never happened. 'You can't love somebody you've never met,' I told myself. I even told myself that, seeing as this pregnancy was a dud, I could do better on the next one – like my son's death was akin to a failed test. That the hospital gave us no choice about meeting him was a kindness I could not yet comprehend. I did not know it then, but if I had not met Mo, I would have found the experience of losing him all the more disembowelling. But I was also terrified. Horrified, even. I learned somewhere that smells trigger some of the most profound emotional responses. What if he smelled rotten? What if he looked weird? Contorted? Sick? There are so many incongruous things you have to hold side-by-side when your baby dies. Cradling him dead; carting him around in a temperature-controlled crib until you can comprehend that he was never truly alive; and trying to feel the tender, warm, totally accepting feelings you are meant to feel towards a baby towards a corpse instead. These conflicting realities were one hell of a thing to comprehend. Everything in your body tells you to run a mile from death. Yet here I was, being confronted with the decision of whether to hold, kiss and dress it. Meeting my son was, simultaneously, the worst and the best moment of my life. We had waited eight hours to go into surgery, constantly bumped to the bottom of the queue because the other people who needed emergency C-sections were most likely going to end up with living children. During this lull, I was so determined not to deliver vaginally that I convinced myself I had the will to keep Mo inside my tummy. If it was not so sad, it probably would have been funny: the sight of me, clenched in a permanent Kegel, a constipated look on my face, refusing to tell anyone whether or not my contractions were progressing. But I made it to the theatre. Around 10am, I was wheeled into a room where what seemed like a dozen doctors were waiting. They stuck a long needle in my back and sprayed a cold liquid on my body, checking if I could feel it to confirm my lower body was numb. I felt tugging, similar to when the dentist roots around your mouth to pull out a tooth while you are under a local anaesthetic – only in my abdomen. Next thing I knew, the doctor had Mo in her arms. 'Poppy, I can see him. He is gorgeous. I am going to clean him up, and then you'll get to meet him,' she said. Until that point, I still believed they might find him alive. Instead, Louis sat by me, holding my hand and crying. I stared blankly at the ceiling while the surgeons cleaned up underneath a tent they had created from the waist down, preventing us from seeing anything. We were taken into a private room, and Mo was carted over in a little see-through tank. 'He's very beautiful,' one of the midwives said. I found her words surprising: so gentle and accepting like a tonic, slowly bringing me back to life. I was afraid to look. But it was comforting to watch Louis, who did not hesitate, immediately hugging Mo as you would after a normal birth. He kissed him, put a nappy on him, and dressed him in dungarees and a dinosaur T-shirt meant for a six-month-old – because Mo, to our surprise, was quite tall. I fumbled when Louis passed him over, my mind and my body still disconnected. But then there he was. This perfect boy that I had grown from just a seed, his face arranged by our DNA; billions of pairs, prudently linked like figurines in a paper chain. He had this mouth just like mine: shaped like a wooden bow, full, rigid and curved. We wowed at his roman nose, far too adult-like for his soft baby face. And I softly opened the lids of his eyes to see his eye colour. We were with Mo for half an hour or so before family started coming in. And in that time, we somehow became more human. We passed our baby around and watched him being greeted with deep sorrow, but also curiosity and delight, by all the people who had waited so long to meet him. When everyone had left, Louis perked up with a cheeky grin, and asked: 'Do you want to see something funny?' I did not think that anything funny could happen at that moment. With a little chuckle, he lifted Mo's legs to reveal some unexpectedly huge testicles. 'Who do you think he got those from?' he asked. And we erupted into fits of laughter, if only for a short while. After meeting Mo, I emailed HR from the toilet cubicle next to my bed: the sort of thing a deranged person, mad from loss, does when her primal brain reminds her that some self-preservation is necessary to survive. I let them know I had lost my baby in delivery and asked them to make sure my maternity pay still came through. We stayed in the hospital for a few days while I healed, waiting and moving slowly. We visited Mo on what they called the angel ward – although he was the only baby in it – never staying too long in case we got too accustomed to the idea of him. His pretty little face. His wrinkly, too-long fingers. And then we got ready to leave. During my pregnancy, I spent a lot of time sitting in the waiting room, on the other side of where all the action takes place. It was always such a fun moment when families would burst through the double doors, triumphantly, baby in hand. I had been excited for the day we did the same. Instead we walked out empty-handed: me, Louis and the sweet midwife from the antenatal class trailing behind us, all of us weeping. Amid the paperwork were questions about what we wished to do with Mo's body. We felt too fragile to think about our son being picked at and jostled in his death to say yes to anything. So to begin with we said no to it all: photographs, postmortem, investigation. But we began to regret not getting a photograph. One of the hardest things about Mo dying before he was born is that I knew so little about him. I do not know what his smile would have been like, how his cry sounded, or whether his eyes would have stayed blue or turned brown in the end. I suddenly wanted to see him from every angle, to ensure against the fading of my already very finite memories. So a week after we got home, we called and asked if we still had time to have pictures done. A volunteer photographer called back. He was from a charity that handles the delicate work of taking photos of stillborn children, making portraits of them as precious as if they were born alive. He said he would have a look at Mo, who was still in his crib at the hospital, and see how much he had deteriorated to discern if it would be appropriate to take a picture. We received a little USB stick in the post just in time for his funeral. I knew it was coming and awaited it like the most exciting gift. I just could not wait to see Mo one more time. And when I did, I thought: There's our boy. He looked so cute: his cheeks all puckered up in rest; his head less cone-shaped than after delivery; his wavy, dark hair flicking up around his ears and at the top of his head like Angel Delight. I kept the photos on a computer and gave myself a daily allowance of time to look at them, before eventually putting them on my phone and looking at them whenever I wanted. I wanted to show everyone – as parents are wont to do after having a child. But I pained over how, exactly, to ascertain whether people wanted to see photos of him, or whether all they would see was a dead baby. Mo's body was too small for a coffin, so he went below ground in a Moses basket instead. We drove with him in a black cab to a cemetery a few miles down the road. Only Louis and I attended. We played a few songs, and I was surprised to find myself beset with grief listening to 'Father and Son' by Cat Stevens. It is not a happy song, but I guess I was most looking forward to the time in life where Mo had his own mind and disagreed with us. When they lowered him into the dirt, I watched until I could not any more. I had always marveled at how I had built Mo's spine: a structure so sturdy and yet so intricate. Now all I could imagine was it being crushed beneath the soil. Later people came around for the wake. I had rehearsed my speech so many times that I did not cry when I gave it, although everyone else did. I read out letters from friends who had watched us wonder at Mo while he was growing inside me; friends who felt like they knew Mo too. People signed a book that we left in his bedroom with goodbye messages. At the end of the night, I think we went to bed smiling. While working on this piece, I had to rework several sections because they were written in the second person. 'The reminders jump out at you, evil in all their mundanity,' I wrote about experiencing my home like a house of horrors, an assault course in which I would constantly have to duck and dive baby nostalgia to make it through a single day. But these things didn't jump out at you. They jumped out at me. Sleights of hand such as these reveal something: in my case, that I am still so dissociated from losing my baby that I cannot describe it as having happened to me. My mind does backbends to keep everything I went through at arm's length – even as the rational part of me makes all the right, therapised sounds of acceptance. This is one of the many layers of self-deception I have had to peel away since Mo died. It has been two years, and I still have not fully been able to take it all in. I had been proud of myself in pregnancy, feeling strong and functional. Something about reaching this rite of passage and passing all of the necessary milestones without concerns triggered all of my childlike impulses: the need to do well and be praised. So when I could not deliver Mo safely, it registered first as a grave failure of my body. I pictured all of the women throughout time, without medicine or hospitals, sometimes in war zones, crouching in bushes and on toilet seats, birthing babies. It's a ridiculous depiction, but next to it, I felt pathetic. In the following months, whether or not my body would fail me again became a constant preoccupation – as did finding out why it had done so in the first place. I spent time obsessively Googling things such as: If you have a stillbirth once, will you have one again? Why couldn't I birth my baby? Underlying conditions that cause stillbirth My body became a site of grief, a sad and empty space beset by the postpartum symptoms I still had to go through – without the salve of a child to go with them. As my uterus deflated over the course of the next few weeks, a pain similar to contractions ensued, landing me in a strange limbo where part of me believed Mo was still coming. Each fake contraction reminded me of being in labour, that forlorn resignation I felt when I knew he had died but had to continue anyway flooding back. I jacked myself up on morphine in the hospital and a concoction of other drugs at home, wanting to ward off any contraction-like feeling before it happened. I vomited and shook and had migraines that left me laying stationary with a towel over my face for hours on end. But I was also healing. I focused on walking and sitting up and getting stronger. It was all so preoccupying; I felt I was attending to my grief. And to some extent I was. But there was far more to reckon with than what had happened to my body. Once I was mobile enough to do anything other than lie around, the months ahead of me stretched out, long and unwinding. I felt the wind knocked out of me every time I remembered there was more than today to get through. Then I would remember that I would feel some version of this for the rest of my life, and I would feel my brain whirring around in my skull. 'Let's leave that for now,' I would have to tell myself. But the reminders were so quotidian. I sobbed at the sight of a bright purple yoga ball in our living room. I had incessantly bounced on it in late pregnancy, willing my baby out, and then during early labour to ease the pain. Now, it seemed to tease me. A jolt of sorrow hit me when my husband mentioned eating the food we had lovingly stocked in the freezer, back when we imagined this time would be spent bleary-eyed, cuddling with the baby, unable to cook for ourselves. The hospital bag we had so expectantly packed remained the same way for over a year – a museum of our hopes kept perfectly intact. We kept Mo's room as a shrine to all the things we had hoped to dress him in (as well as the many strange grieving gifts we got and could not bear to explain to new people). And although I unsubscribed from all the email reminders of what my baby's development should be at this stage, it took a long time for me to stop thinking of months in relation to how old Mo would have been. I entered a phase of monk-like piety ('I will never wear lipstick, like a normal person who hasn't lost her baby would, again; I will never sit on the rocking chair where I planned to feed him again; I will never watch Barbecue Showdown, which I watched before going to the hospital, ever again!'), followed by toxic positivity ('I will always love these stretch marks! They're the only thing of my son I have left!'). And although all this was bracketed by profound sorrow (a guttural scream in our little toilet by the kitchen that opens to the garden, door ajar, facing outside with abandon while I cry-peed), I still found it hard to come to terms with the depths of my aching. I managed to convince myself that my pain was somehow less torturous because Mo had not been born – that I couldn't possibly know the pain of losing a child, because I had not had one. I would surprise myself with slips of the tongue, when I would let out a wail, saying something like: 'I just want my baby' or 'I miss him' – before hastily rearranging myself, assuming I had reached for the closest, cliche expression that did not accurately reflect my own experience. But the truth of how I felt was all there in my dreams, where I would see babies coming back to life, only to wake up in that foggy gold glow, desperate to return to slumber. And each night, I would go to bed with my most desperate thought. Sometimes, I still do: We were so close. In the daytime, I was consumed with guilt. When I was pregnant, every decision I made haunted me. No pain relief except Tylenol – but only if necessary. Hot baths, but with my hands, feet and head lifted out. Running was accompanied by fastidious watch-watching, to ensure my heart rate never stayed consistently above 145bpm (all followed by a days-long panic that I had caused great harm). But even though I had tried so hard to follow the right rules – the rules that were backed by science! – I could not shake the idea after Mo died that I had killed him somehow. I would find myself raking over the past, searching for tiny clues amid the piles of innocuous memories. I became convinced I murdered Mo when I asked my husband to use a massage gun on my lower back during labour; that I was negligent for not noticing the peak in my hunger around weeks 38 and 39, which were a sure sign he was starving to death. I scrolled through photos on my phone like a maniac, searching for symptoms that I should have noticed: was my bump hanging too low? Was that the last time I felt him kick? Whenever I did this, I felt like I was watching a horror movie, wanting to scream at my past self: 'Get out! Make a different choice now before it's too late!' My body hurled itself out of bed in the middle of the night, awake with thoughts: I was five days overdue! Was he still alive when we got to the hospital? Two years later, I still spend whole days swimming through a list of possibilities – each one ending with a living Mo. What if I had gone in earlier? What if I had taken the epidural? Why didn't I just get induced? My decision to lie to the midwife is still part of the everyday flotsam I fish out of the 'Reasons I Killed My Baby' swamp in my brain. I replay endless scenarios where I told the truth, was whisked to the ward and met Mo in my arms – his eyes open instead of closed. My rational brain knows that I could not predict what happened. But in the place where my mind and my heart connect, I still believe that I killed him when I lied. For this, I cannot believe my husband does not hate me. This was not my first rodeo when it comes to unexpected, mind-bending, heart-wrenching life affairs; I have been around the block once or twice when it comes to the shock of early loss. And so when I lost Mo, one of the things I was most immediately furious about was that I had not seen it coming. What an idiot, I thought, for naming my child as if nothing might go wrong, for so naively bestowing him with a personality and tastes ('He loves raspberries! And the granola with the chocolate and honey clusters!' I told my friends, certain his love for sugar, inferred by his kicks, meant he was an extrovert). But at some point, things started to feel lighter. My friends arrived every evening with beers and takeout and anecdotes about the world outside that were more interesting than mine and Louis's slow-paced, unmoving days. People sent so many flowers that we could not sit at our dining table for a month. We received so many hampers it is a mystery we did not grow larger than we did. And all of these things gave me an appreciation of earnestness: a trait I had previously despised. One of the things I have learned since his death is that I can be a cynic as a defense mechanism: I am afraid to appear humorless, or to look like someone who believes good things will happen to them, because I will feel like an idiot when they ultimately do not. I complained often in my pregnancy about all the things I thought would ruin me – how I would be awful on no sleep; and how I did not want to go to the sing-song play groups that I found moronic; and how I was just maybe not the kind of woman who is that into being a parent – because I was scared of stating my hopes. I was afraid to admit that, actually, I had always been compelled by – and perhaps even well-suited to – parenthood. Losing Mo made me realize that all of my guardedness did not make the pain more bearable. If anything, I wish I had more openly loved him, that I had been even more vulnerable in my willingness to accept how much of it I thought I would love. I could have sat in that joy a little longer before he was gone. Don't get me wrong – I do not think all of motherhood is a breeze. My second son, Kamil, is a delight, but while it's not like I enjoy wiping his snot or pulling a piece of grass out of his poo, I have become a much more honest person about the glorious parts, much more willing to admit that I experience them. There was a point when I found it strange to listen to people share how they had been shaken by Mo's death, too. How they had taken the day off work or broken down into tears or spent a week feeling distraught after they heard of what happened. And then, one day, that changed too. I think I found it hard to see how upset people were at our loss, because it brought home how universally damning it was. Part of accepting that means being able to feel truly sorry for yourself, and that's something I've always struggled with. Soon, instead, I started to feel seen when people told me they loved Mo, and they mourned him too. 'Grief is just love with nowhere to go,' someone told me. And so I began to grieve him and love him more openly. To listen to people's stories about how sorry they were, without wanting to correct them, or feel angry at their pity. 'Mo's life would be full of whole worlds,' Louis said to me one day, talking about all of the people, places and moments that he would have known. It was such a tender thought. Such a specific thing to miss without ever having experienced it. It sort of sums up what it was like to miss our unborn child. I do believe Mo's life contained whole worlds. From the moment he existed, he changed us, and watching our elation changed other people, too. My friend wrote a letter that we read out at his funeral about how her love for my son grew in proportion to my ever-expanding tummy. She admitted how scared she was that we were going back to London to give birth and start a new chapter, and how that would put thousands of miles between us. But she also explained how, ultimately, that fear turned into admiration. 'I started to see you as someone who would expand, not shrink from me and the rest of the world. Sometimes, I could see glimpses of how you'd mother Mo: hugging him, telling him off, feeding him all kinds of different foods at six months,' she wrote, continuing: 'A baby at one day old hasn't done much, on paper … Another way to look at it, though, is that a baby at one day old – even if he never had the chance to take a breath – already changed everything.' It was Mo's second birthday this month. So on 15 July, we bumbled over to his grave with Kamil. After we first buried him, I found it overwhelming how quickly the cemetery got full: a reminder that this ever-so-delicate, unique experience we were going through was actually not very unique at all. I hated looking at the balloons by graves, marking third and 13th and 33rd birthdays. What a way to spend a birthday, I thought. But when I plopped Kamil down on the dirt, where his brother lay underneath, he laughed and smacked the ground in glee. He seemed to say: 'Actually, this is a great way to spend the day.' That evening, we went home, and played the songs from Mo's funeral. Our house, which one year ago had felt so empty, suddenly felt so full. And when it started raining outside, we scarcely even noticed.
The Guardian
6 hours ago
- The Guardian
The year after my son died in childbirth
Everything was golden in the weeks after my son died. Glimmering threads of light spooled through my kitchen window and illuminated the most mundane objects, making them look sacred. Sunlight danced on the concrete in my garden and dappled the laundry drying on the line. On a walk, I remember all the grass as wispy strands of ochre and burned yellow. I was having an extended golden hour, pumped full of maternal love with no baby to hold. Hormones, I suspect – which I was surprised to find that you get, even if your baby dies during delivery. 'Will I still get the baby blues?' I asked one of the midwives who sat beside me on my sickbed. 'A bit more than that I think, babe,' she said. I had taken an antenatal class with her, back when I was still sure of myself: specific about what I would need during labour, encouraged by what had been a healthy pregnancy. And now, we were here. My son Mo Ibrahim Lingwood-Noor was born on 15 July 2023. There is an old adage that this date will set the tone for the rest of summer: if it rains that day, the whole season will follow suit. I cannot remember if it was glum or sunny outside on Mo's birthday. From my aseptic hospital bed, I didn't notice the weather. But weirdly, I remember that whole summer as warm, hazy, almost shimmering. I was in the middle of labour when I found out Mo had died. Perhaps I should have known when the nurse started making comments about my baby 'hiding' while I was having contractions, or when she called doctors to get a second and third opinion. But it did not make sense to me: I had braced myself for something to go wrong for me this far along. I never thought it would happen to him. I had gone into the hospital frequently in the weeks preceding Mo's birth in the way that first mothers often do: to check on a leak, to enquire whether a lack of movement indicates something awry. None of these visits had flagged anything to be nervous about. In fact, my pregnancy seemed so routine that often I suspected the midwives wondered why I had come in at all. About two weeks before Mo was born, a midwife recommended I get checked at the hospital. I had been leaking clear fluid she said would be worth looking into. 'You'll be OK,' she giddily told me and my husband, Louis. We headed up the pale blue staircase into the stuffy waiting room for the emergency obstetric unit, which was always too hot and too full with expectant parents sitting sullenly on their phones, waiting to be called in. 'Something is definitely happening!' the midwife shouted as we disappeared around the corner. All the signs pointed to a successful labour – days, if not hours, away. But the experience that followed was deeply unpleasant. The emergency unit's midwife, a nun whose headgear made her appear even more strict than she already was, chastised me for coming in for something so trivial. 'If you're so sure your waters have broken, I'll just induce you!' she threatened. Her tone felt disbelieving and calculated, like she was trying to catch me out for being over the top. I tried to explain that I wasn't sure of anything, and that I had just been sent here by her colleague. I required pain relief during cervical checks, because (unusually, for me) examinations had become unbearably uncomfortable – to the point of tears. But when I told her this, it was like I had crossed a line. 'Fine,' she said. 'I'll give you a paracetamol, and you can wait three hours in the waiting room for it to kick in.' Her response angered me, and I asked to see another midwife. My request was granted, and the rest of the visit was lovely. I left safe in the knowledge that the baby and I were fine. So you can imagine my horror when I arrived at the hospital on the night of Mo's birth, only to be greeted by the same dismissive midwife. I had been awoken that night by a pain so preoccupying I could not see or speak. I walked into a wall on my way in and pushed it away, thinking it was my husband. I could not sit in the car. I could not pee. I could not be examined. I have gone over the following events so many times that I know them better than almost any other detail from that night, including the actual birth. My first instinct when faced with the midwife was to get away from her by any means possible. But then she started asking questions, all of which seemed, to me, like they would lead to more time under her care. 'How are your son's movements? Have you felt him in the last few hours?' she asked. 'I don't know, I'm in labour,' I said. 'If you can't feel him you're going to have to go to the ward,' she told me. She was gentler this time, but I still found her punitive. I felt scared, feral and alone. I wanted to go to the natural birthing suite, where you could lie in a double bed with your partner, and have your baby in a pool. I was terrified of being dragged through one procedure after another, of having my body needlessly decimated – only to greet my son as a shell of myself in a noisy ward where everyone was screaming. But in my state, I had little means to communicate. And I felt so certain that he was going to be OK. So I lied. 'Sure, I can feel him,' I said. Sometime later – maybe hours, but probably less – I ended up going to the ward anyway. That is when we found out Mo had died. They traced a wand over my gelled-up tummy, trying to will a different answer into existence. When they turned the screen towards me, it was like Mo had gone floppy: no longer the animate, sturdy, little figure that responded to prods and presses. Instead he swayed lifelessly at each prompt like an idle jellyfish. 'I'm very sorry,' said the senior doctor who had come in to look at the screen. I do not remember his words after that, just that our baby had died. I did not let out an anguished scream. I did not cry. I just felt sluggish and unavailable. I can still recall the exact feeling: like hot concrete was being poured down me, leaving me stuck in place. 'How can you tell me that?' I repeated blankly for the next few hours. When the clumsy anaesthetist came in around 3am – he looked about 24, with glasses that magnified his terrified expression and long limbs that accentuated the sense that he was out of his depth – I asked him to knock me out and cut me open. He concurred that I had chosen the best course of action. So I went to sleep. At some point between early morning and dawn, I turned sheepishly to Louis to ask: 'Lou, what will happen when he comes out? Will you look?' 'I don't know,' he said, conveying, in one expression, all the confusion and bewilderment that I felt. 'You have no good options here,' our consultant told us. 'But some options will be less bad than others.' It was around three in the morning, several hours after we had been admitted to the ward. I was still having contractions, with no pain relief other than gas and air. I tried to take in our options. The more involved we were in our son's birth, she explained, the more we would be able to process his death. No part of me wanted to deliver vaginally – the thought of Mo's limp body between my legs too much to bear – so I opted to have a C-section, but to stay awake. 'There is one more thing,' she said. 'You have to meet your baby. It is up to you how you do that, but you have to do it.' She gave us choices: they would bring Mo into our room in a crib, and we could hold him and dress him if we wanted. If we found that too hard, we could just look at him from a distance. The hospital had a special ward for babies who had died where we could go and visit him. We could keep doing so for as long as we liked; his crib would be temperature controlled, so he would continue to look alive, or somewhat alive, for a few days. To my great shame, just a few hours earlier, I had convinced myself that I could forgo meeting him. Perhaps I could go to sleep, have him disposed of, pretend like my entire pregnancy had never happened. 'You can't love somebody you've never met,' I told myself. I even told myself that, seeing as this pregnancy was a dud, I could do better on the next one – like my son's death was akin to a failed test. That the hospital gave us no choice about meeting him was a kindness I could not yet comprehend. I did not know it then, but if I had not met Mo, I would have found the experience of losing him all the more disembowelling. But I was also terrified. Horrified, even. I learned somewhere that smells trigger some of the most profound emotional responses. What if he smelled rotten? What if he looked weird? Contorted? Sick? There are so many incongruous things you have to hold side-by-side when your baby dies. Cradling him dead; carting him around in a temperature-controlled crib until you can comprehend that he was never truly alive; and trying to feel the tender, warm, totally accepting feelings you are meant to feel towards a baby towards a corpse instead. These conflicting realities were one hell of a thing to comprehend. Everything in your body tells you to run a mile from death. Yet here I was, being confronted with the decision of whether to hold, kiss and dress it. Meeting my son was, simultaneously, the worst and the best moment of my life. We had waited eight hours to go into surgery, constantly bumped to the bottom of the queue because the other people who needed emergency C-sections were most likely going to end up with living children. During this lull, I was so determined not to deliver vaginally that I convinced myself I had the will to keep Mo inside my tummy. If it was not so sad, it probably would have been funny: the sight of me, clenched in a permanent Kegel, a constipated look on my face, refusing to tell anyone whether or not my contractions were progressing. But I made it to the theatre. Around 10am, I was wheeled into a room where what seemed like a dozen doctors were waiting. They stuck a long needle in my back and sprayed a cold liquid on my body, checking if I could feel it to confirm my lower body was numb. I felt tugging, similar to when the dentist roots around your mouth to pull out a tooth while you are under a local anaesthetic – only in my abdomen. Next thing I knew, the doctor had Mo in her arms. 'Poppy, I can see him. He is gorgeous. I am going to clean him up, and then you'll get to meet him,' she said. Until that point, I still believed they might find him alive. Instead, Louis sat by me, holding my hand and crying. I stared blankly at the ceiling while the surgeons cleaned up underneath a tent they had created from the waist down, preventing us from seeing anything. We were taken into a private room, and Mo was carted over in a little see-through tank. 'He's very beautiful,' one of the midwives said. I found her words surprising: so gentle and accepting like a tonic, slowly bringing me back to life. I was afraid to look. But it was comforting to watch Louis, who did not hesitate, immediately hugging Mo as you would after a normal birth. He kissed him, put a nappy on him, and dressed him in dungarees and a dinosaur T-shirt meant for a six-month-old – because Mo, to our surprise, was quite tall. I fumbled when Louis passed him over, my mind and my body still disconnected. But then there he was. This perfect boy that I had grown from just a seed, his face arranged by our DNA; billions of pairs, prudently linked like figurines in a paper chain. He had this mouth just like mine: shaped like a wooden bow, full, rigid and curved. We wowed at his roman nose, far too adult-like for his soft baby face. And I softly opened the lids of his eyes to see his eye colour. We were with Mo for half an hour or so before family started coming in. And in that time, we somehow became more human. We passed our baby around and watched him being greeted with deep sorrow, but also curiosity and delight, by all the people who had waited so long to meet him. When everyone had left, Louis perked up with a cheeky grin, and asked: 'Do you want to see something funny?' I did not think that anything funny could happen at that moment. With a little chuckle, he lifted Mo's legs to reveal some unexpectedly huge testicles. 'Who do you think he got those from?' he asked. And we erupted into fits of laughter, if only for a short while. After meeting Mo, I emailed HR from the toilet cubicle next to my bed: the sort of thing a deranged person, mad from loss, does when her primal brain reminds her that some self-preservation is necessary to survive. I let them know I had lost my baby in delivery and asked them to make sure my maternity pay still came through. We stayed in the hospital for a few days while I healed, waiting and moving slowly. We visited Mo on what they called the angel ward – although he was the only baby in it – never staying too long in case we got too accustomed to the idea of him. His pretty little face. His wrinkly, too-long fingers. And then we got ready to leave. During my pregnancy, I spent a lot of time sitting in the waiting room, on the other side of where all the action takes place. It was always such a fun moment when families would burst through the double doors, triumphantly, baby in hand. I had been excited for the day we did the same. Instead we walked out empty-handed: me, Louis and the sweet midwife from the antenatal class trailing behind us, all of us weeping. Amid the paperwork were questions about what we wished to do with Mo's body. We felt too fragile to think about our son being picked at and jostled in his death to say yes to anything. So to begin with we said no to it all: photographs, postmortem, investigation. But we began to regret not getting a photograph. One of the hardest things about Mo dying before he was born is that I knew so little about him. I do not know what his smile would have been like, how his cry sounded, or whether his eyes would have stayed blue or turned brown in the end. I suddenly wanted to see him from every angle, to ensure against the fading of my already very finite memories. So a week after we got home, we called and asked if we still had time to have pictures done. A volunteer photographer called back. He was from a charity that handles the delicate work of taking photos of stillborn children, making portraits of them as precious as if they were born alive. He said he would have a look at Mo, who was still in his crib at the hospital, and see how much he had deteriorated to discern if it would be appropriate to take a picture. We received a little USB stick in the post just in time for his funeral. I knew it was coming and awaited it like the most exciting gift. I just could not wait to see Mo one more time. And when I did, I thought: There's our boy. He looked so cute: his cheeks all puckered up in rest; his head less cone-shaped than after delivery; his wavy, dark hair flicking up around his ears and at the top of his head like Angel Delight. I kept the photos on a computer and gave myself a daily allowance of time to look at them, before eventually putting them on my phone and looking at them whenever I wanted. I wanted to show everyone – as parents are wont to do after having a child. But I pained over how, exactly, to ascertain whether people wanted to see photos of him, or whether all they would see was a dead baby. Mo's body was too small for a coffin, so he went below ground in a Moses basket instead. We drove with him in a black cab to a cemetery a few miles down the road. Only Louis and I attended. We played a few songs, and I was surprised to find myself beset with grief listening to 'Father and Son' by Cat Stevens. It is not a happy song, but I guess I was most looking forward to the time in life where Mo had his own mind and disagreed with us. When they lowered him into the dirt, I watched until I could not any more. I had always marveled at how I had built Mo's spine: a structure so sturdy and yet so intricate. Now all I could imagine was it being crushed beneath the soil. Later people came around for the wake. I had rehearsed my speech so many times that I did not cry when I gave it, although everyone else did. I read out letters from friends who had watched us wonder at Mo while he was growing inside me; friends who felt like they knew Mo too. People signed a book that we left in his bedroom with goodbye messages. At the end of the night, I think we went to bed smiling. While working on this piece, I had to rework several sections because they were written in the second person. 'The reminders jump out at you, evil in all their mundanity,' I wrote about experiencing my home like a house of horrors, an assault course in which I would constantly have to duck and dive baby nostalgia to make it through a single day. But these things didn't jump out at you. They jumped out at me. Sleights of hand such as these reveal something: in my case, that I am still so dissociated from losing my baby that I cannot describe it as having happened to me. My mind does backbends to keep everything I went through at arm's length – even as the rational part of me makes all the right, therapised sounds of acceptance. This is one of the many layers of self-deception I have had to peel away since Mo died. It has been two years, and I still have not fully been able to take it all in. I had been proud of myself in pregnancy, feeling strong and functional. Something about reaching this rite of passage and passing all of the necessary milestones without concerns triggered all of my childlike impulses: the need to do well and be praised. So when I could not deliver Mo safely, it registered first as a grave failure of my body. I pictured all of the women throughout time, without medicine or hospitals, sometimes in war zones, crouching in bushes and on toilet seats, birthing babies. It's a ridiculous depiction, but next to it, I felt pathetic. In the following months, whether or not my body would fail me again became a constant preoccupation – as did finding out why it had done so in the first place. I spent time obsessively Googling things such as: If you have a stillbirth once, will you have one again? Why couldn't I birth my baby? Underlying conditions that cause stillbirth My body became a site of grief, a sad and empty space beset by the postpartum symptoms I still had to go through – without the salve of a child to go with them. As my uterus deflated over the course of the next few weeks, a pain similar to contractions ensued, landing me in a strange limbo where part of me believed Mo was still coming. Each fake contraction reminded me of being in labour, that forlorn resignation I felt when I knew he had died but had to continue anyway flooding back. I jacked myself up on morphine in the hospital and a concoction of other drugs at home, wanting to ward off any contraction-like feeling before it happened. I vomited and shook and had migraines that left me laying stationary with a towel over my face for hours on end. But I was also healing. I focused on walking and sitting up and getting stronger. It was all so preoccupying; I felt I was attending to my grief. And to some extent I was. But there was far more to reckon with than what had happened to my body. Once I was mobile enough to do anything other than lie around, the months ahead of me stretched out, long and unwinding. I felt the wind knocked out of me every time I remembered there was more than today to get through. Then I would remember that I would feel some version of this for the rest of my life, and I would feel my brain whirring around in my skull. 'Let's leave that for now,' I would have to tell myself. But the reminders were so quotidian. I sobbed at the sight of a bright purple yoga ball in our living room. I had incessantly bounced on it in late pregnancy, willing my baby out, and then during early labour to ease the pain. Now, it seemed to tease me. A jolt of sorrow hit me when my husband mentioned eating the food we had lovingly stocked in the freezer, back when we imagined this time would be spent bleary-eyed, cuddling with the baby, unable to cook for ourselves. The hospital bag we had so expectantly packed remained the same way for over a year – a museum of our hopes kept perfectly intact. We kept Mo's room as a shrine to all the things we had hoped to dress him in (as well as the many strange grieving gifts we got and could not bear to explain to new people). And although I unsubscribed from all the email reminders of what my baby's development should be at this stage, it took a long time for me to stop thinking of months in relation to how old Mo would have been. I entered a phase of monk-like piety ('I will never wear lipstick, like a normal person who hasn't lost her baby would, again; I will never sit on the rocking chair where I planned to feed him again; I will never watch Barbecue Showdown, which I watched before going to the hospital, ever again!'), followed by toxic positivity ('I will always love these stretch marks! They're the only thing of my son I have left!'). And although all this was bracketed by profound sorrow (a guttural scream in our little toilet by the kitchen that opens to the garden, door ajar, facing outside with abandon while I cry-peed), I still found it hard to come to terms with the depths of my aching. I managed to convince myself that my pain was somehow less torturous because Mo had not been born – that I couldn't possibly know the pain of losing a child, because I had not had one. I would surprise myself with slips of the tongue, when I would let out a wail, saying something like: 'I just want my baby' or 'I miss him' – before hastily rearranging myself, assuming I had reached for the closest, cliche expression that did not accurately reflect my own experience. But the truth of how I felt was all there in my dreams, where I would see babies coming back to life, only to wake up in that foggy gold glow, desperate to return to slumber. And each night, I would go to bed with my most desperate thought. Sometimes, I still do: We were so close. In the daytime, I was consumed with guilt. When I was pregnant, every decision I made haunted me. No pain relief except Tylenol – but only if necessary. Hot baths, but with my hands, feet and head lifted out. Running was accompanied by fastidious watch-watching, to ensure my heart rate never stayed consistently above 145bpm (all followed by a days-long panic that I had caused great harm). But even though I had tried so hard to follow the right rules – the rules that were backed by science! – I could not shake the idea after Mo died that I had killed him somehow. I would find myself raking over the past, searching for tiny clues amid the piles of innocuous memories. I became convinced I murdered Mo when I asked my husband to use a massage gun on my lower back during labour; that I was negligent for not noticing the peak in my hunger around weeks 38 and 39, which were a sure sign he was starving to death. I scrolled through photos on my phone like a maniac, searching for symptoms that I should have noticed: was my bump hanging too low? Was that the last time I felt him kick? Whenever I did this, I felt like I was watching a horror movie, wanting to scream at my past self: 'Get out! Make a different choice now before it's too late!' My body hurled itself out of bed in the middle of the night, awake with thoughts: I was five days overdue! Was he still alive when we got to the hospital? Two years later, I still spend whole days swimming through a list of possibilities – each one ending with a living Mo. What if I had gone in earlier? What if I had taken the epidural? Why didn't I just get induced? My decision to lie to the midwife is still part of the everyday flotsam I fish out of the 'Reasons I Killed My Baby' swamp in my brain. I replay endless scenarios where I told the truth, was whisked to the ward and met Mo in my arms – his eyes open instead of closed. My rational brain knows that I could not predict what happened. But in the place where my mind and my heart connect, I still believe that I killed him when I lied. For this, I cannot believe my husband does not hate me. This was not my first rodeo when it comes to unexpected, mind-bending, heart-wrenching life affairs; I have been around the block once or twice when it comes to the shock of early loss. And so when I lost Mo, one of the things I was most immediately furious about was that I had not seen it coming. What an idiot, I thought, for naming my child as if nothing might go wrong, for so naively bestowing him with a personality and tastes ('He loves raspberries! And the granola with the chocolate and honey clusters!' I told my friends, certain his love for sugar, inferred by his kicks, meant he was an extrovert). But at some point, things started to feel lighter. My friends arrived every evening with beers and takeout and anecdotes about the world outside that were more interesting than mine and Louis's slow-paced, unmoving days. People sent so many flowers that we could not sit at our dining table for a month. We received so many hampers it is a mystery we did not grow larger than we did. And all of these things gave me an appreciation of earnestness: a trait I had previously despised. One of the things I have learned since his death is that I can be a cynic as a defense mechanism: I am afraid to appear humorless, or to look like someone who believes good things will happen to them, because I will feel like an idiot when they ultimately do not. I complained often in my pregnancy about all the things I thought would ruin me – how I would be awful on no sleep; and how I did not want to go to the sing-song play groups that I found moronic; and how I was just maybe not the kind of woman who is that into being a parent – because I was scared of stating my hopes. I was afraid to admit that, actually, I had always been compelled by – and perhaps even well-suited to – parenthood. Losing Mo made me realize that all of my guardedness did not make the pain more bearable. If anything, I wish I had more openly loved him, that I had been even more vulnerable in my willingness to accept how much of it I thought I would love. I could have sat in that joy a little longer before he was gone. Don't get me wrong – I do not think all of motherhood is a breeze. My second son, Kamil, is a delight, but while it's not like I enjoy wiping his snot or pulling a piece of grass out of his poo, I have become a much more honest person about the glorious parts, much more willing to admit that I experience them. There was a point when I found it strange to listen to people share how they had been shaken by Mo's death, too. How they had taken the day off work or broken down into tears or spent a week feeling distraught after they heard of what happened. And then, one day, that changed too. I think I found it hard to see how upset people were at our loss, because it brought home how universally damning it was. Part of accepting that means being able to feel truly sorry for yourself, and that's something I've always struggled with. Soon, instead, I started to feel seen when people told me they loved Mo, and they mourned him too. 'Grief is just love with nowhere to go,' someone told me. And so I began to grieve him and love him more openly. To listen to people's stories about how sorry they were, without wanting to correct them, or feel angry at their pity. 'Mo's life would be full of whole worlds,' Louis said to me one day, talking about all of the people, places and moments that he would have known. It was such a tender thought. Such a specific thing to miss without ever having experienced it. It sort of sums up what it was like to miss our unborn child. I do believe Mo's life contained whole worlds. From the moment he existed, he changed us, and watching our elation changed other people, too. My friend wrote a letter that we read out at his funeral about how her love for my son grew in proportion to my ever-expanding tummy. She admitted how scared she was that we were going back to London to give birth and start a new chapter, and how that would put thousands of miles between us. But she also explained how, ultimately, that fear turned into admiration. 'I started to see you as someone who would expand, not shrink from me and the rest of the world. Sometimes, I could see glimpses of how you'd mother Mo: hugging him, telling him off, feeding him all kinds of different foods at six months,' she wrote, continuing: 'A baby at one day old hasn't done much, on paper … Another way to look at it, though, is that a baby at one day old – even if he never had the chance to take a breath – already changed everything.' It was Mo's second birthday this month. So on 15 July, we bumbled over to his grave with Kamil. After we first buried him, I found it overwhelming how quickly the cemetery got full: a reminder that this ever-so-delicate, unique experience we were going through was actually not very unique at all. I hated looking at the balloons by graves, marking third and 13th and 33rd birthdays. What a way to spend a birthday, I thought. But when I plopped Kamil down on the dirt, where his brother lay underneath, he laughed and smacked the ground in glee. He seemed to say: 'Actually, this is a great way to spend the day.' That evening, we went home, and played the songs from Mo's funeral. Our house, which one year ago had felt so empty, suddenly felt so full. And when it started raining outside, we scarcely even noticed.
The Sun
10 hours ago
- The Sun
The 6 most common types of back pain and how to ‘cure' each one – plus when it's critical you see a doctor NOW
WE'RE living through a back pain epidemic. It affects 49million people in the UK and 619million globally, and it can wreak havoc on our everyday lives. 10 From sharp stabs to dull aches and even numbness, it can be crippling for some. 'This pain can be debilitating, affecting general day to day movement, stopping people from being able to work and even sleep,' physiotherapist and musculoskeletal specialist Clara Kervyn tells Sun Health. Back pain accounts for more than 12million days off work every year, and it costs the NHS nearly £5billion annually. But not all back pain is the same, and some types require very different treatment to others. So what's the reason for yours? From slouching at your desk to arthritis, experts share the potential causes - as well as treatments to help you feel more comfortable… 1. Slipped disc A herniated disc, known to most of us as a slipped disc, occurs when the soft, gel-like tissue found between the vertebrae in your spine pushes outwards. There are about five to 20 cases per 1,000 adults. 'It occurs most often in the lumbar spine (lower back) but can affect the cervical spine (neck) and in rare instances, the thoracic spine (central back),' says Mr Gordan Grahovac, consultant neurosurgeon at Nuffield Health Tunbridge Wells Hospital. The most common causes include age-related degeneration, where the disc dries out and weakens, improper lifting technique with heavy weights, sudden trauma or injury and/or a sedentary lifestyle. Genetics can also play a role. A sharp, burning or shooting pain may be felt down one leg, shoulder, arm, hand or around the chest or abdomen, depending on where the herniated disc is down your spine. Mr Grahovac says that most of the time, herniated discs do not require surgery and improve over weeks to months. But do visit your GP, who can advise you on the next steps. If non surgical treatments - such as stretching, core strengthening and medication like ibuprofen - don't work within six to 12 weeks, surgery may be an option. 10 'The most common is a microdiscectomy,' says Mr Grahovac. 'This involves the removal of the herniated portion through a small incision on the back.' Full recovery from surgery can take up to 12 weeks. Mr Grahovac says: 'Seek immediate help and call 999 if you experience a loss of bladder or bowel control, leg weakness which gets worse and/or a severe pain that's not responding to treatment.' 2. Arthritis More than 10million people in the UK have arthritis. Spinal arthritis is a degenerative disease affecting the facet joints, found on the back of each vertebrae in the spine, and the intervertebral discs. 'It's most common in the mobile spine, including the lower back and neck,' says Mr Grahovac. 'Early signs can include mild back or neck stiffness, especially in the morning; intermittent discomfort that worsens with activity; a 'grinding' or popping sensation when you move; and fatigue.' Later stage symptoms might include nerve impingement, which can cause numbness, tingling or weakness, and/or a decreased range of motion of your lumbar spine or neck. Your GP will be able to diagnose spinal arthritis by assessing your range of motion, any family history, as well as any tenderness over the affected area. Both pulled and torn muscles may lead to bruising, swelling and muscle spasms. You may feel a 'pop' or a tear Elyn MarwickPersonal trainer 'Your doctor may even refer you to a musculoskeletal physiotherapist who can organise further investigations,' Mr Grahovac says. 'An X-ray could point out any narrowing between joints, while an MRI scan can pick up any nerve involvement or degeneration of spinal discs.' There's no cure for arthritis, however symptoms can be managed. 'Losing weight can reduce stress on the joints,' Mr Grahovac says. 'Try regular low-impact exercise such as swimming, walking and yoga, as well as weight-bearing exercise to increase muscle strength. 'When you experience a flare up, heat or ice therapy can help to ease stiffness and pain, and ibuprofen and naproxen can help to reduce pain and inflammation. 'Surgery is rare and typically reserved for severe, disabling cases with nerve root or cord compression.' 3. Sciatica Sciatica is not actually a condition itself. Instead, it's a symptom of the sciatic nerve - the largest nerve in your body - being irritated or compressed. 'It typically results from issues in the lower spine,' says Mr Grahovac. 'The most common cause is a herniated disc. 'Sciatic pain is a sharp, burning, shooting, or electric-like pain. 'It starts in the lower back or bum and radiates down one leg. It can go as far down as your foot. 'It can also be accompanied by numbness, a pins-and-needles-like tingling or muscle weakness in the leg or foot, and it might become worse when you're sitting, coughing or sneezing.' Between 13 and 40 per cent of people experience sciatica at some point in their life. There are a few temporary self-help treatments you can try. 'For the first 24 to 48 hours, try cold packs and then turn to heat therapy,' says Mr Grahovac. 'Ibuprofen and naproxen can help, as can one to two days of rest - but avoid prolonged bed rest. 'Short, frequent walks are better than being sedentary.' What the location of your back pain really means BACK pain is a common affliction that affects millions of Brits. Aches and pains might feel like an everyday part of life, but where they occur might indicate a more serious problem that requires attention. The location of your back pain could indicate you are suffering anything from organ problems to pinched nerves. Abbas Kanani, pharmacist at Online Pharmacy Chemist Click, said there are specific ways to treat each type of back pain, and some may need urgent attention. He said: 'You should also ask for an urgent GP appointment if your back pain is accompanied with a high temperature or if you've lost weight without trying to. 'You should also ask for one if there's a lump or swelling in your back or your back has changed shape. 'If the pain does not improve after resting or is worse at night the pain is made worse when sneezing, coughing or pooing, you should also contact them. 'Ask for an urgent appointment if the pain is coming from the top of your back — between your shoulders — rather than your lower back.' Sides - possible causes include kidney problems, pancreatitis, bowel inflammation, womb contraction Spine - possible causes include degenerative disc disease, spinal stenosis, arthritis Lower back - possible causes include muscle injury, spasms, herniated discs Upper back - possible causes include pinched nerves Neck - possible causes include misalignment, low flexibility Try gently stretching the hamstrings and piriformis - a small muscle near your hip joint. A seated forward fold can help your hamstrings. Sit on the ground with your legs straight and reach for your toes. For your piriformis, try a figure-four stretch. Lie down and cross one ankle over the opposite knee before pulling both legs in towards your chest. A physio, either private or referred by your NHS GP, can guide you through other exercises that help to relieve pressure on your sciatic nerve. Core strengthening exercises also help to stabilise the spine. If after four to six weeks there's no improvement, visit your GP. You may be eligible for an epidural steroid injection. 'This is usually effective for rapid relief as it targets inflammation at the nerve root,' Mr Grahovac says. Permanent solutions to your sciatica will depend on the underlying cause; your GP can advise you. 'Surgery has high success rates for the right candidates, especially if there's leg weakness or a disabling pain,' says Mr Grahovac. 4. Muscle strains Muscle strains occur when a muscle or tendon is stretched or torn. 'They commonly happen in everyday life, when bending over, twisting during household chores or picking up bags of shopping,' says personal trainer Elyn Marwick. Overtraining without resting enough can also cause a strain. So can undertraining. 'Muscles that are inflexible or without strength due to lack of use can lead to strained muscles on ordinary use like walking,' adds Elyn. 'Both pulled and torn muscles may lead to bruising, swelling and muscle spasms. 'You may also feel a 'pop' or a tear during the injury and tenderness. Even at rest the muscle may feel painful.' Elyn recommends the PRICE technique - protect, rest, ice, compress, elevate, which can help relieve pain and inflammation during the first days of recovery. You can also try a product like Deep Freeze Cold Gel (£4.25, Boots). 'It works by reducing blood flow to a strained muscle, significantly reducing inflammation and swelling,' says Elyn. As the muscle starts to feel better, it's important to move it. 'A physiotherapist can offer help and advice. You can either self-refer or pay to see one privately,' says Clara. 'Consult your GP if the pain feels severe, lasts for more than a few days, worsens with time or if you felt a pop at the time of the injury.' Call 111 if you also have a very high temperature, feel hot and shivery, or if you develop numbness, tingling, sudden weakness or difficulty controlling certain muscles. 5. Osteoporosis Osteoporosis, a condition where bones become weaker and more brittle, can lead to vertebral compression fractures, particularly in the spine, which may result in sudden or persistent back pain. 'These fractures can occur from minor falls, lifting or even coughing or sneezing,' says Clara. Osteoporosis, the most common type of arthritis affecting an estimated 8.5million people, often progresses silently and may go undiagnosed until a fracture occurs. 'Bone density testing is key for early detection, especially if you're at higher risk, such as postmenopausal women or those with a family history of the condition,' says Clara. Sitting slouched at a desk or looking down at a screen for extended periods may lead to tension in the upper and lower back, neck and shoulders Clara KervynPhysiotherapist Although osteoporosis can't be fully reversed, you can slow its progression, reducing the risk of fractures. Clara recommends increasing your intake of calcium, magnesium, vitamin D, vitamin C and trace minerals such as copper, zinc and manganese, which can all support bone health. Try Holland & Barrett ABC to Z Multivitamins & Minerals tablets (£4.75), which contain all of these nutrients. Resistance-based exercises are also one of the best things you can do to help improve bone density. General movement, such as walking, will help too. Clara also suggests reducing alcohol and quitting smoking. 6. Poor posture Bad posture can place a lot of strain on muscles and soft tissues. 'Sitting slouched at a desk or looking down at a screen for extended periods may lead to tension in the upper and lower back, neck and shoulders,' says Clara. 'Leaning on one leg or having rounded shoulders can cause imbalances over time that contribute to discomfort. 'When sitting, use a chair with good back support to maintain the natural curve of your lower back. 'Sit upright and avoid slouching or leaning to one side. 'Keep feet flat on the floor and elbows at a 90-degree angle with your forearms parallel to the floor.' Get up and move around every hour and do some simple stretches to avoid stiffness and keep joints mobile. Try Deep Heat Muscle Massage Roll-on Lotion (£5.85, Tesco) which helps to ease tight muscles. Clara adds: 'When standing, stand tall with shoulders back. 'Avoid slouching; instead, engage your core, gently drawing in your lower abdomen. 'Keep your feet shoulder-width apart and weight balanced on the balls of your feet, with knees slightly bent.' I was left on the brink of total paralysis after doctors dismissed by back pain as 'anxiety' By Katrina Turrill, Health News Editor A DAD-of-three was left fearing he'd never walk again after doctors repeatedly dismissed his excruciating back pain as anxiety. Mark Doe, 36, from Swindon, endured months of agony, pins and needles, and leg weakness, initially attributed to a small disc bulge. Despite his worsening symptoms, including needing a walking aid, a neurologist told him his issues were "all my anxiety" and upped his mental health medication without further scans. Mark felt "really let down and lost," believing he "just had to put up with the symptoms." The terrifying truth emerged three months later when a "pop" in his back left him unable to move, with radiating pain and a loss of bladder function. He recalled: "I couldn't move with the immense pain. I would scream out every time I moved." At the hospital, doctors suspected Cauda Equina Syndrome, a condition where nerves at the base of the spinal cord are compressed, which can lead to paralysis. An emergency MRI revealed the small bulge had "grown much bigger and was crushing my nerves." Mark was rushed into nearly five hours of surgery. His recovery has been "very difficult". He was bed-bound for six weeks and unable to hold his five-month-old daughter. He still suffers pain and may need further surgery, but he emphasises: "If the doctor I had for the second appointment had sent me for a scan, maybe this could have been prevented or not been so bad." Mark added: "Don't give up, keep on at doctors, don't do it alone."
