"I felt imprisoned, not cared for. Abused, not supported."

A mother's experience of Oxford University Hospitals Maternity Services in 2019:

My experience of childbirth in 2019 was traumatic and characterised by a lack of care and compassion. At my most vulnerable, I did not feel supported, and this amplified both my fear and the difficulty of my labour.

Pregnancy and Admission

At 36 weeks, I raised concerns with my community midwife about itching on my hands and feet, suspecting obstetric cholestasis (OC). She dismissed my concerns and discouraged further testing, recording that I had declined a blood test. When my GP arranged testing days later, I was diagnosed with severe OC. This shattered my trust in midwives.

At hospital monitoring, I was left sitting in severe discomfort for 90 minutes without anyone asking if I was comfortable. Later, an obstetrician told me bluntly that the risk of stillbirth was “very high” and insisted on induction. He did not explain relative risks or discuss options. His words lodged in my mind, leaving me terrified my baby might die.

That night, I went into labour spontaneously. After a short admission to the antenatal ward—where one kind midwife encouraged me to take a hot bath—I was moved to the delivery suite. The presence of a student midwife and her supervisor created a distant, unapproachable atmosphere, leaving me without practical support. A failed cannula attempt and a dismissive attitude added to my distress.

Labour and Pain Relief

I requested an epidural. The first paralysed me but gave no pain relief, leaving me unable to move and in unbearable agony. Despite clear signs it was ineffective, I waited four hours before another was given. During this time, I could not move to manage the pain. When the anaesthetist eventually arrived, she was compassionate and supportive, staying with me until the second epidural worked. By then, I was vomiting repeatedly from exhaustion.

Later, a midwife administered a drug to speed labour, after which my baby went into distress. I was rushed to theatre, prepped for a caesarean, and then told a forceps delivery was possible. My baby was born quickly but, as monitors had not been attached, alarms sounded and no one reassured me. For the first moments, I believed she had been stillborn.

After Birth

I had developed a fever and was too weak to hold my baby. Instructions were given to “treat for sepsis.” I was terrified I might die.

On the high-dependency ward, some midwives were kind and supportive. But there was constant drilling from maintenance work, and at one point someone tripped over my catheter. That night, I was moved to Level 2 and my husband was sent home. Exhausted, in pain, and unable to put my baby down without her screaming, I spent the night pacing the ward alone in darkness. The bathroom was filthy, and my episiotomy wound was agonising.

Reflection

This was the lowest point of my life. I felt abandoned, imprisoned by hospital rules that prevented me from accessing the care and support I desperately needed. At the moment I most required compassion, I was left alone, and this experience has continued to haunt me.

The care after delivery was non-existent. The scarring around my episiotomy remains tender today. I was left a broken wreck, and I have spent a year in therapy trying to piece myself back together. For my second child, I paid for a private consultant and was shocked at how radically different the whole experience could have been.

Full account.

My Experience of Childbirth at OUH

My experience of childbirth in 2019 was traumatic. It was marked by a lack of care and compassion. At my most vulnerable, I did not feel supported, which amplified my fear. I am convinced that my labour was made more difficult by the underlying anxiety created by healthcare professionals, and the start of my life caring for my daughter was made harder by the absence of care in the first hours after her birth.

Concerns in Pregnancy

At 36 weeks, I met with my community midwife. I explained that I had developed itching on my hands and feet and was worried about obstetric cholestasis (OC). She asked whether I was able to sleep, and when I said I could, she reassured me: “If you had OC, you’d be so itchy you wouldn’t be able to sleep.” She said she could do another blood test, but insisted it wasn’t OC and there was nothing to worry about.

I felt pressured not to have further testing and accepted her verdict. She wrote in my notes that I had declined the test, which did not reflect what had happened. In reality, I had been dissuaded from testing.

That weekend I worried constantly. On Monday, I phoned my GP, who arranged an immediate blood test. The result showed I had severe OC. My trust in midwives was shattered.

Hospital Admission

Soon after, I was sent to the maternity assessment unit for monitoring. I was asked to sit still for 90 minutes while connected to a monitor. My baby was lying back-to-back, pressing into my spine, so all my contractions were in my back. Sitting upright was excruciating. No one asked if I was comfortable, or helped me find a less painful position. When I asked if I could stand or move, I was told this would make monitoring less reliable. The message was clear: if I cared about my baby, I would endure the pain, even though it was avoidable.

Later, after 90 minutes of monitoring, a midwife told us abruptly: “We haven’t picked up any movements. We’ll try again.” No reassurance, no recognition that I might be worried. Only later did someone explain that this was common—that the baby was probably asleep.

That evening, an obstetrician confirmed my OC diagnosis. His manner made it clear he had no interest in discussion. He told me bluntly that the risk of stillbirth was “very high” and that an induction was scheduled for the next morning. When we asked questions, he repeated: “The risk of stillbirth is very high.”

Other experts have since told me that at 37 weeks the risk of stillbirth is only marginally elevated. At the time, though, his words lodged in my mind. I laboured in constant fear that my baby might die.

I wanted to go home to rest before the induction, but the doctors resisted. They made me sign paperwork discharging myself “against advice.” Producing the paperwork took over an hour—precious time I could have spent resting.

Early Labour

That night I went into labour spontaneously, which I still believe was stress-induced. In the morning, my husband brought me back to hospital. After another uncomfortable stretch of monitoring, I was admitted to the antenatal ward, where I met the kindest midwife of my stay. She urged me to take a hot bath, which gave me some peace and was the only thing that eased the pain of my back-to-back contractions.

Later, I was taken to the delivery suite. A water birth was not possible because the baby needed continuous monitoring. I was assigned a student midwife, supervised by a midwife. While the student was polite, the dynamic was uncomfortable. My husband and I were left at one end of the room while the two midwives whispered together at the other. They felt unapproachable. I would have benefited from advice on labour positions, but did not feel able to ask.

When they attempted to insert a cannula, the student struggled and made repeated painful attempts before the midwife took over. It felt like yet another ordeal layered on top of my pain.

Epidurals and Pain

I asked whether an epidural might be a sensible option. The midwife agreed and requested one. When it was administered, it paralysed me from the hips down but gave no pain relief. Before, I had been managing contractions on all fours to relieve the pressure in my back. Now I was immobilised, unable to move, and the pain became unbearable.

For over an hour the midwife insisted it “might take time to work.” Eventually it was agreed a second epidural was needed. But four hours passed before this was done—four hours during which I was in agony, unable to move or manage the pain.

When the anaesthetist arrived, she was horrified. She stayed with me, stroking my head, repeating: “I’m not leaving you.” She was the first person I felt I could trust. The second epidural finally worked, though by then I was exhausted and vomiting repeatedly.

Escalation to Theatre

Around midnight, after 18 hours of labour, midwives changed shifts. My new midwife wanted to speed things up, though I never understood whether this was for my sake or the baby’s. She administered a drug to accelerate labour. Shortly afterwards, my baby went into distress. I remain convinced the two events were connected.

I was rushed to theatre for a possible emergency caesarean. Fully prepped, they checked again and decided to attempt a forceps delivery. Suddenly, my daughter was born.

She was clearly healthy, but no one connected the monitors. As a result, every alarm sounded as though she had no heartbeat. For those first moments, no one reassured me. I thought she had been stillborn. That memory has never left me.

After Birth

I had developed a fever and was too weak to hold my daughter. I left theatre with the instruction “treat for sepsis.” I was terrified I might die. At several points during my stay I did not feel confident anyone was ensuring my survival, and this fear haunted me long after leaving hospital.

I was moved to a high-dependency ward. Some midwives there were kind, helping me feed my baby and start recovering. But the ward bathroom was under repair—builders drilled and hammered through the walls while I was supposed to rest. At one point, someone tripped over my catheter.

At 11pm, I was transferred to Level 2. My husband was sent home, even though a doctor had told me only hours earlier that I was “too unstable on my feet to walk unaided.” The Level 2 midwives dismissed our concerns: “She wouldn’t have been moved here if there was a concern. Everyone needs to start moving on.”

That night was unbearable. Exhausted, in pain, and alone, I could not put my crying baby down. I spent the night walking the darkened ward with her in my arms. I have never felt so abandoned. The bathroom was filthy, streaked with blood. My episiotomy wound was agonising, but each time I needed the toilet, I had to leave my baby screaming in the cot while I struggled in that degrading space.

I had not slept more than a few hours in three days. I had fought infection, endured pain, and faced my worst fears. And I was left utterly alone.

Reflection

For months after I returned home, I would curl up crying, reliving the sense of abandonment I felt on that ward. Normally I am self-sufficient. But at the moment in my life when I most needed care, I was denied it—not because I was truly alone, but because of hospital rules.

If this is the “care” offered in Level 2, I do not understand why women are not discharged straight home. I would have been far better at home, surrounded by people who cared for me.

Instead, I felt imprisoned, not cared for. Abused, not supported.