When I announced my pregnancy on social media, alongside the usual congratulations and excitement, I received dozens of comments asking how I could be pregnant if I’m blind. As a disability activist I’m used to trolling online, and frankly I pity the tedious sex lives of those who can’t imagine how you make a baby without being able to see. But what struck me is that these ableist comments reflected an attitude I experienced throughout my pregnancy and into my life as a new mum.
I wasn’t surprised to find a leading London maternity hospital so woefully underprepared to support a disabled parent. Many of the issues I faced were symptomatic of an NHS in crisis: midwife shortages, strikes, lowering standards of care and crumbling facilities. The real disappointment was that the accessibility barriers I faced simply echoed a social expectation that disabled people don’t have babies.
There were no braille copies of leaflets about whooping cough vaccines or pregnancy-safe exercise, because no one thought they would ever be needed. I was told they didn’t have a hoist in the antenatal clinic and was met with awkward silence when I asked what would happen if a wheelchair-using mother needed to be examined.
A few individuals did make a difference to my pregnancy journey. One midwife took the time to teach me how to safely inject myself with medication instead of assuming, like everyone else did, that my partner would do it for me. Waiting for my first scan, I could overhear other families excitedly talking about what their fuzzy printouts looked like. I was prepared to miss out and rely on my partner to describe it to me. However, the sonographer recognised how I might feel excluded from the experience. In a hushed tone, she said: “We’re not supposed to do this until after the 16 week appointment, but…” and I heard my baby’s heartbeat thumping through a crackling speaker. These special moments were the result of small adjustments, creative thinking and the type of personalised care every parent deserves.
One of the biggest challenges was the hostility towards my guide dog Ava. Ava is a highly trained assistance dog and supports me to navigate the world. I had multiple staff tell me they didn’t know what a guide dog did, and several tried to refuse me care because I was being supported by Ava. The most distressing incident was during a gestational diabetes test. First the nurse wouldn’t let my partner accompany me, then she tried to have Ava removed from the room. I refused. Then she was exasperated because I couldn’t read a label or the paperwork she wanted me to sign. Eventually the nurse became so frustrated with my blindness that she forced a drink down my throat.
After this incident, the hospital – fearing a serious complaint – ensured I received a better quality of care. I was case-loaded onto the private team, who went out of their way to meet my access needs. I got to know the midwives who would be supporting me. I was given a tour of the labour ward twice so that I could familiarise myself with the physical layout of the space. We created a birth plan that reflected my access requirements.
“There is nothing like the warmth of cuddles”
As a disabled person I’m used to fighting for my needs. Obviously, I didn’t enjoy having to repeatedly explain what a guide dog is or that yes, blind people can use stairs.
In the end my birth was a positive experience. I laboured in water, I had minimal interventions and even cut my own cord. What was really empowering for me about pregnancy and giving birth was feeling proud of my body and being able to celebrate it. My body has so often been labelled as broken or imperfect, labels I have to battle not to internalise. Yet I created this tiny incredible human.
I don’t need to see to love my child. Motherhood is beautifully and intensely sensory, from the early days of morning sickness to those first fluttery movements and eventually the exhausting ‘get this out of me’ aches. Of course, everyone is familiar with the delicious and terrible smells of a new baby, but I really pay attention to these physical experiences. There is nothing like the tactile warmth of cuddles and feeling of perfectly soft skin. Or the sounds of crying your soul aches to fix, and the magic of the giggles that you want to listen to forever.
I still encounter surprise and shock that I’m blind and a parent. I recently had a waitress ask with genuine confusion “is that your baby?” when I was in the middle of breastfeeding. I try to ignore these comments but find I do feel the weight of them on me, especially on those hard, exhausting days. So I try to embrace that pride I felt when the final push delivered him into the world and my arms. I whisper to him again: “I’m your mummy.” Then I tell a world still not ready to hear it that I’m an excellent mum, and I just happen to be blind.
Images: Getty/Shona Louise photography