“After nine months of careful preparation and self-care, I never imagined that a normal delivery could be so mentally disturbing, so stripped of dignity.”
Sameena Mohi ud Din
While a sensitive phase in a woman’s life, motherhood is often taken for granted. In the Quran (Surah Luqman 31:14), it’s described as “hardship upon hardship.” A year into my marriage, I conceived my daughter during my PhD. Juggling the PhD, pregnancy, and childcare was a challenge, and I researched extensively to prepare for everything including postpartum depression. However, the situation took a cruel turn during delivery. What should have been a phase handled with utmost care was met with obstetric violence.
At 39 weeks pregnant, seeking a vaginal delivery, I went to a government hospital (Lal Dyead) in Kashmir, as private hospital options for normal delivery are rare. My initial shock came during an uninformed internal exam known as PV (per vagina), where examination is done with fingers through vagina. After that doctors suggested induction which I declined, hoping for spontaneous labour. After five days, mild contractions began, leading me back to the hospital. Doctors performed examinations including PVs (which were not informed prior) and administered labour-inducing medication. On their next examination, I overheard hushed conversations, then a doctor —my husband’s friend— led me to the labour room. Unaware of what was coming, I followed. He directed me onto a delivery bed, requiring me to spread my legs wide. My heart sank, feeling utterly helpless and wishing my partner, who was not allowed in government hospitals, could be there. The situation was traumatic for me because I wasn’t aware of what was going to happen.
Climbing onto the bed, I shut my eyes, hoping to diminish fear by not seeing. What followed was torturous; something was inserted vaginally, reaching my uterus, and water seemed to be injected, causing weird pain. Briefly opening my eyes, I saw a long syringe, later identified online as a Foley catheter. Afterward, shattered, I bypassed my waiting mother and immediately sought comfort from Arif, crying out. My mother then entered, urging me to be strong for a normal delivery, implying these procedures were necessary. However, my devastation stemmed not from the procedures themselves, but from their uninformed nature, disregarding my humanity, feelings, and autonomy, all compounded by continuous, torturous internal exams. I never imagined a normal delivery could be so mentally disturbing. After nine months of dedicated self-care, what transpired was utterly unacceptable. Around 8:44 PM, two female doctors, after a PV, announced a C-section was necessary due to meconium passage, sending me into profuse tears; all my efforts felt shattered. Arif, seeing my distress, re-entered with tears, questioning the necessity of the surgery and confirming it with a doctor friend. I begged for general anaesthesia, but they refused, citing post-op pain. As I was wheeled to the operating theatre, Arif’s tearful face was my last sight. I wanted to look at his face for one last time as I genuinely feared neither I nor the baby would come out alive. Already devastated and being told to wait on a bench for my “number” for an unplanned, unwanted surgery, alone and without my husband, i felt inhuman, as if women were mere animals awaiting slaughter.
When called, I witnessed three men roughly transfer another woman, resembling a scene of moving a deceased body, a sight that could terrify any patient, meanwhile my amniotic fluid was leaking running down my legs. While waiting, two doctors were preoccupied with phones; one then angrily questioned my food intake from five hours prior, blaming me for having butter naan and tea, despite no prior instructions against heavy meals. She irresponsibly asked who would be responsible if something happened to me, a statement that could elevate a frightened patient’s blood pressure. I was already vulnerable to many atrocities at the time, I tried to keep myself as calm as possible. Arif later recounted that before surgery, a doctor made him sign a document stating they wouldn’t be responsible due to my “heavy diet,” leaving him crying and praying. This entire ordeal highlighted the hospital’s inhumane and irresponsible conduct towards an already vulnerable patient. After climbing onto the surgery bed, the anaesthetist was the first person to explain the procedure, though I chose to distract myself. Minutes later, I heard a baby cry and “female” announced, bringing a small joy, hoping Arif would be happy. Once stitched, I was left unattended in a corridor for 20 minutes, agonizing over the baby’s well-being while my family waited. Finally, I was wheeled to the ward, where I immediately asked Arif about the baby, having feared the worst for two hours until I finally saw her. Arif later revealed he paid the theatre staff 1500 bucks as a “gift,” which I felt was unjust due to given experience.
The “chai (gift)” culture at LD hospital is a pervasive problem, compelling patients to pay staff, from security guards to nurses, for essential services like hospital entry, family visits, or even proper cleaning. While lower-level staff risk their jobs, higher-ranking officials briefly inspect wards (where patients are made to mask up), clearly relishing their power and the exploitation it enables..
A lingering concern that still troubles me is the established practice during senior doctor rounds in the emergency ward. During these rounds, all attendants, along with their belongings, including even water bottles, were compelled to move out of the room. More distressingly, even babies were forced to be taken out of the ward and into the corridor for up to two hours. I initially struggled to understand the rationale behind this, thinking perhaps the doctors needed to perform physical examinations or that it might be harmful for the baby’s health to remain inside. However, no such examinations occurred. Instead, the babies remained out of the room, separated from their mothers, for a significant period, making them highly vulnerable to various infections, especially concerning the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic. During these two hours, my own daughter cried hysterically and continuously, causing my mother such profound helplessness that she too broke down in tears.
· Wasn’t the primary purpose of our hospital stay to deliver and care for these babies?
· Weren’t the babies themselves the sole reason for our presence in the hospital?
· Shouldn’t the senior doctors have been focusing on the patients and their infants, rather than inspecting the bathroom water and the general room environment?
According to Erikson’s Psychosocial development theory, “trust vs. mistrust,” develops during the first two years of life indicating a crucial stage for a child’s positive mental and social development, based on caregiver trust. My daughter’s first day was disastrous by this standard; she cried from hunger, unfed because senior doctors prioritized ward inspections over patient and baby care. Her fundamental needs for maternal presence, nourishment, and love were unmet, a plight shared by other new-borns there. After the doctors left, my mother, allowed in by paid guards, rushed my half-asleep, nipple-seeking daughter to me. She gulped milk as if starved for days before finally falling asleep in my arms.
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