Lived experience

Uthpala’s story
By Uthpala Ferdinando

The birth
In 2018, I gave birth to my daughter after an induction following three days of labour pain. The labour progressed smoothly until the very end, when, during the final pushes, my daughter’s shoulder became stuck — shoulder dystocia.
I didn’t realise she was stuck. I could see her head crowning and kept thinking, just a few more pushes and she’ll be out. I was completely exhausted by that point. The midwife assisting my birth, along with a training midwife, asked me to lie back and lift my legs — the McRoberts manoeuvre. They lowered the bed, lifted my legs, and my daughter slid out. She was lifted straight onto my chest, and I felt overwhelming relief and joy to finally hold her.

Those few minutes
That joy lasted only a couple of minutes before the nurses took her to be checked. My husband wasn’t even given the chance to cut the cord.
Then the room, already dim, turned tense within seconds. I heard Mario say, from across the room, “The baby’s not breathing.” The midwife hit the emergency button, and within minutes fifteen staff — nurses and doctors — filled the room. I saw my mum, who’d been with me through the whole labour, slide into the corner beside me, hands raised, praying. I lifted my head and saw the doctor resuscitating my baby. Those few minutes were the darkest of my life — for a split second, I thought, did I go through all of this for nothing?
Then I heard her cry. It felt like my own breath came back to me.

After the birth
The delivery and the McRoberts manoeuvre caused a third-degree tear, and I lost 1.5 litres of blood. My husband later said the room looked like a “blood bath.” I was rushed to surgery to be stitched up, while Mario did skin-to-skin with our daughter. I wasn’t able to hold her again until much later.

The first night
About two hours after, I was moved to recovery, then wheeled to my room. I asked if my husband or my mother could stay the night with me. A nurse coldly declined the request. The first night alone in hospital was stuffy and caused a lot of anxiety. Not only was I recovering from surgery and a traumatic birthing experience, I was also now responsible for taking care of my baby girl. I was so overwhelmed I cried that night, wishing my husband or mother could have been there with me.
I believe maternity care needs to change. Labour isn’t an injury or an illness — it’s a care service, and it should centre the wellbeing of both mother and baby.

At home — culture treated as a problem
The clearest racism I experienced came later, at home, during visits from the maternal health nurses. In my culture, it’s standard for new mothers to be supported by their own mothers. My mum was with me, and my mother-in-law also stayed for a short month, having flown in from overseas. At our third appointment, when my daughter was around two to three months old, one of the nurses said, “I know you have a lot of support from your mother and mother-in-law, but maybe try doing things on your own.”
I was stunned. What was wrong with my own parents helping me? In Sri Lankan culture, it’s understood that a new mother is cared for by her own mother, because it’s better for her mental health. My mum cooked and brought me nourishing meals, helped with night feeds when I was too exhausted to function, and introduced me to traditional herbal remedies and recipes known to support childbirth recovery — things Western medicine simply doesn’t offer. I felt completely misunderstood by a Caucasian Australian maternal nurse telling me I needed to “figure it out on my own.”
Other comments, like being told “this is very common in South Asian women,” were also used to stereotype practices I chose for my own reasons — like co-sleeping and my breastfeeding routine. At some of these appointments, I didn’t feel I was in a position to openly express myself or ask questions, because I felt judged, or braced for criticism instead of support.
There definitely needs to be more awareness around cultural sensitivity in maternity care. I noticed that the racist comments I encountered came far more often from older nurses than from younger ones.

Choosing differently the second time
Because of what I went through with my first daughter, when I had my second child I chose to go private and selected my own obstetrician — someone from a South Asian background who understood my experience and gave me the care I actually needed. It was during that second pregnancy that I realised I’d been living with postpartum PTSD from my first birth. I’d have moments where I’d suddenly cry and not understand why. If family was around, I’d go cry in the bathroom instead. It took me honestly three years to decide if I would even have a second child. My body felt shut down after the first experience. Second time around I had more control and advocated for a planned C-section. My OB hearing my story told me to write down my experiences and emotions, as it would help me understand and process how I felt — and encouraged me to share it with the hospital or maternity ward too, so they could better understand different birth stories and experiences like mine.

Why this belongs here
Uthpala is a member of the MCRMC Steering Committee. She has asked for this story to be published so services can hear what culturally unsafe care looks like after the birth as well as during it.
If you are a migrant or culturally diverse parent and you want to share a story, email info@mcrmc.org.au. You choose what is published. You can withdraw consent.