04/03/2026
Night Shift Chronicles: Part 1
There’s something about the night shift — it lulls you into a false sense of calm before chaos quietly knocks.
It was one of those eerily quiet calls. Too quiet. Then my phone shattered the silence.
“Dr Mwando, we have a stuck aftercoming head.”
Adrenaline instantly replaced sleep.
A stuck aftercoming head happens during a breech delivery — the baby’s body delivers, but the head becomes trapped at the cervix. It’s a race against time. Once the head is stuck, the umbilical cord is compressed, oxygen stops, and death can follow within minutes.
I ran.
When I arrived, the scene was surreal. The baby’s small body hung motionless, the head still lodged in the birth canal. The baby didn’t even look big — maybe 1.5 kg at most — yet the pregnancy was 42 weeks. The baby was limp. Lifeless.
I felt for the cord. No pulsations.
No fetal heartbeat.
I explained the situation to the mother. Calm. Composed. Brave beyond words. She understood.
I attempted standard breech maneuvers. Nothing.
Tried again. Still nothing.
Why isn’t this baby coming? I thought.
This woman had delivered four babies before — bigger babies than this one. What was different?
“Get the ultrasound.”
The screen told the story instantly.
A massive head filling the entire pelvis.
Almost no visible brain tissue.
Hydrocephalus.
The baby’s skull was distended with fluid — so enlarged it physically could not pass through the pelvis.
I explained everything carefully to the mother. She listened quietly.
I took a long needle and syringe, attempting to drain the fluid and decompress the head. But the head was too high. I couldn’t access it. I tried again. And again.
Nothing.
Two hours had passed. The mother was exhausted. We were running out of options.
We discussed the unthinkable — decapitation to deliver the body, followed by a cesarean section to retrieve the head. A devastating, gruesome procedure — but sometimes the only way to save the mother.
She agreed. Stronger than anyone in that room.
The nurses were shaken. I wasn’t eager either. No one ever is.
Before proceeding, I asked for one more attempt with the needle.
One last try.
This time — fluid.
Clear, tense “brain water” flowed into the syringe. The head began to soften. Slowly, visibly decompressing.
And just like that — the baby delivered.
The night had started quietly.
It ended with a lesson I’ll never forget: in obstetrics, you never give up too soon — and sometimes, one more attempt changes everything.