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January 5 / 6 / 7th 2002. Stoke Newington / Elizabeth Garret Anderson. Rule 10: Shut the doors. Disconnect the phone. The party is here.
The whole atmosphere calms. I mean, what else am I supposed to be doing for the weekend? I don’t need to drive to Daventry for a comedy gig. It’s simple. I should be nowhere but here. I must look after my girlfriend as we both wait for her labour to start.
We wait all Friday night. All Saturday. Saturday night. On Sunday, it’s now two days since the waters broke. But nothing happens. On Sunday evening, we’re eating more curry, and I’m telling Liv about my main concern about birth. I was born at home, and my mum has never been able to tell me what was the exact time of birth. This means I’ve never been able to do a proper horoscope chart, which is something I’ve fiercely resented. I’m determined, for our child, to get the exact time. She makes a funny face.
“What’s the matter?”
“Either that was a contraction,” she says, “or my womb’s just got cramp.”
We return to the Elizabeth Garret Anderson hospital. The same girl is sitting in reception.
“Either my wife is having contractions,” I say, “or her womb’s got cramp.”
These are the magic words.
“Alright,” she says, “You sit right there, and we’ll get a room ready for you.”
We go and sit in the waiting room. Liv touches her stomach.
“Is that a contraction?” I say.
“Oh yes,” she says. “I’m definitely having them now. I’ve been feeling them regularly for about half an hour now.”
“What? You mean… It’s started… it’s definitely started?”
“Yes. It’s started.”
“Great,” I say.
And I really mean it. It feels like the beginning of an adventure. Like we’re planning to go out to a club for the night. We’ve taken our Es. Things haven’t started going too weird yet, but they will. We don’t care. We’re coming up. We’re OK. But of course I feel that. I’m not the one who’s going to feel like they’re shitting out a hedgehog. Liv is going to be running the marathon. I’ll be riding in the car eating pizza.
We go into our room, where’s a Nigerian lady called Grace waiting for us. Grace has large breasts and calm ways. I set about, as discussed, putting on soothing music. Grace applauds this. “Good boy,” she says. I’d like to hug her, but I’ve eaten such a vast quantity of curry, I fear I’d unleash a massive fart.
Livy has contractions. She breathes, like Amber advised, she gyrates her hips. “Good girl,” says Grace. I adjust the music, I massage the spot. “Good boy,” says Grace.
At midnight, Liv’s still not had an aspirin. If only her friends could see her now. She has another contraction. I adjust the music. I touch the spot. Liv says: “Will you turn off that fucking music? And Stop Fucking Touching me.” Suddenly she’s shouting like a crack addict: “Can I have the drugs? Can I just have the bloody drugs?” And I want to say something about intervention, but I know my job is to back her up. And I will. You don’t mess with a woman in labour. Even if she decides she wants to eat the baby, I’ll back her up.
Then the storm passes. Soon afterwards, Grace goes, and we kiss her, and thank her, and now a Kiwi girl arrives called Caroline. We like her too. Liv immediately asks for the evil epidural. Caroline says: “Fine. We’ll adjust it so it wears off enough, when it’s time to push.” And now Liv is relaxing. She says: “Epidurals are fantastic. Why didn’t I do this earlier?”
But then more hours have passed, and it’s 5 in the morning. Three doctors arrive. All three of them insert their hands into Livy, one by one, and they feel around. Meanwhile they look at the ceiling, and make worried faces. I don’t know what face you should have when you’re wearing a lady as a glove, but I’m sure it’s not that one. They send for the consultant. He can’t come. That’s not reassuring. The doctors keep coming, and going, and they’re putting their hand into Livy, as if she were a Lucky Dip, and she is exhausted. I can’t imagine how she’s going to be able to push this baby out. Let alone look after her, for the next twenty years. Finally they tell us what the matter is. The baby has been refusing to come out for three days, but now she is coming, she’s tried to push her way out with her hand, and that’s got her stuck. Already I’m sensing my girl will be her mother’s daughter: she’s trying to take control of the situation, and it’s causing havoc.
Caroline says: “Don’t worry. Theatre starts at 9. We’ll wait till then.” Liv is happy with that. Caroline is happy with that. I’m furious. If the doctors yank the baby out, then how is that supposed to affect the chart? It’ll render it meaningless.
But then we’re given blue coats, and at 9 am, we’re swooped downstairs to the delivery theatre, and there’re about ten doctors in there. Everyone’s got on their blue coats, just like mine. I feel good. I used to be in the medical programme, Cardiac Arrest, and I feel I know where I am. Any second the cameras will roll, Helen Baxendale will do ballet just out of shot, and everything will be normal. It’s calm in the theatre. The radio is playing. To the doctors, it’s a normal Monday morning at work. But I’m worried about Liv. I’m holding her hand, and she looks very suffering, and then suddenly one of the doctors is brandishing a ventouse – one of those things that looks like a sink—plunger - and he’s thrusting it into Liv like her pipes are blocked with potato peel. I turn away to check the clock. It’s 9:13 am. Then I just look at Liv, and she looks beautiful, and suddenly her eyes relax, like she’s OK, and someone says: “Right. That’s done.” And I kiss Liv, and then someone says: “Would you like to come and cut the cord?” I want to say “I really wouldn’t!” but that’s not the right thing to say, so the next thing I know I’m cutting at this thing that looks like a long sausage filled with black pudding, and then they’re wrapping the baby tightly, and they’re giving her to me, and I take her ever so gently to the edge of the room, and I can hear a tiny, tiny voice going “ooo ooo” like a little scared mouse as if she’s saying “Daddy… Daddy… will I be alright?” and I whisper to her “Darling. It’s OK. I’ll look after you,” and suddenly my legs are twitching like I’m drunk, and I’m weeping uncontrollably.
Topics
What is birth like?
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