The birthing partner
Frances Young
"I've given your name as my other birthing partner, mum".
Knowing my first grandchild was on the way, I had begun to think about babies again but only in a general sort of way, making efforts not to say things like: "This pram costs more than my first car" or "Don't babies wear blue and pink any more?" One quick browse round Baby Gap and Mothercare warned me that what useful experience I thought I had to impart was best put on hold. I refrained from asking what a "birthing partner" is or does. I comforted myself that I could wing it on the day. The process of giving birth has not changed, I reasoned. I have personally done it three times .Sure, I'm a bit out of practice but it must be like riding a bike - it would all come back.
My career as a birthing partner (BP) began in the early hours with a phone call. Nothing to get excited about yet but the first signs of going into labour had appeared. I was comforted to note that this messy phenomenon is still referred to as "a show" and twenty-odd years of associating this word with Andrew-Lloyd Webber were wiped out. I knew at once what my daughter, Jane, meant. Breakfast brought the summons. They were "IN" and it was time for my debut as a BP. At times of extreme uncertainty I usually find it helps to do something simple very well. I packed a large Survival Bag (SB) of snacks, drinks, facial wipes, electric fan, radio, CDs, books, phone charger... It was only when I was lovingly repacking SB for the third time that I identified a bad case of procrastination.
Much more nervous than I had been all those years ago setting out for the hospital to have my own first baby, I finally got myself into the car. Half way there I began to fret. Was I too late? Had I missed it already? If I had had a siren and flashing blue light I would have cut a swathe through the morning rush hour traffic. I screamed into the car park at 9.15 a.m. and lugged SB anxiously along the endless corridor, dreading that I would not be able to find the labour suite or that the medical staff wouldn't know that I was an all-important BP and would throw me out.
I found Jane and Joe in the labour room . I proudly displayed the contents of SB. Only then did I notice an even larger bag which they had brought, the contents of which far outclassed mine: ice-cubes in a flask; aromatherapy oil for back massage; travel scrabble. . . Abashed, I conceded defeat. Time for a quick induction lesson on the use of the TENS machine to alleviate pain during contractions. I learned that this has nothing to do with being tense or even counting to ten before yelling blue murder - it means Transcutaneal Electrical Nerve Stimulation. My career as a BP was launched.
As the long, sweaty day progressed, I gradually overcame my abject fear of the nursing staff and came to believe they actually wanted me there. Into the serious stage, as Joe began to allow exhausted worry to overlay his new-man-who-did-all-the-classes act, I finally got into my stride. I was by now a dab hand with the TENS machine and the gas-and-air pipe. I kept up a flow of encouraging exhortation tempered by sympathetic reminiscing. By the time the pushing stage was reached, I was bearing down and panting as instructed by the midwife who, if she thought I was overdoing my BP role, was too tactful to say so.
Baby Fergus was awkward. Despite all our joint, purple-faced efforts, Jane had to be taken away to theatre, given a spinal block and him "yanked out", as she now cheerfully describes it to wincing listeners. Joe went off with the coterie of gowned and masked medics. I was not invited. I felt like a dog that has been whipped up to a frenzy of anticipation with promises of walkies only to be left pining in the car watching the humans set off into the woods. I was a mere BP and must know my place. I took my razor-sharp emotions off to the canteen to huddle over a cup of terminally bad coffee. I rarely smoke these days but I remembered I had stuck an elderly packet of fags in Survival Bag and suddenly they seemed like water in the desert. Pete, the grandad-to-be, discovered me prowling around the grounds, unsteady from weariness, nicotine and anxiety. His ashen face mirrored mine as I told him what was going on. We repaired to the relatives room and waited - it was a hospital drama and we were in it! Suddenly, it was all over - it was all right. Baby was born, Jane was fine, Joe appeared holding the traditional white bundle saying "You have a grandson". We all cried, we all laughed. It was a very magic moment.
My final job as BP was to send the men away and spend a few incredibly close moments with Jane showing her how to put Fergus to the breast. I left mother-and-baby to fall in love and went home to a positive orgy of phoning. I even phoned people I hadn't spoken to for years and didn't even know Jane had been pregnant. Basically, I just went right through my address book including my Christmas card list. Everyone needed to know, I felt sure. They were all very polite and understanding, if a little puzzled in some cases.
My day of being a BP was over - tomorrow would begin my life as a grandmother. I fell asleep trying to remember my own granny and what she did - what do grannies do? Would I be able to do it? Must get a book on it. . .
