Little Fierce One
Jam Gray
I'm pregnant, heavily, so I'm 10 days overdue and taking my heaving belly to see the midwife about getting this baby out of my body. Myself and the man who got me in this state are walking to the neonatal clinic, which is a 20-minute walk away. This walk involves negotiating a large hill - which reminds me of the advice given that hill walking can help get "things going"
Once inside myself and father-to-be sit in the waiting area, with lots of posters and leaflets displayed warnings about the perils of smoking or drinking during pregnancy. Whenever I've attended this clinic the variety of parents-to-be always provide a source of entertainment. From the luxuriantly coiffed couple in matching beige coats who have just stepped out of their big, meaty-looking black car to the frightened looking girl of no-more than 16 who is there with a man-boy with bleached hair and gold jewellery. She's with her mum who is large and jovial and who steps out every 5 minutes for a fag break- oblivious to the warnings around her.
My name is called, we step into one of the rooms and we chat with the midwife, a no nonsense brunette in her mid thirties, about how things are proceeding. I've had a 'sweep', which involves an uncomfortable manipulation of one's nether regions that so far hasn't shifted this baby. It is suggested that I get another and I'm told to remove my trousers and pants, which I duly do and heave myself upon the examination table. The brisk and efficient midwife steps over pulling on a pair of latex gloves. She makes an exclamation and asks if I feel damp- as my waters have just broken. I'm feeling slightly bemused and glad of the fact that at I won't be getting induced which involves being injected with an extract of pig semen and apparently leads to an even more agonizing birth. With a concerned look she tells me I'm in labour.
After being strapped to a monitoring device to measure the length and proximity of contractions I'm sent home and told to eat something before the marathon-like birth session begins proper.
We go home- get some soup heated and 'get ready'. The birthing ball, a big pale purple rubber balloon - awaits me and I start to feel nauseous. I've retched up most of the soup that was supposed to sustain me throughout the labour and by now I'm strapped to a T.E.N.S machine. Will, my partner and father to-be is pressing the T.E.N.S machine upon my instruction and I'm starting to make animalistic hissing noises- a bit like a snake. I'd planned to have a home birth, or do as much in the comfort of my own home as possible and we are sat in our living room, on top of a futon mattress.
Hours pass and I'm in a trance-like state not dissimilar to those achieved upon ingesting Class-A's with my eyes rolling in my head. More hours have passed and the midwives are here; they are mostly leaving Will and I to it. Sitting in the kitchen drinking tea- checking developments every now and then. There are two midwives, one dark haired and plump, one has fair hair and a thin face. The plump one annoys me, making idle chit chat between my contractions, as far as I'm concerned this is no time for polite conversation. The other midwife is more sensitive, it transpires she is the one out of the two who has children. I find her the most supportive - her words helpful rather than a distraction.
More hours pass and I feel an almighty urge to take a ****. I waddle to the toilet and I worry about pellets on my way to the toilet. I sit on the toilet with Will at my side, steadying me as I sit on the pan. The thought crosses my mind- our toilet is fitted with a macerator, basically a big blender- that if I push the baby out now it might be MACERATED.
More hours pass - nearly twelve to be exact - I'm exhausted, contractions have slowed and still no baby. The midwives tell me that the cut off point for home births is generally twelve hours after waters have broken; thereafter infection is a major concern. I nod, hoping that this will be over soon and I can meet the little beast that is stuck in my birth canal. The suggestion of going into hospital seems like a good one - anything to get this babe OUT.
We live at the top of a tenement flat, three floors up. There are quite a few stairs I have to navigate before stepping into the ambulance, which waits for me in the street, blue lights flashing. One flight down and I'm hit by a contraction, I'm moaning a bit cow-like and the plump midwife tells me to hold it in as now is the one time they DON'T want me to push.
I'm in stirrups at the hospital, pushing for all I'm worth. The doctor and midwives are crowded round, peering into my vagina. Another push, the doctor looks concerned, makes a slice and WHOOOSH - he's out. My red, bloody and very angry little boy is laid on my chest and goes straight for the nipple, latches on and starts to suck furiously. Will and I look at each other relieved and overwhelmed by what has just happened, amazed by the little mite who is nuzzling at my breast. It's a stormy night, in more ways than one and Will looks at me smiling and says 'Lorcán' a good Irish name meaning 'little fierce one'. I agree, he is.
