Six And A Half Pounds

Joanne Ross

1981

Days are long and hot. Im still a teenager, almost ages with Lady Diana Spencer who is to marry Prince Charles in July. Luckily for me big hair, baggy dungarees and loose fitting sailor dresses are all in fashion. It is Thursday 28th May, 1981.

I wake and Im bleeding. I tell my mother. Oh, she says, thats what you call a show of blood; you must be going into labour. She insists on driving me to the hospital where the doctor says, you first time mothers are always having false labours. A quick examination and he tells me Im not due for another two months. But I tell him Ive worked out the dates. Nonsense, says he, Im far too small, he has the scan report and Ill be lucky to have the baby next month, never mind next week. He packs me off with a plastic container in which Im to collect urine samples and return in a fortnight. Bloody typical, my mother says.

Were hardly back in the door when the pain starts. It could be contractions my mother says and goes to phone my auntie Mary just to make sure. She tells my auntie Mary she thinks I am having contractions. Apparently contractions are something quite exciting. By the time my auntie Mary arrives Im having contractions every fifteen minutes. If shes having contractions, my auntie Mary says, Im a monkeys uncle. Bloody typical, my mother says.

When the contractions that maybe arent contractions at all start coming every ten minutes, my mother phones the hospital and the father-to-be. Bring her in the hospital said. My auntie Mary has terrified the life out of me with all her talk of the contractions that should have me doubled over with pain, I dont want to go. If youre having me on, my mother says.

First, the doctor examines me internally, in the middle of one of the contractions that maybe isnt a contraction at all. I scream so loud they probably heard me in the waiting room. The doctor tells me to be quiet. It is not that painful. Bloody typical my mother would have said.

Next I have to be prepared, i.e. ablutions and change into a stupid looking long white bib with sleeves before Im reunited with the father-to-be. Were put in the waiting room with other expectant parents and Im still not sure if Im really having the contractions. The nurse comes round with a menu card. I tick for soup, roast beef and ice cream. When I hand the card back, she says, oh, youre only allowed ice cream, you cant eat when youre in the advanced stages of labour. Advanced stages of labour, is it? I dont know anything about the advanced stages of labour and dont like to ask. Must be the contractions.

Before I know it, no ice cream or anything, were being marched along to the delivery room. They strap me up to a monitor and make sure Im as uncomfortable as possible. The midwife snaps, why didnt you tell us your waters had broken? Eh! I had just been for a very long pee but I didnt know anything about broken waters. Apparently Im dilated and the heads engaged. Dilated. Thats a new one. I dont know anything about heads being engaged either. The midwife wants to know what on earth do they teach at the antenatal classes these days? Antenatal class versus Elvis Costello live at the Apollo. No contest. I always had far more important things to worry about. The midwife tsk tsks and leaves us alone in the delivery room. The father-to-be is taking advantage of the gas and air. Thats no bad, he giggles.

Suddenly the contractions my auntie Mary was talking about happen and I think Im dying a horrible death. I scream. The midwife comes running in. She tries to drown me out. Theres a woman next door who has been in labour for seventeen hours, youve only been here half an hour. I dont care. Im out of control. She slaps me on the leg, tells me to calm down and tries to suffocate me with the gas and air. It doesnt help. I feel like I want to go to the toilet but she wont let me. Its the baby coming. She tells me not to push. I try to escape the pain by humming a tune, humming louder and louder, the words boiling in my head, stand and deliver, your baby or your life.

I hate Adam and the Ants. The father-to-be wants to know wheres the doctor? Three nurses appear but no doctor. The midwife says, push and dont push, push. Aaah, aaah, I moan and groan with the pain. I push and push until a wee bloody head squeezes out. Just another push, another push and next thing I know a wee bloody bairn is screaming for its life and theyre strapping my legs up in holsters so they can stitch me up. At last the doctor arrives. Its like a butchers shop. Theres blood dripping off the table on to the floor. In my whole life Ive never seen so much blood. Didnt know I had so much blood. I pass out. They bring me round. They offer me tea and toast while theyre mopping up the blood.

I wake up in the maternity ward. No baby. I panic and ring the bell. The nurse says something about incubators and premature births. They put a rubber ring on a wheelchair and wheel me down to see. Its a miracle. She has thick black hair like mine on her tiny little head and teeny wee hands and feet, long eyelashes and deep blue eyes. Just perfect. At visiting time my mother makes a big fuss about haemorrhages and how at six and a half pounds my baby is not premature. It turns out shes right. Bloody typical my mother says.