OMG Baby! (26 page)

‘
V
iv
, this is not wee. It smells like
mushrooms
,’ says Max.

‘My wee always smells funny. If only I’d done those damned pelvic-floor exercises, I wouldn’t be incontinent.’

‘There’s quite a lot of liquid here.’

‘Fuck’s sake, Max, don’t you think I know that?’

‘I mean, it’s all over the couch.’

‘All right! I already loathe myself.’

‘Just saying.’

‘Ah God, I’m doing it again!’

‘Go to the toilet!’

‘I’m going. Don’t follow me. What are you doing?’

‘Viv, I think your waters have gone.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘Do you have any pain?’

‘I’m not due for weeks.’

‘No contractions?’

‘Oh. Ohh.’

‘What? What is it, pain?’

‘Ah God, Jesus, fucking hell!’

‘Don’t lie on the floor!’

‘No, it’s OK, it’s OK. It’s passed. It might be wind.’

‘Viv, darlin’, you’re having the baby.’

‘I can’t – it’s not tiiime. Ah shit! Fucking ow!’

‘OK, pass over the controls. I’m in charge.’

‘What? What are you doing?’

‘Come on, we’re going to hospital.’

I
am
on all fours in the examination room staring at a calendar showing Daniel Craig in tiny pants as a lemon-faced midwife checks my cervix. That damned cervix, I knew it would get me in the end, and all because I kept skipping that chapter about ‘effacing’ in
Forty Weeks and Counting Down
. I am a fool. What is she doing rummaging about up there? It feels like she’s taking out my bowels with a crochet hook.

‘I’m not dUUE yet.’

‘You’re about thirty-seven weeks by your dates, and you’re in labour all right, but only five centimetres dilated,’ she says. She has a brutal vibe about her.

‘I couldn’t give a rat’s arse. Get your hand out of my fanny,’ I say. Actually, I only think that. What I say is, ‘Thank you very much!’ and my voice has become so high-pitched I sound like a squirrel. Max and I are ‘booked in’ and then I’m left to die in a sterile birthing room. Terror streaks through me; I strip naked and run circuits. I’m a babbling nervous wreck flapping around the room like a wild animal. I get into the bath, but I can’t stand to be still. I get out and run some more. This is definitely not what was on my birth plan. This is not an ideal situation.

Max watches me calmly. He has read
Forty Weeks and Counting Down
and he knows what to say.

‘You’re doing well. That’s it,’ he soothes, and I’d like to take out his eyes with a rusty screwdriver.

I drop onto all fours, desperately trying to remember the yoga, the NCT, anything useful. The pain comes in waves. At the brink of each wave, just as I am desperate to be decapitated, the pain suddenly stops. Like some terrible torturer, it prowls the room only to come at me moments later as a new wave begins.

Lemon-Face appears, smelling of coffee; she casually wipes cake crumbs from the corner of her mouth. ‘Let’s have a look at you,’ she sings, and I dart away, behind the bed. I eye her from under my sweaty hair as she snaps on surgical gloves. ‘I just need to see how dilated you are,’ she says, looking sympathetically at Max.

‘Oh, I’m dilated all right, and I don’t need you to tell me that.’ I point a crooked finger. ‘What I need from you, lady, is drugs,’ I snarl.

Max leads me away from the bed. ‘Viv, be calm. The midwife needs to see if you’re dilated,’ he says.

‘You’ll be dilated in a minute if you keep…’ I drop to all fours, felled by another contraction.

She wheels over a canister labelled, ‘Entonox,’ which is hooked up to a rubber tube.

‘Have some gas and air, Vivienne.’ She smiles, shoving in a plastic mouthpiece. ‘We’ll just wait until this contraction passes and then I’ll have a look,’ she says.

‘She’s just going to wait for the next contraction to be over and then she’s going to examine you, Viv,’ explains Max.

I take out the mouthpiece and say, ‘I’m not fucking deaf,’ in my new squirrel way.

‘I know you’re not Keith,’ says Max, shaking his head quizzically at Lemon-Face.

I can’t repeat myself because a new wave hits – I bite down on the mouthpiece, not getting any relief. Then as the agony passes, I collapse and lie on the floor.

‘OK, I’m just examining you now,’ says Lemon-Face, and the torture of her hand inside me makes me vomit. She stops. ‘I think you’re nearly fully dilated, but that’s very unusual for a first-time mum. I’ll just have another look,’ she says.

I move into a squat position and grab her by the forearm. ‘If you try to do that again, I will take you down.’ I nod quickly so she knows I mean it. ‘Understand? I will kill you and destroy everything you hold dear.’ Another wave of pain is starting up. I grab the mouthpiece and bite on it hard, trying to convey danger to her with my eyes. I know how to do it: I’ve seen the haka.

‘OK, no worries. Oops – we didn’t turn this on!’ she says, twiddling with a knob on the gas and air canister. What a witch!

I break off the gas mid-contraction to scream, ‘Bring me drugs, you evil crone!’

Max steps between us. ‘I’m really sorry, but I think she’s taken a dislike to you. Maybe you’d better leave,’ he says apologetically. ‘Is there someone else?’

‘I’ll just give you a little breather then. I’ll pop back in a bit,’ she says.

‘No offence,’ says Max.

‘Oh, none taken.’

Ah, the gas and air! It helps, like quilted pants would help if you’re being repeatedly kicked up the arse. It muffles that top note of searing pain. But then the pain ramps it up a notch for a good hour or so. I ride the waves until I’m finally beaten and want my nana.

‘Oh no, this is a mistake. I’m not meant to be here. I can’t do this!’ I cry, and vomit into a cardboard tray. ‘Jesus, please God kill me now!’

That contraction dissolves slowly. Look, women do this in war zones, in fields. They are doing it right now behind enemy lines. They’ve been doing this since the start of humanity. So why in the name of God did no one tell me not to? And here it comes again. I hear a sound like a tortured animal. It’s me. The pain is changing now, moving.

‘Vivienne, do you feel pressure in your bottom?’

Oh Christ, Lemon-Face is back, or maybe she never went away, that trickster. I shake my head at her vigorously.

‘Vivienne, you’re all right. I’m here to help. Try to calm down. Do you feel pressure in your bottom?’

I nod. I pant. Yes, good, panting helps. I feel pressure all right, in the sense of my tailbone being snapped off. I take out the mouthpiece; strings of saliva fall.

‘Drugs,’ I beg, then suck back on the gas and air before the next wave hits.

‘It’s too late for drugs, Vivienne. You’re having this baby now. Do you feel the need to push? I’m just going to attach the monitor and have a listen to the baby’s heartbeat.’

What is she talking about, too late for drugs? Is she even qualified? Then I’m pushing like mad and I can’t help it.

‘That’s it – nice strong push,’ says Lemon-Face.

Max kneels in front of me. ‘Go on, Viv. I love you so much. You’re doing really well,’ he says, stroking my claw of a hand.

I drop my head and get to work trying very hard to get this baby out of me. The pain has changed to something I can deal with. It feels more bearable now that I can channel it into pushing. Lemon-Face is counting back from ten with each contraction. She listens to the heart monitor and frowns.

‘Vivienne,’ she says quietly, ‘I think the baby could be in distress. Have you been told about episiotomy? I might have to make a little cut in your vagina to help the baby out.’

I lift my head to look at her concerned face. Her act doesn’t fool me. I know I’m looking into the eyes of a psychopath.

‘What’s that you say?’ I ask sweetly. I need to change my approach. Easy now – try to be polite: she’s packing a scalpel. But there’s no time for a discussion. The next wave of pain knocks into me like a wrecking ball.

Right, this is it; the witch isn’t going to cut me! With the next contraction I bear down into the ground with everything I’ve got and the whole universe yawns open, revealing the wisdom of the ages for a blinding moment. I’m connected to the ancients. I’m primal, I am!

‘Uhgaaaaaah!’

I feel a stinging, a nipping, a burning.

‘That’s it! Well done – the head’s out. With the next contraction your baby will be born.’ I glance at Max. He’s gone white and his mouth hangs open. He looks like he’s going to be sick.

Another wave is building. Come on, girl – you are powerful beyond belief and you can do this thiiiing!

‘Woaaaah!’

I feel pinching heat, burning like pepper, and then it’s out of me, a baby! A slippery, red, squirmy alien being passed back to me like a rugby ball.

‘It’s a girl,’ says Max. ‘Is it a girl?’

The baby looks like a skinned rabbit, with dark hair and a squashed face, an expression as if she’s just been very rudely awoken; she gives a little squeaky cry.

‘Ah, congratulations – you have a daughter,’ says Lemon-Face as she places her on my chest. ‘What a quick birth! Only three hours.’

‘Is that quick?’ I ask.

‘For a first time, yes. So well done.’ She smiles. ‘We’ll wait for the placenta to be born, shall we, or do you want the injection to speed it up?’

I decide against more pain. No injection.

I absolutely love Lemon-Face. Her name is Rita, and she is the greatest midwife that ever lived.

I look into the red, scrunched-up face of our daughter and her slate-grey pebble eyes lock onto mine with a strange knowing look, as if she’s been sent here to sort my shit out.

‘Hey, baby. We’re your parents,’ I say, and look up at Max and I’m terrified for us all.

R
ita
and I are discussing our worst fears as she finishes up the stitches. Being torn apart in childbirth used to be my number-one fear. Now I realise it’s a mere trifle; I’m high on relief and gas and air.

‘I’ve worried a lot about spontaneous combustion,’ I ponder, ‘where all that’s left of you is a lower leg in a slipper.’

‘Big ships – just the thought that it could sink without a trace,’ she says, and snips off a thread. ‘There. All done. We’ll get you into bed – you must be exhausted. I’m finishing my shift now, so I’ll tuck you up and say goodbye.’

‘Oh, well, thank you so much, Rita. Sorry again about being rude to you.’

‘I’ve heard worse,’ she says putting a pillow behind my back.

‘As if I’d try to kill you or harm your family! I love you so much. I’ll never forget you, Rita.’

‘Good luck with everything. She’s gorgeous.’

I look at my baby girl sleeping in a plastic tank next to me and I know I’m mighty, a warrior who just earned her rite of passage into a new club, the Womanhood Club. I’m high as a kite.

T
hat evening
I’ve settled into a private room as there are no beds free on the ward. The walls and floor are painted pale pink, and the curtains are the colour of sticking plasters. I can hear footsteps, a creaky door opening, a woman screaming. Max brings me a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich. I eat gazing into the tank at this new person we made. I keep expecting her real parents to come and take her away.

‘She’s tiny. What was she, six pounds? Look at her funny hair.’

‘She has the look of Clint Eastwood.’

‘She’s just a bit crumpled. Did you text everyone?’

‘Lucy and your workmates, couldn’t get through to your mother, but I got through to mine, and by the time she and me sisters had finished yapping, I ran out of battery. I’ll put the details on the Facebook later.’

‘Facebook.’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘You said “the Facebook”.’

‘What’ll we call her?’ he asks.

I look at his face; he looks red-eyed and tired. He smiles crookedly.

‘I really like Evelyn. It’s Irish, and then she could be Eve like my nana.’

‘Why not call the child the name you want her to be called?’

‘Angel.’

‘She is Angel, isn’t she?’

‘Would it be OK when she’s fifty? Can you imagine her in a boardroom shaking hands going, “Hello, I’m Angel Kelly-Summers?”’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Baby Angel.’ I stare into space feeling things like bliss and love and hope and peace.

T
he next morning
I press the bell with a picture of a nurse on it. A midwife I’ve never seen before arrives; they change like the wind around here. The nightshift lady who helped me breastfeed was really lovely; we had quite a spiritual conversation about life and death and new generations.

‘All right?’ asks this new midwife whose badge says, ‘Kate Redman.’

‘Oh, is the other midwife gone, then? The Indian lady?’

‘Indian lady?’ She seems puzzled.

‘Shahan, was it?’

‘Oh, you mean the night janitor? Yes, she went at five.’

Night janitor? The woman milked me like a goat.

‘Everything all right? How’s baby?’ she asks.

‘She’s been sleeping a lot.’ I turn to look at Angel, who is lying on her back, oblivious, frog-legged, tiny starfish hands by her ears.

‘Long may it last!’ chuckles Kate Redman. ‘So why did you buzz?’

‘I think they forgot me when they were serving the breakfast.’

‘No, love, there’s tea, toast and cereal in the common room – it’s just out to your left,’ she says cheerily, heading for the door.

‘But I really fancy bacon and egg,’ I say.

‘Don’t we all!’ she laughs as she leaves.

Oh fuck, I have to get up and walk so I can eat. The painkillers have worn off and I’m not an all-powerful goddess anymore. Never was, in fact. I’m a girl in a hospital gown who feels like she came last in an arse-kicking contest. My undercarriage is a war zone, and what’s worse, I didn’t have an overnight bag with me, so I have no pyjamas, make-up, eye make-up remover or toothpaste. I sent Max home to get it. He swore to me he’d be back first thing. I’ll text him in a minute. I slide off the bed, wincing, and pull on my wizard-sleeve dress. A quick look in the mirror shows a wild woman. My hair is matted, and my eyes are black with exhaustion and day-old make-up. I must eat. I shuffle off to the common room trying to keep my perineum taut, which is a lot harder than you think.

I make a beeline for the toast. It’s cold and floppy. I scrape about four plastic pots of butter onto a slice and two marmalades. I take a bite as I turn round. There are two wholesome, blonde ponytailed girls in pyjamas and velour leisure suits staring at me.

‘Morning!’ I say with my mouth full. ‘Good birth?’ They both immediately study their cuticles. ‘Hold on, I’ll just get a tea and join you.’ I turn back to the tea urn and pour out a mug, and then I butter another slice of toast. When I look round, they’ve gone. Rude witches. What about the Womanhood Club? Huh, they just got themselves barred for a start. I look up at the clock. Seven thirty. It’s then that I remember about Rainey.

Back in the room, Angel is awake. She’s just chilling, chilling and staring. I peep over the edge of the tank and she goes crazy. She starts to shake her head from side to side with her mouth open, hands clenched, turning red with rage and squeaking.

‘Sorry, OK. I had to go for toast,’ I tell her, scooping her up. I rummage in my handbag with one hand, rocking Angel with the other arm as she ramps up the decibels. Talk about demanding. I get on the bed trying to get her to feed, but she’s so desperate she can’t latch on properly and I have to shove my boob at her and she gets squirted in the eye. When I look up, Lucy is here.

She peers round the door with a manic expression, eyes wide and mouth open.

‘Look at you two!’

‘Am I glad to see you.’

‘Oh my God, she’s tiny!’

I look down at Angel, who is happily guzzling and making loud swallowing noises.

‘She didn’t feel tiny on her way out.’

‘Was it awful? You all right?’

‘I have to sit on this doughnut cushion for the rest of my life. The less said about it, the better.’

‘Viv, we’ll never speak of it again.’ She hugs me. I’m engulfed with cold fresh air and Chanel number five.

‘Look at her! She’s opening her eyes to see her auntie Lucy. Viv, did you know she’s cross-eyed?’

‘She’s trying to focus. I already asked the midwife about that.’

‘Well, look, I just wanted to pop in on my way to work. I can’t stay, but I got you these.’ She holds up some gorgeous jersey cotton pyjamas. ‘And these.’ She holds up a bottle of tequila and a tub of chocolate mini rolls. ‘And for my little goddaughter, I got her very first miniskirt!’ She holds up a tiny tube of leopard print attached to pink ruffle-bum leggings.

‘That is truly hideous!’ I laugh.

She hugs me goodbye, and whispers hot and urgent in my ear, ‘I’m pregnant!’

‘Really?’

She makes the manic face again, nodding. ‘Early days.’ She puts her crossed fingers to her lips.

‘Congratulations,’ I say, as she breaks for the door.

‘I’ll visit later, soon. I’ll call you. Love you. Bye!’ and then she’s gone.

I wait a while after the door swishes closed for the ripples of energy to subside along with her perfume. Oh, thank God she’s pregnant! I’m not going to tell her about birth. I’m going to do one of those knowing smiles when she asks. I sit for a moment thinking about Lucy and everything she’s been through and our friendship and what she thinks of Rainey and then I pick up the phone and call Rainey. No answer. She’ll be on the way to the doctor’s by now, wondering why I haven’t arranged to meet her, or sitting in the waiting room worried sick. I call the doctor’s surgery. I explain the situation and ask for them to leave a message for Rainey telling her that I’m in hospital, that she has a brand-new granddaughter and could she call me.

‘Was the appointment with Dr Savage? I don’t have anyone by the name of Summers booked in,’ says the efficient female voice. I imagine a receptionist with a headset and mouthpiece.

‘Maybe it was a different doctor. She has an appointment at eight o’clock.’

‘No, there’s nothing. I don’t have a Rainey or a Lorraine Summers booked in today with any doctor. Sorry about that.’

‘How about tomorrow? I might have got the wrong day.’

‘No, she’s not showing up.’

‘Could she have cancelled?’

‘I’d be able to see that on the system.’

‘But would you have her down if she’d tried to make an appointment?’

‘Oh yes, she’d be on the system, but she’s not showing up anywhere. Sorry.’

‘Oh. Well. OK. Thanks, anyway.’

I end the call. So where is she? What are the possible scenarios here? She bottled out of going? She’s left London? She doesn’t even have a second lump? I dismiss that last thought: no one would lie about a thing like that. I search for reasons, with hope and despair wrangling in my heart.

I call Rainey again. No answer.

I write a text. I tell her about Angel, the details, where to find me in the hospital.

I tell her how I’m allowed to go home tomorrow, so I could see her, and how I can’t believe I’m someone’s mother. How I want her to meet Angel, and I’d like a photo of them together. I’m surprised when she answers almost straight away.

I
sit staring
at her message, wondering what the hell to make of that.