Birth in Suburbia, Carol Falaki [electronic reader .TXT] 📗

“I wish,” Helen remarked, looking after Lynn’s rapidly retreating back. “I don’t think this baby wants to come out.” Helen caught her mother’s expression. Anne looked so worried Helen felt her mum was the one who needed reassurance.
“We are going to be alright, the baby and me,” and when we come home you are going to make the best grandmother ever.” Looking up from his paper Nigel noticed the tears welling in Anne’ eyes
“Is everything okay?” he asked. “Is this something to do with the Major, because if it is I’ll sort him out for you?”
“No need Nigel thank you,” Anne replied confidently, “I’ve sorted him out myself.”
By the time Anne left, a couple of hours later the pain had settled and Helen felt sure nothing was going to happen that night.
They watched TV, Helen had another bath,
and by ten thirty Nigel decided to go home to bed. There was no point in him sitting there all night; he might as well have some sleep, and allow Helen to do the same if she could. He could be back in fifteen minutes if needed. On their way to the lift they met Lynn. She was on her way to the bathroom.
“A little boy,” she said, “At seven-thirty, nice and quick, eventually, once I got going. I only just made it to the labour ward. Come and see him.”
“That is wonderful,” Helen said her feelings a mixture of delight and envy. “I’ll come and see him when I get back. What about your husband, did he make it in time to be with you?”
“Yes, we were lucky. He was waiting for the lift and I was coming out of it in labour.”
“Nice and quick, eventually,” Nigel repeated, when they were alone. He was tired and felt a mixture of guilt for leaving Helen and relief to be leaving the hospital.
“That’s a contradiction if ever I heard one.”
Standing beside the doors of the maternity unit, they held each other close. Nigel was reminded of a terminal, where people parted for a journey, only he wasn’t really going anywhere, only home.
“I’ll keep my mobile on,” he said, “I can be here in next to no time.”
“Don’t worry, love. I’ll make sure they let you know if anything happens. See you in the morning.”
When Nigel walked into the hall the house felt
unbearably empty. He put the TV on for company but was not inclined to watch it. He made coffee and a sandwich, listened to the answer machine, went upstairs, and looked at the large empty bed; he went downstairs, picked up his keys and mobile phone, and went out leaving the TV on.
The evening was still and the air was warm. A large Cheddar moon lay low on the eastern horizon. The streets were quiet. Nigel walked, and felt a sense of oneness with the world; with the universe. For a moment he wondered at the amount of time and effort he had spent in avoiding being alone. At this moment he felt powerless and small, but the sense of wonder he felt was as vast as the sky above him. Tomorrow he would be a father.
He walked for 20 minutes or so, close to home, not wanting to stray too far from the car in case he was called back to the hospital. He had no plan, just followed his feet. Before long he found he was in an unfamiliar part of his neighbourhood, a place where there were big old trees on the pavement, and in the gardens. He turned into a narrow lane beside a small churchyard, set with shadowed gravestones of crooked, still, dark shapes, some of which were recognisable as figures, angels with wings. The scent of jasmine swept over him, immediate and palpable. At almost the same time a bird, hidden in the dusk, but stirred by some secret event, began to sing. A blackbird he thought, whose song began with a few half-hearted notes then rose into full song,
wholehearted and beautiful; a gift in the night. Nigel allowed himself to cry, just a few silent tears.
Friday morning came and awake early, at six fifteen, Helen went to make herself a cup of tea. She had slept on and off, disturbed by the intermittent, short, sharp pains she had been having, and the strangeness of unfamiliar surroundings. She was now on her own in the bay.
There had been a lot of noise and fuss at 3am when Vicky had been rushed off to the labour ward, nine centimetres dilated. Once again she felt a twinge of envy. Why wasn’t it happening to her? She longed to be in labour, making progress, instead of in this torturous limbo. She felt alone, the ward staff were too busy to pay her much attention. She watched the clock, waiting for Nigel. By far the worst thing was her fearful anticipation; this prevented Helen from relaxing.
After breakfast, and two paracetamol, which did nothing at all to tackle the mounting pain, Helen had another bath. This helped, until she got out of the water.
When she got back to her bed, she was glad to see Sue back on duty, and by the time Nigel returned to the ward Helen was on the monitor again. At eight-fifteen, a doctor came to see her.
“This is Helen,” Sue said, “Primigravida, term plus 12, cephalic, engaged, two doses of Prostin yesterday. She has been having Prostin pain but no regular contractions.”
“Hello, Helen, I’m Dr Banstead,” he said, glancing at the monitor. “Mr Smith’s registrar. I need to examine you and possibly give you another Prostin. Is that all right with you?”
Helen nodded, but was thinking how young he looked he must only have been about 28. Nigel shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Dr Banstead examined Helen’s stomach, feeling for the position of her baby, and gave a firm squeeze of her baby’s head above her pubic bone.
“Mmm,” he said.
“Do you want your husband to stay in while I examine you, or would you rather he waited outside?” he asked.
Helen looked at Nigel. “What do you want to do, love?”
“I’ll wait outside,” he volunteered. Sue held Helen’s hand while Dr Banstead examined her. Helen looked at the ceiling, partly to hide her embarrassment and partly in an effort to concentrate on trying to relax.
“Try to relax, Helen,” Dr Banstead said. He felt like he was reaching for her tonsils.
“Why am I 'Helen' while you are 'Dr Banstead'?” she wondered, glancing at the top of his head, noticing his hair was beginning to thin on top, all the while feeling helpless and very uncomfortable. At last it was done.
“I’ve inserted another Prostin, Helen, because your Bishop’s score is still only five. Has anyone explained to you what the course of action will be if this does not ripen your cervix?”
Helen hesitated. She wanted Nigel to listen. “Is my husband outside?”
“I’ll fetch him,” Sue said, but Dr Banstead continued to speak. “If this fails to ripen your cervix we may have to consider a caesarean section. Your cervix must be ripe in order for us to break your waters and start you off in labour. However I think the Prostin will work. There have been some changes and your cervix is softening. Your baby looks fine by the look of this heart trace. If nothing has happened by this time tomorrow we will review you and decide then.”
Nigel came behind the curtain. Dr Banstead finished writing in Helen’s notes.
“Right, Sue,” the doctor said, “Who else have you got for me?”
“I’ll come back in a few minutes if you want to ask anything,” Sue said to Helen, and followed the doctor.
Helen felt thoroughly dejected. She told Nigel everything Dr Banstead had said. She didn’t want to have a section, they would have to wait and hope.


Chapter Fourteen


An Eventful Day


It was ten o’clock on Saturday morning, before Liz started to wonder about her wet knickers. She'd had no pain at all, and at first she thought the wetness was a spot of wee - a little bit of overflow due to the pressure of her babies head. At her last antenatal appointment the midwife had told her that the baby’s head was very low. In fact Liz felt she was sitting on it sometimes. Now she found that even after going to the toilet she continued to trickle when she moved, so she went back to the toilet to inspect her knickers carefully It looked like water only there were a few whitish traces of mucous. The other thing she noticed was a faintly metallic smell. Butterflies came to her stomach. She was all at once nervous and excited.
Her mum was out shopping, her baby was moving, and she felt fine. She decided to wait for her mum, but got all her books out to read about ruptured membranes meanwhile, and although she had read it all before, this helped to clarify her thoughts.
The colour was important, she read, and it was fine, clear not green, which would indicate that the baby had had a poo and might therefore be distressed. Head engaged - yes, that was important too. She was sure she would be fine waiting for her mum. There was no hurry.
She picked at another bowl of breakfast cereal, more to pass the time than anything else. Her dad was watching the sport on TV so she didn’t disturb him. He would only fuss. He had already taken some convincing about her plan to have a home birth so she decided to let him be.
Leo called at eleven thirty. He was perturbed at the idea of Liz just sitting there drinking tea and doing nothing, and he was excited about the potential arrival of ‘his’ baby. Unable to sit still, he dried a few dishes and managed to drop one. Clearing it up kept them both busy until the arrival of Maggie.
They called the midwife, but she was busy and would not be able to come for a few hours.
“I think we had better go up to the maternity unit and get you checked over,” Maggie decided after following Liz to the bathroom and examining her knickers. Liz agreed. She knew there would be a time limit on how long she would be allowed to wait, now that her waters had gone, for her labour to start. She