THERE’D BE A BABY BY LUNCHTIME

I couldn’t wait to taste the toast — the one new mothers rave about. You’ve heard them, they’re all ‘keep your truffle and hold the caviar — it’s the anaemic looking slices soggy in melted butter, cut straight across (never a triangle) sitting on your Nana’s everyday crockery and presented to you on a canteen tray following labour… that’s the sweet nectar of the Gods’. Now, I would categorically not be one for willingly eating in a hospital — plagued by multiple food-hygiene preoccupations, you see — but I figured that particular neurosis would likely relent once I had brought the mini human from tummy (via bummy) to earth in just a few short hours. Yes, I should look forward to that treat for lunch.

It was a beautiful August Friday morning when we set off for Holles St. National Maternity Hospital. Fourteen days overdue and finally accepting that I was not destined to ‘go naturally’ (so what had occurred a few weeks back when I presented to same location announcing my waters had broken?). Now that I had been through the disappointment of consecutive consultations confirming my baby was still ‘high, high up’, ‘looking very cosy’, and I had finally stopped shedding the tears that flooded my face when induction was deemed the only course of action - no the eating of pineapples whole, multiple sessions of acupuncture, the how’s-your-father, the ball-bouncing, the walks, the lunging, the mouth-scarring spicy food, they weren’t to help - it didn’t matter. Today was the stubborn little delight’s birthday, and at least we knew one thing for sure: there’d be a baby by lunchtime. We took photos in our apartment block lift, capturing ‘just us’ for the last time. Flanked by matching labour bags, deflated yoga-now-birthing ball, pump, giant water bottle, and an unmistakable air of kick-arsery, we were ready. Well, that last bit was maybe just me but I finally felt ready! Didn’t I? It’s so confusing what’s real and what’s not when playing the game of positive self-talk. I have cute videos on my phone from 7.30 am asking my husband ‘what are we doing todaaay?’ and the reply, in cheese-curdling jaunty unison ‘we’re going to have a baaaaaby’. And it’d be here by lunchtime.

I had put the prep in; taking full advantage of this being my first baby I indulged in hours of courses and reading to ensure I would become Labour Warrior, Hear Me Roar (euphorically). I had Ina May Gaskin’d within an inch of my life — she could have lost me with the tale of two women in which one was helped through her difficult labour by the other (she herself having just given birth a few days earlier) laying her naked but for padded knickers (just given birth and all that) body against the contracting woman, leading their unison movement and empowering surges together and *maybe* tweaking her nipples for support — but I stood fast and kept the Ina faith, reading diligently day and night. It would not be my cervix reporting due to my thoughts lacking conviction`. I had my husband join me at an Active Birthing Workshop on a busy weekend afternoon where he found himself (in his work gear having only been able to attend for a short time between two photography jobs) bouncing on the birthing ball surrounded by a number of other bouncing man-strangers, whilst being sternly instructed to give examples of what physical sensations I might be feeling during labour … whilst being forbidden to use the word ‘pain’ or any such negative language. ‘Ugh, high?’ Boing, boing, boing.

For weeks, I had Saturday morning’d at a labour prep swimming class where I diligently and continuously water kicking whilst simultaneously controlling my breathing like a boss. I had yoga’d on Thursday evenings from so early in my pregnancy that they suspected I was faking the baby. I gave Pilates one more chance in the name of Kegel strength and zen sensibilities. I had OM’d in the bath, visualised on the Luas, declared affirmations in the car and, oh Lord, I may as well admit it… had my perineum ‘massaged’ by a stranger on more than one occasion. Dreadful name for a dreadful ordeal. Massage, my hole (note comma). White robes? No. Ylang Ylang diffusing? Negative. A peppermint tea, perhaps? Nope, no, nada. An excruciatingly mortifying and shockingly uncomfortable procedure that brought squeals to my throat and a good dose of ‘birth is probably very painful’ reality to my conscience. And during which I did my best to distract from the indignity of the naked crotch between us with incessant questions about the physiotherapists’ childhood holidays. ‘And did you have a favourite car snack for the journies to Kerry?’

This is all to say that I was engaging with any and everything at my disposal to ensure that I would have this baby naturally; it was coming out of my vagina. Probably beautifully, nay blissfully, and to a soundtrack of my husband and I laughing with joy and togetherness, so prepared were my cervix and I for the occasion. That and the Spotify playlist that I also spent many, many hours curating. Because that is what would matter when the time came: our person would be sung into this world with power, strength and tenderness (the process of transition would also bring with it a morphing of this couple into a partnership of understanding, strength and moon power).  Or perhaps they would arrive swaying side to side, keeping the beat of one of our favourite EP forest-rave 2009 tracks that inexplicably made the list.

So the failure of my body to cooperate in ‘going naturally’ really did place a fly in the stretch-mark ointment. I had to push back the inner shouter that taunted me: ‘the opposite of natural is unnatural’; I needed to erase the mantras from labour workshops that cautioned how induction was bad, that warned we mustn’t let ‘the man’ dictate when our body was ready. Well look, this was not how I wanted the engine started, but I was still the driver nonetheless so I could control how the journey developed, so to speak. I was in control. I might even have fancied myself as a coooooooool rider, a coo-oo-oo-ool rider.

I strode into reception like I was the first person in the world to have a baby, an air of ‘you’ve been expecting me, I’m sure’ wafting alongside my extraordinarily large bump and equally large folder (multiple copies of my birth preferences, you understand). Once Mel caught up with me I was already up by the pre-labour ward (later to be affectionately renamed Beirut), expectantly sitting outside the nurses’ station waiting for action. My eyes darted from corridor to corridor as I tried to decide which of them I wanted to be directed down the least. I encountered lots of other ripe and ready bumps now, mostly patting around on slippers, their eyes like planets as if attached to the outside of their lids. Eventually, one nurse took notice of me; ‘well, someone’s very dressed up to have a baby!’ she accused over her quickly disappeared shoulder. The comment and exit made me instantly uneasy. It was then quite a while before anyone else acted like we were actually in the right place. (I really thought they’d be expecting me?). Before showing me into my cubical the eventual host midwife gave us a whistle-stop tour of the floor — it was detail light and disinfectant heavy — during which time she went to great pains to identify the communal shower room suggesting I would be wanting to use it later. Whilst thanking her profusely for pointing it out, an impromptu song free-styled on loop in my head: ‘no way, no how, not a chance in hell, I’d rather roll in fox poo’ (see above hygiene neurosis). I’d be gone from here by lunchtime and I’m sure there would be an attractive en-suite waiting for me on the other of labour (like the one they showed us during antenatal classes -the ‘good room’).

Once behind the blue curtain of our new home, we once again waited expectantly for action. Various people told us snippets of information and one of them connected me up to a monitor so we could hear — and see — our baby’s heartbeat in action. Rhythmical, steady and strong — ‘Mac’ was ready, no doubt about it. And so the process was to begin. Not the method we had been advised in our most recent appointment but rather one that was ‘kinder’ to first time mums. With this news, my previous courage wavered. We were deviating from the plan and, even though it was not the plan I originally planned for, once I had the new plan, that was the plan that I wanted to stick to, steadfast. But of course, I agreeably nodded ‘okaaaaaay’. They assured me that it was also a good option because, in very rare cases, a mother could over-contract and should this happen, this method would allow the removal of the yoke-ma-bob. This information was to become pertinent about 12 hours later. And so I took my medicine (or rather my vagina did) at 9 am and we diligently set about doing all of the steps, lunges and bouncing advised. We walked up and down the stairs until I had the spinnies from the tiles (reliving a decades previous ill-advised Goldschlager-blowback combo toilet cubical stay). In a fit of rebellion, we took ourselves outside into the beautiful sunshine. Ten steps into our escape I had news: ‘I have cramps!’ ‘Well done’ was my smiley reward. We cut through laneways and wandered back to the hospital to a monologue of both absolute and dubious assertions from me regarding those ‘cramps’. It felt surreal, that walk, like I was watching from afar, this couple circling and weaving around Dublin 2. People were grabbing coffees and speed-walking to meetings, not acknowledging that I was likely, maybe, perhaps, in labour. I took in snippets of phone conversations about what to cook for dinner; noted that the man emerging from the corner shop was biting straight into his Cadbury’s Turkish Delight rather than breaking off squares (rogue); inhaled the strong shampoo of a businesswoman who urgently crossed our path and left the scent floating behind her; watched people set up for the food market in Merrion Sq. and considered what I might ask Mel to get me from there at lunchtime, once the baby was here.

Once back at our little curtained home, we continued our endeavours. Mine to bounce into full labour; him to surreptitiously stream football. I don’t know how the football panned out but that ‘gentle’ little pessary certainly showed up for work. Momentum was swiftly gathered, and I knew from Mel’s shift in demeanour that the calm supporting steps he learnt back in our labour workshop might be evading him. The became manically preoccupied with food. ‘Will I get you something to eat?’ ‘I’d say you should eat’. ‘Will I pop to the shop?’ ‘I’ll pop to the shop’ ‘What would you like to eat?’ He had eaten everything that the hospital had provided me (see above neurosis) so I could only infer that now seemed a bit wrong to him and he was suffering meal-theif’s regret. I didn’t want anything to eat. But I did want a minute respite from the incessant questioning. I remembered the guy outside the stop.

‘A Cadbury’s Turkish Delight, please’ I managed.

‘Really? I don’t think you like them, Red?’.

Remember. To. Breath. ‘Really?’ Bounce. ‘I probably wouldn’t have said it otherwise’ Short quick blow. ‘Honestly, I don’t care.’ Bounce. ‘What-ev-er’. Longer faster blow..

On return from his mission he found me in the depths. I was trying to bounce it away, wondering when someone would tell me that I could use my TENS machine. Or that I should start pushing. Or, anything really. Shouldn’t someone be telling me what to do? I’m in actual labour, like.

I tried to find my ball rhythm and as I bounced through a contraction, eyes closed and desperately trying to control any part of it, I felt the air swatted a little in front of my face. I ignored it. Then it happened again only closer to my mouth this time. This air was now sweet-scented. I lifted my chin from my chest and peeled open my eyes to find a square of Turkish Delight at the end of a grown man’s extended hairy arm making its way to my mouth aeroplane-feeding style. Mid. Fucking. Contraction. A deep, bellowing dinosaur roar came from my gut by way of objection. Looking dejected he replied with startlingly misplaced indignance: ‘I told you you didn’t like Turkish Delight.

Although I hadn’t been in labour before but this absolute relentlessness of surging felt very wrong; as if someone had attached me to an electric shock machine as a joke, only they forgot to leave gaps between the jokes. The shower was mentioned by another passing midwife for what must have been the fifth time now. I acquiesced if only to get away from the blue curtain and the soundtrack of the ward (vomiting; another apologetic midwife yet again pushing back my next-door neighbours ‘emergency’ section; wailing, stupid husbands taking calls and exclaiming how bored they were, or perhaps worst of all, the regular singsong voices of the midwives telling yet another woman that came in hours after me that they were taking her to ’go meet your baaaaaabyyyyyy’). I didn’t have a towel — it was outside in the ‘big’ bag for the ‘nice’ room. They gave me a rough loin cloth. That’ll do. As I shuffled through the communal shower room door that I had earlier resolved never to darken, my attention came to the wet floor and the plastic ‘seat’ in the shower cubical. I shuddered, briefly, I managed to take down a number of the thick paper foot mats and place them all over everything to separate me from well, everything. As the shock machine hit full power again and my body seized in objection I put the water on full power and … oh Sweet Baby Jesus, the relief was immediate, tear-inducing, confusing. I wondered how I could ever leave this place of bliss with its pressure and heat. Soon the mats sailed off in a sea of shower water and I couldn’t have cared less. I practically licked those communal tiles in appreciation. I knew I had been there too long when someone came looking for me. Never have I resented a stranger (read: trained medical staff member looking out for my best interest) more. Killjoy.

Despite many random visitors entering the blue curtain to my vitals (or whatever) no one could advise as to what the best strategy was, how I was meant to feel, if I was progressing. ‘We’ll check in the morning’ said one. The morning?! She may as well have said ‘we’ll check you when the Jetsons hover by on their way to school’. ‘Why don’t you want pethidine?’ demanded another, many, many times. My birth plan was not, it seemed, impressive to these women. The demented soundtrack of the ward increased in volume as the evening progressed. One woman repeatedly screamed that she would ‘not do it! having apparently changed her mind’. One man shouted so aggressively and in such a threatening manner that the midwives called security but actually he was just having a very bad dream during his nap. Funny that; I believe his projectile vomiting wife was having something similar. The undeniable whiff of McDonalds that arrived during this woman’s ongoing hell brought a new level of incongruence to proceedings. It became evident the Super Size meal had come in the hands of another labouring woman’s husband a couple of cubicles down – we knew because he narrated his consumption at the top of his voice. Was it that he hadn’t heard the women puking/ crying/ wailing/ screaming during his previous time in the ward? Or did that combination of particularly pleasant backing tracks come together and make him think ‘I know what this situation calls for.. a Big fucking Mac. And it should be eaten right here, in this poorly ventilated August packed-to-capacity heatwave tin can. He loved it, ate every bite as his other half contracted and moo-ed. When the midwives went next door through their blue curtain I wondered if he was about to be metaphorically eaten for his lack of empathy (or just general thickness). But instead I heard that singsong refrain once again… ‘let’s go meet your baaaabyyyyy’. Even McDonalds guy was making progress while we just stared at each other wide eyed (and I envisaged pushing Mel through the small window to my back, just to feel I had some control).

As the light disappeared from the windows, and were lowered in the ward like an overnight flight, I had to accept the truth. While yes, there were indeed many babies by lunchtime, none of them were mine.

I guess it’ll be tomorrow’s lunchtime. And sure that’ll be grand.