It Shouldn't Happen to a Midwife! (25 page)

Coming back to my own call out, glad enough not to be relying on two wheels, I still wasn't all that happy about it. Yet, there was something pleasant about being carried safely through Belfast's silent streets in a taxi. Enfolded in a cocoon of warmth and gazing straight ahead, I wondered if the driver needed to clear his windscreen. Visibility didn't look that good.

I hoped this wasn't a precursor to fog. Unlike in Aberdeen where a horn moaned its sick-cow message to the universe, the Belfast one didn't seem to have the same range. Occasionally, silently, chillingly and unexpectedly, a cold mist would sneak into town. It would linger, killing vision, muffling sound and staying like an unwelcome guest until a temperature or wind change came to lift its depressing presence.

There was more than a suspicion of it as I glimpsed a window, its light slightly haloed, in the street where we now stopped.

‘This is us,' said the taxi driver, nodding at a man hovering outside, ‘and there's the Da. Poor thing, he'll be worried sick.' He wound down his window and sniffed the air. ‘I'm thinking I should get home now. I don't want to get caught in fog. It comes so quick too. Ah but it's the very divil!'

Before I could get a chance to see my patient and convince her that, in the interests of safety, she should be whisked into fog-free hospital care, the taxi with a crash of gears was gone, its shape swallowed into the night, its tail lights blurring into the distance.

Silence dropped into a damp and menacing air.

There was nothing for it. I was in charge.

‘Quick deliveries a speciality.' I held up my black bag to the ridiculously young-looking man whose face broke into a smile.

‘Ah, the wee Scots girl! My wife said she hoped it was you. She said you're great craic, so you are.'

He couldn't have said a more worrying thing.

Unlike Marie, I'd seen my patient a couple of times at the surgery. She was only a year older but I couldn't imagine myself coping with five kids, never mind looking forward to another. I respected her in many ways, not least because she was happy to acknowledge her mother-in-law and the help she gave.

‘My own mammy died in childbirth,' she'd explained on one of her visits to the clinic. ‘I don't know how I'd manage without Dermott's. But she's getting on a bit now. We thought it'd be easier for everybody if I'd this babby at home.' She'd grinned. ‘The children've hardly got used to the last one and it's an awful work getting them ready for a hospital visit. At least if I'm at home, they'll see this wee one when and if they want
and
it'll stop them thinking babbies only come from hospitals.'

‘I suppose you've sometimes thought that yourself,' I'd answered, ‘and it's no use saying it's the light that's attracting them but …' I'd dared to say, ‘after this one's born, what would you think about taking the Pill?'

She could have been offended. Instead she'd looked thoughtful. ‘It's really against our religion. It's difficult, but we're supposed to use the rhythm method.'

I'd raised an eyebrow and did a boogie movement whilst spreading my fingers over her bump as if it was a piano. ‘Safer moving on the floor.'

‘As well?'

‘No, instead.'

She'd laughed but said she'd have a word with Dermott. But right now might not be the best time to ask if she had. Probably not. Dermott was more welcoming than any hospitable host as he ushered me into the cramped hallway of an unnaturally quiet house.

I wondered how such an obviously small home managed to accommodate so many people even though most of them were little. ‘Have you gagged and bound the wee ones?'

Dermott, scrubbing a mass of black hair too luxuriant for any bowl to cover, considered the question seriously. ‘No. They're with my ma,' he said, opening a door into a living room, ‘but they've left their linen.' He pointed to small garments drying in front of a blazing fire and a clothes-horse on which nappies hung as if it were a flag day. ‘I'm trying to get them dried before tomorrow.'

On the mantlepiece standing beside an ornate, if stopped, clock was a jar of Thovaline, a cream to stop nappy rash. Its pot was blue and matched the colour with which someone of artistic bent had painted two of the tiles on an otherwise drearily brown fireplace. Even though the linoleum was the same drab colour, the wallpaper with its peony rose sprays made colourful splashes on a navy background. The house may not have been grand but it was warm and felt welcoming.

‘Now, Nurse,' Dermott said, rubbing his big knuckled hands together. They made a sound as rough as sandpaper on wood. Like a squaddie about to take orders, he straightened his shoulders. ‘Eileen's upstairs. I've looked out the delivery pack and put the kettle on.'

‘Good. Two sugars please and no milk – I'm trying to diet.'

Eileen seemed remarkably cheerful for someone in labour. Wearing a thin nightdress, she sat by the window on a hard chair, resting her feet up on another.

‘What's it doing out there? Dermott said it was a bit misty.' She pointed to the faded blue-velvet curtains, efficiently blocking out the night.

‘The stork might have a problem locating Belfast,' I said, hoping I was wrong. I handed her a thick mug of tea much the same colour as the lino. ‘Dermott's finest.'

Ignoring the weather report, she said, ‘He makes a grand cup, so he does,' and drained its contents in one.

It wouldn't have been like this in hospital! Once patients were in the labour ward they wouldn't be fed. Fluids would be limited to the odd ice cube, essential liquids given by an intravenous drip. It made the patients safer candidates for an anaesthetic if needed: and thirsty.

Eileen wouldn't be that. Plainly fortified, she now pointed to a bulky package on top of a wardrobe masquerading as an upright coffin. ‘It looks like a Christmas parcel. Dermott put it there out of the children's way. We've had a terrible job keeping them out of it.'

‘I think they'd have been disappointed.' I said and took it down, unpacking it quickly. Disregarding spotlessly white dressing towels, a pack of sterile delivery hardware and enough cotton wool to cocoon an elephant, I searched out a plastic sheet. ‘Look! This'll keep your bed safe.'

‘I'll give you a hand,' she said and winced as she stood up.

‘Just you stay there.' I'd noticed a small telephone under the bed. Phew! I must've dreamt Sister Marks said there wasn't one in the house.

I pulled it out and put it in a handy place. Between Eileen looking increasingly uncomfortable and a growing anxiety that the taxi driver might be right about fog, I might have to make that call soon.

I patted the bed. ‘Come on, Eileen, let's have a look at you.'

At the first sight and palpation, I instantly knew something was wrong. What should have been the head pointing downward was too small. Higher up, something as large as a cricket ball bobbed. How, I worried, had I not picked this up at the clinic?

‘Have you been having pain under here?' I touched the bottom of her rib cage.

‘How'd ye guess?' Eileen was plainly impressed. ‘Is that a crystal ball you've got in that black bag of yours?'

I reached for the phone, already dialling. ‘No, but maybe it's time to get Sister Marks here. Hello?'

I was surprised, then torn between worry that Dermott answered and relief that Eileen wasn't having a convulsion. She was only laughing. ‘You're a card, so you are!' She wiped streaming eyes. ‘That's the children's phone. Their other one's downstairs.'

Pretending I wasn't fooled, I was casual. ‘Convenient though.' Then wondered how I could convey the urgency of my message without alarming either parent. ‘Um, Dermott, could you contact the district unit and say to Sister Marks the baby shouldn't be long but might be coming bum first.'

There. I'd said it. I checked my watch. Silence. I waited for an anxious scream from downstairs and in the absence of one, felt tempted to provide it, but Dermott just said, ‘Right you are, Nurse. I'll be as quick as I can.'

It was as if I'd ordered another cup of tea.

A wedding photograph of Eileen and Dermott sat on a dressing table. From a tarnished silver frame they smiled a little doubtfully over the pile of nappies and baby clothes surrounding them. If they'd known their future, I thought, checking my watch and hoping Dermott would be quick, they'd have looked a lot more uncertain.

‘If it's bum first, will that be easier?' Eileen began to move restlessly .

I was cautious. ‘Everything will be fine as long as that baby of yours reads the signs on the way out, but if there's any problems we'll easily pop you into hospital.'

Eileen looked worried. ‘Ah sure and I don't want that. Ow!'

I hoped I was presenting a calm front whilst desperately reviewing a mass of knowledge about breech births. In hospital, I recalled, some were straightforward enough but if a leg came first there was no guarantee the other would accompany it. A problem for an obstetrician then! Turning the baby to come headfirst might have been an option – if I'd been that same obstetrician and sure the baby wouldn't strangle itself on the umbilical cord.

At least, I comforted myself, the bag of waters hasn't broken. The baby was safe inside it and this was hopefully a sign that its bottom was sitting over the exit like a snug cork. If it were the first part to arrive, the rest would be more likely to follow in an orderly way.

There was a picture of a placid-looking Madonna nursing a rather chubby Jesus on the wall. I had to keep calm but, right now, she was holding the serenity card.

Sick with apprehension, I put the foetal stethoscope in place.

The baby's heartbeat was as reassuringly steady as Eileen's faith. ‘It'll be grand, so it will. Mary'll look out for us. Mother of God!'

Her womb muscles, lax from previous labours, were now beginning to protest. From the record of her previous births Eileen's labours were getting quicker. Then, frighteningly and rapidly picking up steam, her progress from first-stage labour to second was so extraordinarily fast there wasn't time even to discuss a painkiller.

A door banged. Then, from the bottom of the stairs, Dermott shouted, ‘It's a pea souper alright, but Sister Marks got the message. Says help's on the way.' His voice was drowned by a yell that would have wakened the dead. ‘But,' he finally added as he came upstairs, ‘I'm thinking by the sound of it, it won't be needed.'

‘Great!' I said. I only meant the baby's bottom had emerged, but given the circumstances I was delighted to see that part of a baby's anatomy.

Would I tell the parents they'd a boy?

Waiting, heart in mouth, I recalled watching a similar breech birth and its subsequent slow progress in labour ward. It was particularly memorable since Sister Flynn, that mistress of time management, had astonishingly decreed, ‘A breech this far mustn't be rushed. We may have to sit on our hands if we feel like interfering.'

Then the mother had been brought to the end of the table. I was worried that even though only a part of the baby was hanging over the edge, it looked a risky position. Sister Flynn had just scoffed. ‘Well, as you can plainly see, the midwife's there to hold it. We're just tapping into the law of gravity so that it's a gentle descent. You'll see that baby will come out in its own good time. All we need to do meantime is to keep an eye on the foetal heart and the cord free of tension.'

Tension! The term might be out of context but, here in this home confinement, it could just as well apply to me as well as Dermott, who'd just arrived.

‘Jasus!' Ashen-faced, he stared round-eyed at his son's bottom. ‘Is that a cyst I'm seeing, and what's Eileen doing so near the end of the bed?'

He put his hand on the back of one of the chairs I'd given Eileen so that she'd something to put her feet on and make a better position for delivery. For a moment I thought Dermott was going to sit down but, obviously made of sterner stuff, he was only steadying himself.

‘What's he talking about? Honest to God, Dermott, there'll be no more children after this,' said Eileen between groans. ‘It was never like this in hospital. Stop gawping and get up here and support me back. It's killing me.'

‘But everything's going well, you're halfway there,' I said, trying not to croak. ‘But Dermott, you'll need to give me a hand. Are yours clean? Can you make a long arm and pass me that cloth?'

Opening his eyes for a moment and now peeping over Eileen's shoulder, he grabbed a towel and threw it over.

I held it so that the emerging body would have a clean supportive landing – then waited. And waited.

Dermott gave a loud sigh, then, pale but going for heroics, he opened one eye and said, ‘Could we not just pull the wee fella out?'

‘No! You'll put his head into the wrong position. We've got to give him time.' I tried to keep my voice from trembling. ‘Honestly, Dermott. Trust me.'

‘Sure she knows what she's doing,' offered Eileen between groans, ‘but it's dreadful sore.'

‘I'll never put you through this again,' swore Dermott, plainly searching for action – and that is what he got shortly after when all hell broke loose.

With dawn making a tentative appearance and his mother's yell competing against the sound of a blaring siren, more of the baby came into view. A few more anxious minutes and then the back of his head appeared.

‘Now, we can do something,' I said. ‘One last wee push, Eileen!'

Holding his body over my arm, I put a finger in Master Ferguson's mouth and, with my other hand keeping the back of his head flexed to allow him easier passage, gently lifted him out. ‘And look! We've got a safe arrival!' I felt faint with relief.

‘Is he alright?' Eileen was anxious. Doors were slamming, there was shouting and footsteps pounded up the stairs. The only silent person was the baby.