It Shouldn't Happen to a Midwife! (6 page)

Miss Harvey was in the nice mode we were coming to associate with the opposite. ‘Well, we're here and there's not that many of us, so why not just let us in and Prof. can have the next one? I'm sure he wouldn't mind. Anyway, we saw him leading his students away from here. Maybe he was going to give them a lecture.'

Sister Flynn rubbed her brow and scrubbed her paper cap, putting it at an angle that could have made her look jolly were it not for the beady eyes. ‘I'm sure he will mind, but you are here I suppose and these nurses will need their witnessing too even if they have a whole year compared to the students' three months.'

‘Yes but my nurses'll be midwives at the end of it.' Miss Harvey sounded edgy. ‘And of course unless a medic chooses midwifery as a specialism, they're unlikely to be practising it when they've qualified.'

‘Well, of course I know that.' Sister Flynn, practically running on the spot, was making the point about being a very busy person without time to argue. ‘OK then, but you'll need to go along and ask her. I'm far too busy. I need to check that everything's ready in theatre just in case we need it for that new patient you've brought in.' She sounded faintly accusing.

‘Right, I'll go and, class, mind you don't get in anybody's way,' said Miss Harvey and disappeared in the direction of Sister Flynn's nod.

She'd no sooner gone than the professor stuck his head round the entrance doors.

‘Any deliveries likely?' Even though he'd a mouth like a trap door, he sounded civil, unlike Cynthia who, as self-appointed spokesperson, spat a ‘No' before pointedly turning her back on him and studying the ceiling with fierce determination.

The door banged shut. Miss Harvey was back, giving us no time to think guilt by association.

‘I didn't hear Prof. McQuaid did I?'

Apart from Marie who looked shocked, the rest of us, determining to keep our witness slot, threw in our lot with Cynthia with a universal ‘No.' Even Margaret joined the chorus.

Marie, a red spot on each cheek, bowed her head as Miss Harvey said, ‘Funny, I was sure I heard his voice. I wouldn't like him to think we were stealing a march on his students. I know he's chasing witness deliveries at the moment but that's fine. We'll not bother with the “delivery notice” bell. Our patient's got a staff midwife and student in with her already but she says she doesn't mind a few more.'

‘And she doesn't mind an audience?' Lorna asked.

Miss Harvey laughed. ‘Says I can sell the tickets and she'll take the money. She shouldn't be long but if you go ahead into the delivery room it'll give you the chance to look round. I'll be with you in a moment.'

‘Good,' said Cynthia, leading the way. ‘One feels that preparation's everything.'

‘Does one indeed,' I parodied, nevertheless falling into line and into a room where a huge wall clock, scales, cot, delivery table and enough sanitary ware to mop up Belfast Lough, made for dull props in the silent theatre that was the delivery room.

Half the wall at the far end was windowed in frosted glass. Sunlight filtered through it. As if it were a warm-up performance, it played on the chrome instruments that were laid on a trolley like cutlery, giving a brighter lighting effect than the spotlighting disc hanging from the ceiling and trained on the bottom of the delivery table.

‘Looks as if it's waiting for the star attraction and what's that blue machine at the top?' I wondered.

‘Ah! Now that's an easy one.' Margaret stepped forward, relishing the role of mystery object advisor. Dropping shoulders, stretching her neck and jutting her formidable chin, she stood beside the machine with the air of a salesperson promoting a good product. ‘D'you see the cylinders? That's Entonox, or gas and air if you'd prefer.' She held up a mask and held it close to her face.

‘If you take that any nearer, you'll have to clean it before anybody else uses it,' Cynthia observed.

Margaret glared at her. ‘From the way you're talking, you'd think I'd a notifiable disease. Of course I wasn't going to use it. I just wanted to demonstrate that you can't overdose on it. The patient holds it like so.' Defying Cynthia with a closeness that made me think she was actually going to take a quick snort, Margaret put the mask in front of her again. ‘It helps take the edge off pain but also'll leave her in control which might not seem too apparent at the moment.' She cupped her ear. ‘Listen! Here she comes.'

Followed by Miss Harvey, our patient arrived threshing about in a bed wheeled in by a student and Staff Midwife.

Miss Harvey made the introductions. ‘This is Jinty Allan, and she's a very brave girl.'

‘No I'm not. I need help. I'm in agony. Help! When's all this going to stop? Oh Jasus!'

Jinty's name was the most cheerful thing about our patient. The sinews of her neck stuck out like whipcord, sweat stuck her curly hair to her forehead in dark question marks whilst her knees seemed to have relocated to her chin. She ground her teeth and groaned. ‘It's purgatory. I'll never do this again. Never!'

‘That's what they all say,' said the midwife, ‘but it is hard work and you've been doing so well. Won't be long now.' She moved over to the table, patting it in an encouraging way. ‘Now! Between your pains could you move onto this?'

Had anybody suggested I climb the north face of a delivery table from an existing bed of pain I'd have refused, but our patient was apparently made of sterner stuff and heroically scaled the heights before making her crash landing. Another yell split the air.

‘Mother of God. Another bed of misery!'

‘Have this. It should help,' said Margaret handing her the Entonox which Jinty grabbed, inhaling with the enthusiasm of a smoker on a forty-a-day habit.

‘I'm conducting this delivery,' snapped the midwife, ‘and you're supposed to be just watching. Go down and join the others please and mind out for the student midwife coming towards you. She's scrubbed up, ready to do the delivery.'

‘You'll see better from here. It's better than a ringside seat,' I whispered , making room for a crimson-faced Margaret.

‘I was only trying to help,' she muttered and looked close to tears.

‘Well see if you can get Marie to open her eyes, otherwise she'll miss this delivery. She trusts you for some reason.'

Having made sure her class was still in the upright position, if a little green, Miss Harvey murmured that she was going back to the classroom. ‘And, class, I'll see you there after. And the best of luck, Mrs Allan, you're going to be fine.'

‘If anybody else says that I'll scream,' gritted our patient and did.

‘Oh, good. Transition stage and I think we can just see the head.' The midwife sounded positively breezy. ‘Now mind how you control it, Nurse. We don't want it shooting out.'

It was one thing having an audience for your labour but there was the student midwife's performance too to consider. I wondered if she felt nervous about us watching or did she know our attention was as solely glued to her baby-catching hand as it was to the emerging head.

‘Pant!' yelled the midwife.

‘Not you,' I nudged Marie.

‘She's hyperventilating,' excused Margaret, ‘but for goodness sake, Marie, let go of my hand.'

‘We've lied, we've lied,' whimpered Marie, ‘and now this!'

Under cover of Mrs Allan's impression of a dog expiring in the sun, the midwife picked up scythe-sized scissors and said, ‘She's going to need an episiotomy – otherwise she'll tear.'

I had to take that deep breath forbidden to Jinty and wondered if I really wanted to be a midwife. Blood sports had nothing on this. Maybe life behind a nice tidy desk in a smart office was the way forward where the nearest thing to drama was the phone ringing. Still, I forced myself to watch, holding my breath as the scissors made a quick cut. The sound of metal on flesh was toe-curling.

I supposed that a surgical cut to make an easier passage for the baby would make a clean wound. It would be easier to heal. Even then, it might be a while before Jinty could sit without discomfort.

Somewhere, outside, was a simple world where people happily went about their business. They'd have no anxieties like those delivering new lives, here, in this clinical space. Never mind midwifery, I vowed, I'll make damn sure I'll skip motherhood.

Then, almost as an anticlimax, the baby's head was eased out.

‘Another wee push now.'

Shoulders emerged and then the rest of the baby. The cord was cut, airways briskly cleared and cleaned, and the baby wrapped in a cloth. Then, releasing the tension, a tiny cry made a loud statement.

‘It's a girl! You've got a wee girl!' The student, sounding more excited than the mother, handed her over.

Jinty, weary and cradling the baby awkwardly, touched her cheek. ‘A daughter!'

She sighed as she checked to see if the student was right. Then, with her vocal cords apparently affecting her as much as motherhood, she said in a voice like broken glass, ‘Ah ye poor wee thing. You're crying now but you don't know what lies ahead of ye.'

‘That left nothing to the imagination,' said Seonaid, allowing the labour ward suite door to swing shut behind us. ‘And to think Mrs Murphy's gone through it nine times already. The woman needs a medal for endurance!' She shook her head. ‘Or a new brain.'

Passing the theatre door on our way out, we'd seen a red light above it. It was a sign that an operation was in progress. It must be for Mrs Murphy.

As impressed at so recently having being present at a birth as depressed by the perils of having so many, I said, ‘Well something needs sorted. She must have had to have that Caesarean. I hope she's all right and maybe she'll get her tubes tied as well. Save a next time.'

‘They'd need to get her husband's permission for that.' Margaret, probably rankling after getting that gas and air row, spoke with the authority of somebody bulked of it. ‘It might be alright in Aberdeen but they do things differently here.'

‘I'll take that as a compliment.' I was more aggravated than certain. Sterilisation wasn't a subject I remembered anything about but surely it couldn't be the case back home. If I'd thought the matter of stopping pregnancies by a simple enough operation was such a contentious subject I'd have paid more attention to the snoozeinducing lectures by droning old gynaecologists.

‘Ah, girls, stop your arguing. Why don't you start praying for her like me?' Marie's colour was as retrieved as her faith.

Remembering some publicity about a burly, ugly-faced Ulster preacher coming to Aberdeen, I was exasperated. ‘For the love of Mike, give that God of yours a break. When I was in Aberdeen we never bothered ours except maybe on a Sunday and then for just an hour.' I warmed to my theme. ‘Then someone from Ireland came to preach in a well-loved church to,' I air-punctuated the words, ‘“
show us the way
”. Apparently all he did was upset congregations and keep them awake by thundering a Hell, Fire and Damnation sermon. Then some large men put round pails to be filled with money, preferably notes, as a mark of gratitude.'

I chuckled. ‘He must've forgotten he was dealing with Aberdonians. The good folk had never seen or heard the like before and found his buckets and bigotry a complete turn off.'

Marie gave a horrified squeak. ‘I'm sure that man wouldn't have been one of ours. I couldn't imagine any of them carrying a pail, but Jane,' her eyes were filled with anxiety, ‘have you no worries about your soul?'

‘Not really, but if it's worrying you and you're on the line to your God you can put in a word for me. Personally I think he's a bit overstaffed .' I nodded at Father O'Patrick heading our way. ‘Look, just what I'm saying. Here's one of his busiest helpers.'

The priest blocked our path. ‘Bless you, bless you! Just a minute of your time, if you don't mind. I know how busy you are but what I'm wondering is if you could ever tell me about Mrs Murphy. I happened to notice her being taken in there.' He pointed at the labour rooms whilst darting his eyes at the antenatal room doors with an anxiety which suggested a vision of Sister Uprichard wouldn't constitute a miracle.

‘You mean the labour ward?' I asked, feeling bold at introducing a word that suggested hard work.

The priest nodded and scratched his curls, prompting an early fall of dandruff to snowstorm the black coat swaddled about him. It had a torn pocket from which a
Racing Times
hung out lending cheer to the cold weather front of his person. ‘I'm betting her husband will want to know she's there but as he hasn't a phone, I could tell him where she is and I could easily go now.'

‘My good man, we couldn't possibly tell you anything about any patient,' said Cynthia, her chest advancing, ‘that would be a terrible breach of confidentiality.'

Despite a position of vulnerability, trapped as he was under the shelf of Cynthia's bosom, Father O'Patrick fought back. Patting his
Racing Times
as if to reassure himself that better things lay ahead he said, ‘But my dear girl, you won't know the family circumstances like I do, and believe me, Mr Murphy may well need my support right now.'

Cynthia's bosom continued inexorably as she said, ‘We're not at liberty to disclose anything.'

Margaret, keen to put in her tuppence worth, hardened her jaw as she said, ‘Professionalism comes in many shapes.'

I hadn't thought either Cynthia's chest or Margaret's chin fitted that category but they were doing their bit when Dr O'Reilly, looking harassed, barged through the labour ward doors.

‘Ah! Father – that's a bit of luck. I was just nipping over to see Sister Uprichard to see how to contact Mr Murphy and she said you were probably still around. Mrs Murphy's just had her baby and I need to contact him right away but we're having a problem getting a hold of him. Would you know if he has a telephone now?'