Lush in Translation (3 page)

“How did
you get here? It takes hours to drive from Scotland,” I say when the pain
passes. “I haven’t been here that long, have I?” I look around, disorientated.

“I jumped
on the first plane here.” He smiles as he wipes my face and squeezes my snotty
nose with a tissue. I feel a warm flush of pride grow on my cheeks. But wait a
minute. This is Henry.

“You
FLEW?” I’m unable to keep the disbelief from my voice. Henry would never pay
for a direct flight; he won’t even pay for the train unless it’s on expenses.

Am I
dreaming? Am I already in theatre? Have I died?

Laughing,
he kisses my forehead and shrugs. “So, what’s happened? Where are we now?”

“Well, I
got stuck in the door on the way in after the stupid car park attendant tried
to give me a ticket, and I thought the removal men had kidnapped Mabel, but I
found her hiding in a cupboard, and the nursery is all painted. I painted it
pink and was about to pull the carpet up, but then Mabel did a poo on the
toilet, and that’s when I think it all started. My waters broke on the
stairs—don’t worry, I cleared it up. But then she threw up on the slide in the
school playground and slid through it—she stinks—and I forgot to put the
washing in the dryer, and oh God. I was so rude to the girl at your office. I’m
sorry. I was just so scared and… oh… shit that hurts.” Another pain surges
through me and snot bubbles come out of my nose. Great. I wipe my nose and
cheek with his suit jacket.

“Shhh,”
he says, pushing my hair away from my face. Then turning to the midwife, he
murmurs, “Is she delirious?”

Before
she has a chance to answer, the consultant returns. After a quick examination,
he announces the baby is in distress.

No, I
don’t want her to be in distress!

He fires
out instructions to the room, which is suddenly full of people. Then he tells
Henry and me that I have to go into surgery now, that it’s not too late, and
that I can have an epidural. Henry is trying to stay calm for me, but he’s gone
a bit pale and keeps clearing his throat. He clears it so often that I don’t
catch everything the consultant says—something about where Henry needs to go
while I’m going through to theatre?

Everything
is happening so fast, and I’m terrified. I’m being wheeled off, and Henry is
left outside on his own.

“I love
you,” he shouts.

“Please
don’t put me to sleep! I’m not ready to die yet! I want Henry… HENRY!” I sob,
and the midwife comes to calm me down.

“Dottie,”
she says, “listen to me. You aren’t going to sleep. We’re keeping you awake.
Remember, you had an epidural with Mabel, didn’t you?” She’s gripping my hand
and speaking firmly. “Henry can come in as soon as he’s scrubbed up, but we
have to get to work now. The baby is in distress, so the sooner he or she is
out, the better. Do you understand?”

Nodding
my head slightly, I say, “She. It’s a girl. I want to name her Martha, but
Henry doesn’t think having two Ms is a good idea.” I feel my breathing return
to normal. “Maybe after going through this I can persuade him.”

That
makes the midwife laugh. She holds my hand as the anaesthetist explains what’s
going to happen.

By the
time the needle has been inserted—it takes three attempts as I’m shaking so
much—Henry is back by my side.

I have no
idea what’s going on. I stare at the ceiling, at the blue screen constructed by
a sheet, trying to work out what’s happening. Henry looks a bit green but keeps
looking at me reassuringly, smiling and nodding as if everything is OK.

After what
seems like ages, there is a bit of a kerfuffle, then, “Here we are. Wow, what a
whopper!” But wait a minute. Now there’s silence.

Why
isn’t she crying yet?

More
silence, and I panic all over again as I watch/see the midwife wrap a pinky,
purply, gross little body in a blanket.

“Is she
OK? Is she breathing? Just bloody pinch her, OK?” There’s a ripple of laughter,
which is quickly covered up by a few coughs, then I hear it.

First a
whimpering that gets louder and louder, turning into a full-blown angry cry as
they whip her off to get weighed. I’m crying again, Henry too, and he’s
stroking my hair, and all of a sudden everything is perfect. Who cares about
the horrible house, or a car that only has two back seats, or that Henry nearly
missed the birth? He’s here now; we’re a wonderful family. Henry, Dottie,
Arthur, Mabel and baby girl Martha.

“Well,
he’s a healthy weight, that’s for sure,” the midwife says. “Nine pounds,
thirteen ounces. And what a head! There’s no way you’d have turned this boy,
and he obviously knew it!”

“She!”
Henry and I both shout in unison, looking at the middle-aged woman who is
carrying our still-crying daughter towards us. The baby’s blanket is already
stained with blood.

Seriously,
how is she allowed to be holding babies if she can’t even get the sex right?

“No,
definitely not a she,” she says, smiling, “I’ve been doing this a very long
time, and I can tell the difference, you know.” She winks as Henry and I glance
at each other, confused. Then, lowering her arms so we can see the tiny
scrunched-up red face, she says, “Congratulations! It’s a beautiful bouncing
baby boy.”

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Mothers Ruined
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