Over the next hour I heard and saw some truly unpleasant things, the likes of which I wished I could wipe from my memory. Aaron had gone white beside me, squeezing my hand, as we watched the video of a birth. So many things could go wrong. Breech, pre-eclampsia, diabetes, haemorrhages, infection, sepsis. Then the baby could get stuck, get the cord wrapped round its neck, lose oxygen. Not for the first time I wondered why having human babies was such a horrendously fraught and complicated process, compared to say, cats, who just went under the stairs and got on with it. That made me think of the still-absent Minou, and I felt a stab of anxiety for her. She’d never disappeared like this before. I needed to nag Aaron about putting up the posters.
Nina turned off the video, staring round at us. ‘Don’t think women don’t die any more in childbirth. They do. You must be extra vigilant about any bleeding or fever, and you, partners, need to look out for Mum when she’s not able to care for herself.’ That was what I most feared. Losing control, leaving my life in Aaron’s hands. He was so young. Was he up to it?
Well, you shouldn’t have had a baby with him if you weren’t sure, whispered my mother’s voice.
Nina landed on me again. ‘Jax. Can you remind us of the warning signs for pre-eclampsia?’
Why did I feel like I was back at school, and failing? Wasn’t this class supposed to be supportive and friendly? ‘Um . . . high temperature, and, uh . . . ?’
Her eyebrows twitched. ‘No. Anyone else?’
Monica raised a smug hand, reeled them off. Yes, even her hand was smug. I sank a little in my chair, and felt Aaron’s hand in mine, squeezing. I wondered if it was too late to transfer to a different group.
Nina had set down the woolly vagina, the doll’s head sticking out of it like a horror film. I was reminded of a production of Little Shop of Horrors I’d done the props for in college. Vagina dentata. Wasn’t that a thing? I felt myself squeezing my thighs together. Around the room, Kelly had gone pale, and Aisha was biting her lip. Cathy raised her eyebrows at me in horror. Monica sat back smugly, as if she already knew her vagina would stretch beautifully. Anita was white too, though she wasn’t going to have to do it. I wondered if that was any consolation to her.
Nina was talking. ‘Be prepared for serious urine leakage too. Even if you don’t have a prolapse it’s likely you’ll leak for several months after, when you laugh or sneeze or do exercise. If you do have a prolapse, well, you won’t pee properly for several years. Especially not if you have another child.’
I clenched my pelvic floor, experiencing deep horror. How did anyone have sex ever again, never mind another child? I remembered a friend joking that her vagina was like Beirut after her birth and wondered how much of a joke it was. Was this the secret horror all mothers lived with? Was that why they sometimes seemed so cross with childless women, so dismissive of what we thought we knew about pain and of love? Oh God. I had a very sensitive bladder; I’d spent most of my twenties a martyr to cystitis. How would it cope? I could hear my breath coming faster, sweat patches spreading under my arms. It was so hot in here. Why was it so hot? By contrast Nina looked beautifully cool, not a bead of sweat on her smooth tanned forehead. Nina must not have children – no one would be so trendy and so slim if they did. How then was she qualified to teach this class? But there I went, putting the divisions up myself, mothers versus non-mothers. I had to be more accepting.
Nina was holding something else now. It looked like a giant hook. ‘And this is in case the baby gets stuck in the birth canal. Kind of like what you’d use to reel in a giant fish.’ I made an ‘o’ of horror across the room at Cathy. She was looking like the green-faced sick emoji. Jesus Christ. ‘And these are forceps, if you find that you need those.’ They were enormous. Like something a vet would use on a cow. Would the doctor stick their arm inside me too? I licked sweat from my upper lip. ‘And of course, ventouse.’ This looked like an actual Hoover attachment. Oh God.
‘Any questions?’ Bloody Nina, so composed. She didn’t have to go through it in a mere matter of weeks.
Kelly raised a tentative hand. She looked tired and pale, conspicuously alone beside the empty chair. ‘What about those epidurals, like? I want one of those.’ After the last group session, when Ryan had burst into the room so dramatically, I was relieved to see he hadn’t turned up. I wanted to say something to Kelly but didn’t know what. I’m sorry your boyfriend is an arse? You should leave him? I could only imagine what it would be like to be pregnant and alone. If she didn’t want that, I wouldn’t judge her. And besides, being with Aaron had taught me that people love to judge other people’s relationships. I thought briefly of how he’d slammed the table that time, but pushed the thought away. It was just one time, and he’d been so good ever since. He wasn’t like Ryan.
Monica made a little noise, half amusement, half contempt. God, she was awful. ‘It is supposed to hurt, you know! Honestly, I don’t know why people get pregnant if they’re so afraid of a little pain. After all it’s a perfectly natural process! Women have been doing it for millennia!’
Cathy, still pale, said, ‘I’ve written into my birth plan that I’ll be non-interventionist. I assume they’ll respect that? I want everything all natural, no drugs, no implements. Studies show interventions cause a lot of foetal distress.’
Nina blinked slowly. ‘I’m afraid you should know, Cathy, birth plans very often go out the window in the heat of the moment.’
Hazel chuntered at this. ‘But we wanted a water birth!’ I caught Aisha’s eye and knew she was thinking, as I was: sod the water, I’ll need heroin to cope with all the tearing and rupturing.
‘That depends if the birthing centre has space, and if nothing occurs to classify the birth as higher risk. In that case you automatically go a surgical/medical route, so it’s best you plan for that scenario now.’
‘You mean . . . they would give drugs and do surgery when you don’t want it?’ Cathy was horrified.
‘To save your life, yes. And the baby’s life. They’ll ask your permission for a Caesarean, or your partner’s if you’re out of it. But do you really want to be making those choices while you’re haemorrhaging on a table?’
Cathy bit her lip. ‘But . . . I’d really rather not have one of those. The scarring alone . . .’
Nina just looked at her. Then, in a quiet, savage voice, she said, ‘You should prepare yourself for the alternative then. Your death. Your baby’s death.’
Cathy gasped. Hazel put a hand on the bump. ‘Now hang on . . .’
Nina went on. ‘I just think you should know. Yes, it would be lovely to have a natural birth, but what’s natural is often death and pain and suffering. You must do what’s best for the baby. Isn’t that what you want? That’s what any mother should want.’
Cathy was close to tears; I tried to catch her eye to give her a sympathetic smile, but she didn’t see. ‘Well, of course. I . . . I just . . .’
‘You should all get used to that now. From the moment you got pregnant, your life became less important. Frankly, you shouldn’t be having a child if you feel differently.’
A distressed murmur went round the room. Kelly also looked close to tears. Aisha was frowning hard, rubbing her bump. Monica said, ‘I’m not worried. I’ve always been very healthy, and I’m sure this is no exception.’
For a moment, Nina’s mask slipped, and I saw her bare her teeth in anger. ‘You might think that now, Monica. But let me tell you, you have no idea what it will be like once you get in there. Things can always go wrong. Always.’ Perhaps I was wrong then. Maybe Nina did have kids. But if so why had she never mentioned them?
Can worrying make things happen? As we left the meeting, my head full of hooks and blood and torn flesh, and shuffled back to the bus stop, I began to feel a wetness between my legs. Just a bit of discharge, I thought. But it grew and grew, and as Aaron turned to me to ask what time the bus left, I saw his eyes travel down, and grow in shock. ‘Babe!’
I followed his eyes down, taking
in the huge spreading stain at the crotch of my maternity jeans. I was bleeding. A lot.
Alison
Jax Culville answered the door as the other women had, wary and tired, but for once a baby was not attached to her body. She still looked pregnant, in fact, her face pale and puffy, and she was wearing pyjama bottoms and a long cardigan. She was a few years older than Alison, but not that many. ‘Ms Culville?’
‘Yeah. Come in.’
Inside, the curtains had not been pulled and the house had a sour, disordered air, dirty dishes piled on the table and a basket of washing on the sofa. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t seem to keep on top of things, what with . . .’ She winced as a squawk came from upstairs. ‘Just a second.’
As Jax went upstairs, heaving herself up the bannister, Alison looked around her. It was a nice little house, red-brick, two-up two-down, Victorian, although strewn with dirty clothes and dishes. The kind she’d like to be able to afford with Tom. There must be family money, because she knew Jacqueline worked in the charity sector, and her partner, who was much younger, was only entry-level in his job. There was a laptop open on the table, and Alison was just thinking about maybe taking a very quick peek, only a glance really, when Jax came back down with a howling baby in her arms. Alison actually winced at the sound, which drilled into her ears.
‘I’m sorry. She just . . . She won’t stop crying. I don’t know what to do.’ Alison saw tears in the other woman’s eyes. ‘This isn’t me,’ she said thickly. ‘I don’t have a messy house or not get dressed or stay awake all night covered in puke . . . I just, I don’t know who I am any more. I feel like I’m changed. Like I don’t know myself.’
Alison didn’t know what else to do. She held her hands out. ‘Let me try.’
The baby was very light in her arms, strangely light somehow. It felt natural to hold her, jiggle her, mutter soothing nonsense. Somehow, she stopped screaming, a terrible noise like police sirens and roaring animals all rolled into one, and went limp against Alison’s chest. Alison shifted her in her arms – it was a girl, Hadley, which Alison thought was a cool name, very F. Scott Fitzgerald – as Jax made them coffee. It was cold and the milk was slightly on the turn, but she said nothing. ‘Now. I just need to hear from you what your recollections are of the day. So I can piece together what happened.’ Assuming she could ever make the disparate facts and stories add up.
Jax ran a hand over her face. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It seems so muddled. I think I was feverish, you know. I’d had mastitis. You ever have cystitis?’
Alison, floored by the question, just nodded.
‘Well. It’s hell, isn’t it? Like poison in your blood. This was like that, only worse. Like bits of me were raw and just getting rubbed open more every day. And I had to get dressed and go to that stupid bloody barbecue, just to keep up appearances, and everyone else seemed to be coping, Aisha and Cathy, they’re tired but they had good births, and they’re younger, they bounced back, and as for Monica – well. You’ve met her?’
Alison admitted that she had.
‘Nothing seems to touch that woman. She’s like a cockroach in Michael Kors. No puffiness, no leaking, she’s not even got a tummy. And she’s older than me!’
‘Alright. But what do you remember? I heard there was something with the baby, an incident of some kind?’
Jax hesitated. ‘It was just a misunderstanding. I just . . . I panicked for a second. But she was fine. Someone had her.’
That chimed with what Alison had heard. ‘Alright. Can you tell me where you were when the fall took place?’
Jax fiddled with the milk carton. ‘Um . . . I’m not sure exactly. I think Aaron and I were inside, in the living room maybe. I didn’t see or hear anything until someone started screaming. We were still kind of reeling from . . . what had happened. I wanted to go home but it takes ages, finding all the baby’s bits and pieces. You know.’
Alison didn’t know and felt this was a rather vague explanation. ‘And about the victim. How well did you know her?’
Was that a slight hesitation again? ‘Not well at all. Just from the group, and that was only once a week.’
‘You don’t know of any tension – anyone in the group who would have wanted to hurt her?’
‘No. I mean she had a run-in with Ryan, Kelly’s boyfriend . . . but he wasn’t there that day. Really, I think it was an accident. The balcony was very slippy, it had just been power-washed apparently.’
‘Where is your partner now, Ms Culville?’ Alison spoke towards the baby, trying to appear cosy and non-threatening.
‘Umm. He’s at work, of course.’ She reached out for her coffee, and Alison saw that her hands were shaking. She went in for the kill.
‘Does the name Mark Jarvis mean anything to you, Jax?’
The cup slipped in Jax’s hand, and as the liquid splashed her, she gave a yelp. Alison held the baby back, safe from danger, and waited.
Jax – six weeks earlier
The doctor sighed. He was giving me the strong impression that I was interrupting his morning with my inconvenient health problems. I knew he was incredibly busy – there were twenty people in the hospital waiting room, and my own emergency appointment had run forty minutes past its time. But I was scared. This dingy room, paint peeling off the walls, mouse-brown carpet on the floor, was also not helping. The bleeding had slowed after the first spurt, and I’d been told to come in on Monday, but I’d spent all the rest of Saturday and Sunday leaking. On my way in, doors opened as I passed to show people on beds and in wheelchairs, shrivelled and grey. How strange it was to be pregnant, not sick, not dying, but full of new life, and still coming to this place. And yet this was likely the most my life would ever be in danger, though I wasn’t ill.
He blew his nose before speaking. ‘So yes, I’m afraid you have developed placenta previa, Jackie. More common in older women.’
‘Jax. That’s . . . bad, right?’
‘It can be very serious, yes. Some women are admitted to hospital for their entire third trimester. I’m surprised this wasn’t spotted at your eighteen-week scan.’
I gaped at him. Going into hospital for a month? What the hell would I do? I wouldn’t last a day eating that salty tinned soup and instant mash. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘No, we don’t think that’s required right now. Anyway, we can’t spare the bed.’ That was less reassuring. ‘However, you do need to be on virtual bed-rest. Stay on your back as much as possible, don’t do anything.’
‘But . . .’ I tailed off. There was no good reason why I couldn’t lie on my back for the rest of my pregnancy. I wasn’t working, I had a partner who was more than willing to run round after me, I had no other children or elderly relatives to care for. The only reason was my life. The only reason was my sanity. But that seemed to have taken a back seat the moment I got pregnant. ‘You really think that’s necessary?’
Another sigh. ‘Let me show you.’ He began to draw on a drug-branded legal pad, a rams-head outline of a womb and a baby in it upside down, its head enmeshed in thick lines. ‘These are the blood vessels. In your placenta, they’re sitting at the bottom at the womb, which is very weak. The bigger the baby grows, the more pressure you put on those vessels. If labour starts, they will rupture, and you may bleed to death, and likely your child will be deprived of oxygen and die too. Is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ I said, feeling like a knocked-up fourteen-year-old. ‘It’s serious then.’
‘It often resolves itself, but we can’t take any chances. Oh, and you should have a C-section at the birth.’
Several thoughts ran through my head. The disapproval among the group for any form of intervention, the comments about being too posh to push. On the other hand, the saving of my vagina from all the rupturing. That word was getting used a bit too often for my liking. ‘OK . . .’
‘It means we can schedule in the delivery, so you know exactly when it’s going to happen.’ He flashed me a weary smile. ‘Makes the whole thing
a bit easier.’
‘Right . . .’ I was still reeling. Too late, I remembered it was best to have someone with you for significant medical appointments, since shock will send your mind totally blank. I’d urged Aaron to go to work that morning, though he hadn’t wanted to leave me.
‘Talk it over with your husband,’ he said, dismissing me, my five minutes being up. I didn’t correct him about the husband. ‘And remember – full rest. As much as possible. Every time you stand up you’re putting pressure on those vessels, and eventually . . .’ He made a gesture with his hands like something exploding. Startled, I just stared. Then of course I had to get up and shuffle out to the bus, and walk the rest of the way home, all the while acutely aware that my womb might rupture and I’d flood the seat of the number 61 with blood and mucus. My poor baby, gasping like a fish out of water. Stay in there for now, OK?
As I struggled home, every step a terror, tilting my pelvis against the rigours of gravity, I looked at the outside world like a prisoner being taken to jail. The peeling doors of our street, the dustbin contents a fox had strewn over the road, the diamonds of broken glass where someone’s car had been nicked. All of it beautiful since I wasn’t going to see it for a while. I was standing with my face upturned to the grey spring sky, breathing in the polluted air of South London, when I heard the phone ringing inside, and hurried to find my key from my bag. I was out of breath already when I reached it. ‘Hello?’
‘’Ello there, Mrs Cole?’ I didn’t bother to correct him. ‘Speedy Garage here. Found the problem with your car, didn’t I.’
‘Oh yes?’ I was only half listening, undoing my coat with my other hand. I hoped it wouldn’t be too expensive. Likely it would be something I wouldn’t even understand and would just trustingly hand over the cash. I imagined he despised me, clueless middle-class woman that I was.
‘Looks like someone’s playing silly buggers. You got a rock shoved up your exhaust pipe.’
The Push Page 16