It Shouldn't Happen to a Midwife!

by Jane Yeadon

  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.

  ‘He’s going to be fine.’ In the absence of oxygen, I blew air on his face and cleared his nose and mouth. ‘Just can’t get a word in. Pass me that dish with the scissors, will you, Dermott, I’m going to cut the cord.’

  As if distressed at the sound of scissors so close, the baby gave a tiny but mutinous cry.

  ‘Ah! The wee dote,’ sighed Eileen as Sister Marks ran into the room.

  ‘That’s a great sound,’ she said, relief written all over her face. ‘Did you hear us arriving too? Sorry we’re so l
ate. That fog’s murder. Here! Let me.’

  ‘We’re managing fine. We’re a great wee team.’ Dermott, cloth in hand, took the baby. ‘And what a grand pair of lungs he’s got.’ Cradling him with expert ease he moved to the top of the bed. ‘Look Eileen, our wee son!’

  ‘I feel redundant,’ mused Sister Marks, ‘and here’s me bringing the Flying Squad with all their emergency equipment. Maybe I’ll just go back with them and leave you to finish off here. Would you be happy enough with that?’

  There couldn’t be a better opportunity! Charged by success and relieved that the third stage was underway, I said, ‘Of course, but before you go, Sister, we were discussing this being the last baby – for a while anyway. I’ve been suggesting the Pill to Mrs Ferguson.’

  Dermott looked horrified. ‘The Pill?’

  You’d have thought I’d suggested ready abortions.

  Sister Marks drew breath and moved into the sweetly reasonable mode of one professional to another, if less believing. ‘It’s used by a lot of women nowadays. Doctors only prescribe it for women who have irregular periods. Of course, regulating them is important if you want to practise the rhythm method.’

  ‘Well that would be alright then,’ said Eileen. ‘Are there many who are on the Pill then?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sister Marks with a wry smile. ‘You’ve no idea how many Irish women are being identically treated for the same problem.’

  31

  WHAT NEXT ?

  ‘You were lucky you’d no more breech births during your district training,’ said Matron, looking up from the sheaf of papers stacked on her desk.

  Lucky! I wondered if I should point out a few strands of white hair only noticed after Master Ferguson’s birth. At the end of the course, unlike the ageless Matron, I’d probably got a few more, but compared with promoting a wart as a reliable pregnancy test and delivering a breech birth, the final exam of our Second Part had seemed easy.

  Now, one more hurdle remained: an interview with Matron to discuss our future.

  The day had started with us nervously waiting in the classroom. Cynthia had been first in line. Lorna, a late arrival, reported seeing her coming out of Matron’s office after a very short interview.

  She said, ‘I think Cynthia may have fallen at the last fence.’

  I got cold feet. Cynthia of all people!

  Lorna continued, ‘Poor girl! Her meeting with Matron doesn’t seem to have gone very well. Either that or she’s getting the flu. She’s all red-eyed, with her face stuck in a hanky.’

  Moira, furiously scratching her nose, said, ‘I bet she’s told Matron she wants to be a ship’s nurse. Not what Matron would want to hear, I bet. That woman can be cutting enough to reduce a cat to tears and Cynthia won’t have liked getting a row.’ She paused and looked thoughtful. ‘You know Matron’s looking for some new staff midwives? Well I imagine the idea of someone gadding about the high seas wouldn’t come naturally to her, least of all when it’s our Cynthia jaunting off. ’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought it either,’ I said, relieved that Cynthia’s future actually sounded quite hopeful. ‘I bet you’d something to do with that.’ But Moira was already bounding off for her interview.

  Seonaid came skipping in. She was highly triumphant after her session with Matron. This was not only comforting but something of a miracle.

  I said, ‘You seem to have got on alright. How on earth did you manage that?’

  Seonaid’s high kick constituted a health hazard as she chortled, ‘Ah sure, she must be desperate to get staff. She said I’d matured so much since the beginning of my training, she offered me the chance of being a staff midwife here.’

  ‘And what did you say to this wee miracle?’ Lorna wondered.

  ‘I said “no thank you”. I’d be waiting for her job once it became vacant.’

  ‘Mother of God! You never!’ Marie went pink. ‘What a nerve you’ve got. By the time she gets to me she’s going to be raging. Raging now! Ah, girls! What d’you think she’ll say when I tell her I’m going to Uganda?’

  My advice was quick. ‘Easy! Just say you’re fixed up. Going to a hospital. What’s it called again?’

  ‘Villa Maria. It’s near Masaka and run by nuns.’

  ‘Simple. Just tell her you’re going home. You don’t have to say it’s in Africa.’

  Where had Marie’s sense of adventure come from? Looking at her resolute little face, I felt dwarfed by her unsuspected courage. I’d never have gone to the missionary fields. All the same, going home to add District Nurse training to my Midwifery part seemed tame by comparison.

  The Professor would not have approved, but I’d found life on District hugely satisfying and richly rewarding. I’d learnt that Belfast by bicycle gave a better view than the sometimes grim one glimpsed through a bus window. Visiting the homes of a warm, generous, hardworking , fun-loving, family-minded people made me feel part of their lives. Caring for people at home was so much more rewarding than hospital! But I could hardly say that.

  Searching for a suitable alternative I was grateful that at least Lorna was before me. She was keen to stay on and Matron would be daft not to let her.

  Plainly, and judging by Lorna’s upturned thumb as she came out of the office, Matron thought so too.

  And now it was my turn and I still hadn’t come up with a cunning plan.

  ‘So, Nurse Macpherson,’ Matron leant forward. ‘Breech births? You wouldn’t want too many like that.’

  Not waiting for an answer, she patted the papers, then steepling her fingers, leant back in her chair. ‘I imagine you’ll be going back to Scotland?’

  Even if I didn’t want it, where was the offer of work? Matron had completely taken the wind out of my sails. Moira and Lorna having fitted the bill, she must have torn up further job offers.

  ‘You’re not going to be like your friend Nurse Fitzsimons and tell me you’re waiting for my post then?’ She gave a faint smile, then in a patronising way and using a shockingly bad Scottish accent, ‘So, you’ll be off to your wee But and Ben instead?’

  ‘Er, no.’

  I looked around the small immaculate office where the windows giving out onto the hospital grounds offered a better view than the walls, all bare but for one shelved with books.

  ‘What then?’

  My eyes fell on a blue one lettered in gold, prominently displayed – Matron’s book.

  I sighed. Resting an elbow on the desk, I took a deep breath then, what was certainly the plunge, said in the matey way of one on equal terms, ‘No, Matron, I’m thinking of writing a book.’

  Copyright

  First published 2012 by Black & White Publishing Ltd 29 Ocean Drive, Edinburgh EH6 6JL www.blackandwhitepublishing.com

  This electronic edition published in 2012

  ISBN: 978 1 84502 423 9 in EPub format

  ISBN: 978 1 84502 424 6 in Mobipocket format

  ISBN: 978 1 84502 413 0 in trade paperback format

  Copyright © Jane Yeadon 2012

  The right of Jane Yeadon to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Ebook compilation by Ellipsis Digital Ltd, Glasgow

 

 

 
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