Peace at last. No noise, except for the hissing of steam escaping from the radiator. Oh yes, nearly forgot, the unforgettable drip, drip, dripping from the fuel tank.
Only chance of escaping from the imminent inferno was to push, punch or kick our mothers’ out of unconsciousness. Anton had already scuttled off out of the car.
I kicked mother hard but New Kid kicked harder. He’s a week older. We hollered and screamed for attention, but it was useless.
For our last trick, we screeched, scratched and clawed the sides of our padded cells until our mothers’ regained consciousness. Both mothers kicked at the doors until they gave way and we rolled out, mothers imitating two beached whales, bouncing down the grassy slope. It was like being tossed and turned inside a washing machine.
Moments later, like all good disaster movies, the car exploded.
The medical staff at Cow Minster Hospital were brilliant. Checked us thoroughly, top to bottom for the slightest signs of injury.
Anton was the first to check out. He made his excuses and left. Had a date to keep, he said.
Sixth sense told me we wouldn’t be crossing paths again. I say good riddance. He could have killed us all. A nurse took blood samples from mother.
Monday 11th May. 9.37 am.
A Dr Georghi Vasalov pranced into the ward as if he was high on something illegal. Checked our medical records. New ones, old ones and very (I didn’t know they existed) ancient ones. Dr Vasalov signed us out.
10.32 am. The taxi drew up outside Dusty George, the dustman’s house, two blocks away.
Mother chastised the driver for parking in the wrong road.
When we arrived home, mother found a hand-delivered letter waiting on the doormat. Inside, Anton explained how my mother was a very special lady (we all appreciate jokes, but…). Explained how she possessed this remarkable personality, but said he couldn’t hold back his feelings any longer. He was in love with a ski-chalet girl he met in Chamonix. They were to be married next week. His final words were, ‘Hope you understand.’ Mum cried her little heart out, bless her, but the bed sheets were getting wet and so was I.
Tuesday 12th May.
Another envelope plonked through our letterbox. Mother left it for Tallulah or Dempsey to open.
Wednesday 13th May.
Sunny most of the day, so the forecast was wrong. I think weather forecasters should pay a fine per mistake.
Oh yes, New Kid vacated his premises today. I’ll say no more on the matter.
Thursday 14th May.
Rained all day. Finally, the forecasters got it right.
Friday 15th May.
Mother sent Dara’s mother a good luck card wishing her well with the birth.
Late evening. 10.57pm. My first love finally waved her last goodbye to the home she has grown up in, played in, slept in and screamed in for the past nine months.
At 9.35pm, she completed her final touchdown, crying, ‘hello brave new world,’ before crashing headlong into the hands of the waiting midwife.
At 9.52pm, Dara influenced her mother to make an urgent telephone call. I was the first on the list. Dara says the great soul-searching secret to relaxation when being born is… LET MOTHER DO ALL THE DONKEYWORK.
Saturday 16th May.
Today we were mugged OUTSIDE OUR HOUSE! Bloody cheek. This brought on mother’s labour pains. ‘Mugger’ looked petrified, apologised, then scampered off down the road.
This experience is unique for me. Getting mugged has seriously shaken my confidence, asking the question, ‘Will I be mentally and physically fit to be born?’ What if my heart suddenly stopped because of stress? Then I remembered what my girl said. Relax.
Week Forty
I’m approx 50 cm in length, weighing about 3250 grams and totally full-term. The amniotic fluid has become cloudy because of the residue from the vernix and the layers of shed skin, as new skin grows-in underneath.
Sunday 17th May.
Today will be my birthday. I felt like shouting, ‘please release me.’
At 10.02am, I arrived at hospital (didn’t fancy a home birth), and by 11.00am, I was waiting impatiently to be born, to enter the outside world of light, filling my lungs with the sweet smell of fresh air.
At 11.10am, grandparents arrived with uncle. Both men argued whose camcorder had the better gadgets.
At 11.14am, I became bored with waiting, so downloaded vital information on birthing techniques, IVF treatment, the storing and freezing of eggs, infertile couples, and dead foetuses. Relieved my mother is not infertile.
Head beginning to experience wooziness. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear (am I dreaming?) Operations Control giving-out their final instructions and confirming launch will be T-minus thirty-one seconds and seriously counting. All systems appear desperate but on automatic.
Switching to online audio.
Operations Control Room.
‘This is a last check for a go, no go, Baby One ejection. Come-in operations manager.’
‘Baby One is go.’
‘Come in flight dynamics.’
‘Flight dynamics go.’
‘Baby One, are you go?’
That’s me they’re talking to. ‘Yes, I am go, Operations Control.’
‘Systems?’
‘Systems go.’
‘Take off platform?’
‘Platform go.’
‘Creation Centre, we have a go for baby one ejection. Instructions sent to Baby One. T-minus ten seconds 9,8,7,6 ….. We have gone for main engine thrust … 3, 2, 1 zero and lift off. Baby now clearing tower. Good luck Baby One.’
I feel a little nostalgic to be honest, watching my padded cell disappearing far behind. Ten seconds into flight and beginning to throttle-up.
Temperature rising, baby sweating. Depth now five, yes five centimetres. All flight systems are go. I sense no vibrations, leaks or flashing reds. Baby One (me) has been given green continue.
Crashing through sound barrier for unborns and committed to canal travel. G-forces building and baby rattling. Experiencing full thrust. Depth recorded at eight centimetres. Good job it’s only mother who has false teeth!
11.21am. My baby blues has unexpectedly exploded and just hit the ceiling. Just realised something extraordinary frightening.
I’ve been betrayed. Led up the garden path where only tall, dangerous weeds grow.
Must make a serious decision.
Decision made. Re-booking re-entry time. Inhaling atmosphere on the outside world must wait a little longer. One hour and forty minutes should be enough time to digest what my baby blues is shouting.
11.22am. Operations control room contacted. I’m being throttled back abruptly. Wind brakes at maximum, vibrations and G-forces severe. Main engine cut-off will interact in six seconds … 3, 2, 1. Cut off completed. Now in free fall. Delivery delayed.
11.24 am. Don’t get it into your head I’m suffering from a severe bout of shyness, but over the last few moments, I’ve put two and two together, and the answer didn’t come out as four.
This woman I’m supposed to have bonded with over the past forty weeks, even calling her mother, is an IMPOSTOR, A BARBARIAN!
Feels like a pit-full of vipers have just struck at my heart.
Yesterday, the telephone rang. It was my grandfather wanting to know who the lucky prize-winners were to witness my birth. Oh, and he also wanted to borrow a camcorder to film my birth. I had reservations.
I had been watching a scary movie, ‘The Bloody Butcher of St.Trinians,’ when I heard the words ‘dead,’ and ‘aborted,’ and ‘eggs.’
Of course. I’m in fact the product of a displaced egg. My true mother never existed. In fact, she was just a dead foetus. Who would want to be told their mother was an aborted baby? I thought body snatching was outlawed?
Let me explain the highs and lows (well, all lows in fact) of body snatching (or egg snatching).
First procedure is to p
lunder a ready made-to-order corpse (foetus, my unborn mother). Method … remove ovarian follicles from its ovary (foetus, my mother). Now, resist from frying, poaching or scrambling. Tissue can be kept alive for weeks in the correct chemical cultures. Eventually, the ovarian follicles will mature and release eggs. Deep store eggs in liquid nitrogen and hold in limbo until ready for use.
So you want a baby do you? Okay, thaw eggs, make fertile with ‘anonymous’ (don’t bet on it.) donated sperm and implant into recipient female. Hey presto, before you can say the alphabet backwards in Cockney or Queens English, you get something like me (in fact this woman did get me). What could be simpler? At least adopted children have the chance to discover their true biological mothers. Who do I get to trace? The only relationship I have with this woman is that she’s my microwave mother. Pop me in, watch me bake, and ‘voila,’ pop me out again in nine months (I know, it’s a slow microwave). When I’m older, I’ll sue her. Nowadays you can do things like that.
11.32 am. Oops. We have a problem. What problem? Appears my facts are more twisted than Tallulah chasing a ball of wool downstairs.
Just received the latest news from hot-off-the-press. Appears I’m not after all the product of a dead foetus. Hoorah! Maybe yesterday’s scary movie affected my reasoning, downloading too much info on IVF treatments. Guess you could say my imagination over-heated a little.
11.35am. Engines re-igniting. Will hit the atmosphere running. Attention, attention. Clear flight path debris. This Baby One arriving late, but unquestionably relieved.
Main engine burn, ten seconds to birth. …8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1.
11.39am. Touchdown...
11.39 and 20 seconds. Experiencing unnatural spasms of pain due to searing, blinding light. My eyes are burning.
Re-start engine and rotate me 180 degrees. I want to return to the safety of my cell, but deep down, I know very well my future lies in front of me, not behind.
Took a deep lungful of ‘air,’ but gagged. Too nauseating.
But no going back. Contract already signed and sealed.
11.42am. Funny, but you do get used to this whiffy air after a while.
11.44am. Granddad has his head stuck down the sink for some reason but Uncle is still filming.
11.56am. Final communiqué received from Operations Control.
‘Baby One has left the premises and undertaken its first lungful of air. The birthing team at Operations Control wish mother and baby a healthy and long life. This is Operations Control Centre over and finally out …………’
The Absurd Secret Diary Of An Unborn Baby Page 12