by Jade Beer
As I’m finishing the notes and preparing to make my first round of visits to the bays, I’m reminded of how lucky I was to have her – if only for those sixteen years. I helped deliver a baby last week to a woman who screamed at me to ‘get this little bastard out of me’ at the top of her voice. She was so sadly detached when he eventually appeared, fourteen hours later. She never cuddled him, leaving that to me. I try not to judge, but as I watched her walk through the double doors of the maternity unit the following day, the baby being carried by her own mother, I could see from the nervous look on that grandmother’s face how frightened she was for the future too. I wanted to run after that mum and remind her how bloody lucky she is.
I can see today is going to be one of those days when I have no time to do anything well. My first visit is to Mrs Ferguson, who had a traumatically long birth overnight that ended with a full blood transfusion this morning after her placenta refused to follow the baby and she haemorrhaged. As the tiles on the floor of the labour room flashed from white to shocking red in the time it took me to hit the emergency button, I could feel my head swim with the rising panic. As I glanced down, I could see my scrubs had turned a deeper shade of purple and my skin beneath them was wet with her blood. Seconds later, Jean was there, dismissing the sobbing father. The trauma team followed, crashing around the room, making no allowances for anyone who got in the way, their total priority getting this mum to theatre. I watched over the baby then until dad was composed enough to return, his eyes swollen and his whole body shaking from the adrenaline surge, immune to the intense heat in this place.
Now the baby boy is sleeping soundly in the clear Perspex cot next to her, but I can see that Mrs Ferguson is not in a good way; she is shattered, emotionally and physically. I struggle to sit her upright in bed and give her as much time as I can. She needs to talk about it, to try to make sense of what happened to her – how someone who was prepared and well-researched ended up so far from her idea of a beautiful birthing experience. She’s teary and defeated, with dead eyes that have no enthusiasm for what lies ahead in the coming weeks, the last remains of numbing morphine probably still floating through her bloodstream. I spend eight minutes with her – barely enough time to do all my vital checks, nowhere near enough time to convince her that today is just one day, and how she feels now will be quickly forgotten once she gets her baby boy home.
Then I have to move on, checking another baby isn’t jaundiced, helping another emotional mum who’s frustrated at her failure to breastfeed to hand express her milk, showing a dad how to change a nappy. I sign for an antibody injection for one of my mums, Mrs Marks, as it arrives from the lab. Her blood group has tested as incompatible with her baby and the jab will protect against the possibility of future miscarriage. Glancing around the room, I can see every midwife here is flat out – checking blood pressures, taking temperatures, examining for signs of DVT, asking if mum’s milk has come in yet, has the baby pooed, are mum’s stitches healing properly? There is so much to remember. Wait, what did I say my wedding date was? And did I tell the work girls it will be in Wiltshire, or was that just Helen? I need one of the other midwives to double-check the injection before I can administer it to Mrs Marks and there’s no chance now, so I pop it in the fridge for later. There are buzzers to answer, paperwork to process, doctors to liaise with, and calls coming in from the labour ward: they need the beds. I have to keep these women moving through the system and discharged otherwise everything will back up and we’ll have women in labour in the antenatal department, terrifying the living daylights out of the mums-to-be there.
By the time I have seen everyone at least once it’s nearly midday and I have to make a choice: it’s either a new outfit for tonight or some rushed wedding updates. I opt for the latter, knowing it’s going to be the subject of a lot of questions later on. I duck into the staff loo, breathing deeply from the stress of it all, noticing to my shame that my armpits are starting to pong a bit already. Have I got time to Google the top ten most popular honeymoon destinations – I know they’ll ask where we’re going – and who does the best gift list? I lock the door behind me and call up the Pinterest board on my phone. I’m frantically dragging images of Philippa’s flowers onto my dream wedding board and – very cleverly, I think – a shot of her and me together that I got Helen to take last weekend. All too soon I am right down a black hole that leads to hand-painted, watercoloured stationery, place settings decorated with a rainbow of individual rose heads, and mini maids with fresh flowers trailing from their hair down the back of white silk dresses tied with bows. Then it’s macaroon towers, sunset coloured cocktails, and open-sided marquees, with proper crystal chandeliers suspended from their ceilings and mismatched glass vases filled with all-white countryside blooms running along their lace-covered tables. I’m copying and pasting as much as I can as fast as I can, watching the battery life on my phone diminish, trying not to think about what Jean will say if she catches me with my phone on the ward.
Then bloody Lucy is hammering on the door.
‘We need to free up some beds out here, Jenny. Labour ward is really struggling down there! Any of your ladies free to go now?’
There is literally nowhere around here for any peace. I glance down at my watch and realise I have been in here for twenty-five minutes. Shit!
‘Yes, just give me one second. Mrs Marks is next, I think.’
You can always tell the determined mums: they’re the ones who don’t usually wait to be asked to shower or get dressed, they just force themselves up and out of bed – sometimes when they really shouldn’t. They want to get out of here and home to clean sheets and tea on demand, and who can blame them? As I tear back into the ward, Mrs Marks is stood by the side of her bed, overnight bag packed, and at her feet, baby in clean clothes and securely locked into the car seat, husband impatiently jangling the car keys and smiling hopefully my way. I have to laugh a little – it’s like my opinion on whether she should go home or not is irrelevant.
‘Looks like you’re all set!’ If only every woman’s experience of childbirth was this positive. Mrs Marks has been admitted, given birth, established a strong feeding pattern and is about to be gone again in less than twenty-four hours. And she’s smiling. Then I see why as she pulls an enormous gift bag out from behind her back.
‘For you… For all your help. James picked it up for you this morning.’ She nods towards her husband, who raises his eyebrows as if to say, this surely now confirms we can get out of this hell hole.
‘That is very kind of you. And quite an upgrade from the usual supermarket chocolates – not that I’m complaining!’ I can feel my cheeks starting to warm, and I wish I was better at these moments of gratitude.
‘We figured after a day here, you might like to go home, run a bath and wallow in something expensive! You deserve it.’ And with that, James places an arm around his wife’s shoulders and starts directing her towards the exit.
I shout goodbye and good luck to the backs of their heads.
* * *
Our table at the wine bar around the corner from Queen Mary’s is covered with a round of luminous cocktails when we arrive. This lot mean business and have clearly planned ahead to get me sloshed tonight – thank God there’s no repeat early shift for me in the morning. Jean, who has busted out some sequins for the occasion, and Lucy, still wearing the sunglasses atop her head, are quick to grab the seats either side of me and then there is minor scrabble amongst everyone else to get as close as possible. Get me! Everyone is here, from our two student midwives, Annie and Samantha, to everyone from my usual shift pattern and even some of the temporary casual covers. I’m veering between the enormous sense of excitement that popular people must feel all the time – all these people are here just for me – and a raw, shake-inducing fear that I’m about to be exposed as the biggest bullshitter of all time. All I can think about is what the hell I would say if Marianne happened to walk in here now, or my sister Lulu. I know they won’t, but
the thought that they could is doing terrible, acid-producing things to my insides.
It’s also driving that first cocktail down my throat at some speed. I don’t know what’s in it, but I can feel the alcohol lighting the skin at the back of my throat and its vapours tingling at the insides of my nostrils every time I raise the martini glass to my lips. I’ve eaten next to nothing all day beyond a handful of Hobnobs and some Pringles and so the mood-lifting effect is almost immediate. I notice we’re already attracting the attention of a table of suited men, who are all trying to talk over each other about the kind of crap no one is ever really interested in. For a fleeting moment, I wish Marianne was here to witness it. I can feel my head already start to lighten as loud, excited chatter is breaking out around me. Then Jean gathers everyone’s attention by tapping her glass with a knife.
‘Quiet please, everyone! Pipe down for a moment! Can we all raise our glasses to our lovely Jenny, who has kept so quiet about her engagement, perhaps hoping that none of us would make a fuss. But we were never going to have that, were we?’ A big chorus of no goes up. ‘Huge congratulations, Jenny. You deserve every happiness and we can’t wait to help with all the planning!’
‘To Jenny!’
Even the blokes are raising their wine glasses. This is just incredible. I’m on to my second drink when Lucy starts to quiz me on what I’d like for the real hen do.
‘Any ideas? Something in London, or further afield? Or would you prefer two? One overseas and then one local, like lots of women do today?’ She’s asking me all this in between huge slurps of her cocktail, then signalling to the barman to refill the jugs on the table with more of the potent concoction. I don’t think anyone knows what they’re drinking, or cares.
It occurs to me that Lucy might be offering to organise the hen do for me and I need to dispel that idea before she starts taking deposits off people, booking flights and making hotel reservations.
‘My flatmate, Marianne, is taking care of it all, I think. But since you ask, what would I like?’ I drain my glass and think about all the fun things that are lacking in my life. All the sort of stuff that girls do after work together, that couples plan for carefree weekends away, that a woman like me, nudging thirty, really should have ticked off by now.
‘I want to do all those pointless things, Lucy. Spend forty minutes badly icing a cupcake. Learn how to arrange some flowers properly, or how to make perfect pasta and then never make it again. I want to fly up the Thames on a speedboat, play dodgeball, whatever that is, and learn how to put eyeliner on without looking like I’ve just been thumped. I want to learn how to tell the difference between a good and a crap bottle of wine, how to look sexy when I dance and then I want to spend the afternoon pretending to be arty while staring at the usually concealed body parts of an extremely fit bloke and call it art… I could go on.’
‘I might be able to help you with that one, luv!’ One of the suits from the neighbouring table has got brave enough to come over and chat, egged on by his equally lecherous mates.
‘Oh, bugger off, Mark!’ Annie, our student midwife, seems to know this cretin and despite being exceptionally shy at work, has no qualms about telling him to do one. ‘I mean it, Mark, sod off!’
Everyone else is starting to howl as he’s forced to retreat to his sidekicks. I’m the only one not laughing. The lovely couldn’t-care-less escapism created by the cocktail has been replaced with a deep sense of worry. Something’s wrong. What is it? I just can’t remember, but I know it’s going to hit me any second now. Everything was fine until Annie started having a go at Mark.
Then I can picture it, clear as if it were on the table in front of me. The syringe, loaded with Mrs Marks’ vital antibody injection, one that has to be given within seventy-two hours of birth to be effective. It’s still in the fridge at work while she is probably tucked up in bed, listening to the soft, muffled snores of her baby boy, believing all is well with the world. I stop drinking. Jean is going to hit the roof when she hears this, I might be sacked. Certainly bollocked. I need to do something. But what? I can’t think of anything effective through the fug of all that alcohol.
It’s a thought that will keep me awake long into the night, rigid with worry but incapable of doing a single thing about it.
22
Nat
It’s three o’clock in the morning, the hotel room is in total darkness and there’s a jet-lagged, panic-filled moment when Nat can’t quite remember where she is. But even at this time and eleven floors up, the aggressive blast of yellow cab horns below confirms her location. The sink-into bed is huge and so comfortable, it’s pulling her back into sleep, before her brain is forcing her out of it again, over and over, until by 6 a.m., she has no choice but to wrestle back the heavy duvet and get up.
This morning Betsy has some meetings downtown with a couple of real estate executives and so they’ve arranged to meet for an early dinner at an old school Italian place. Until then? Nat has the whole day to explore. And she’s going to start it with a stroll through Central Park. She showers, throws on some jeans, a soft baby pink roll-neck and a pair of Converse and hoovers up some of New York’s finest room service. A mountain of avocado on toast, two perfectly poached eggs and a coffee so strong she can feel it start to shake her awake as it travels through her.
She needs a map and heads to reception where, oh yes, the beautiful Ethan greets her with that smile dancing naughtily across his lips. It travels all the way up to his eyes – eyes that are trained on Nat, and only Nat, as she exits the lift and makes her way towards him. She’s suddenly nervous and surprised that this man is having such an effect on her.
‘Morning, Miss Baker. I hope you slept well. What can I help you with this morning?’ The formality is weirdly erotic and she can feel her cheeks warm as she tries and fails to stop the image of a naked Ethan from filling her head.
‘I’m going to do a bit of exploring. Do you have a map I can take, please?’ She can think of plenty of things she’d like him to help her with, but for now she’s keeping the chat purely practical.
‘Sure. Where did you have in mind? Do you need some suggestions?’
‘I was going to start in the park, then I’m not sure. I thought I’d tick off a few of the tourist things, you know?’
‘OK, so turn right out of the hotel and you’ll enter the park near the boathouse. Then pick your way south, maybe, towards the zoo and the skating rink?’
They’re both leaning over the reception desk, heads and hands almost touching as he points to her location on the fold-out map with fingers that look freshly manicured. When she thinks she can get away with it, Nat lets her gaze travel upwards from the map to Ethan’s face, untouched, as hers is, by the ravages of tiredness. Despite the number of men she encounters through work, she doesn’t always find it that easy to connect with them. Men at weddings are usually either drunk or overexcited, misbehaving and showing off, offering a far less appealing version of themselves. Lovely, uncomplicated, easy encounters are pretty rare these days.
‘OK, sounds good, then I’ll come out on…?’
‘If you keep going all the way to Central Park South then you’ll be close to some really cool stuff – The Museum of Modern Art, Radio City Music Hall, Grand Central Terminal. Then a little farther on you’ve got the Chrysler Building and the Empire State. Are you up for plenty of walking? The best way to see New York, I always think.’
‘Definitely! OK, wish me luck.’ Nat swipes the map from the desk and heads out of the hotel into the morning hustle before she can do something as embarrassing as ask Ethan to join her. It’s still early and the streets are full of locals doing the power-walk to work, full of intent, everyone with somewhere to be. The stride of pride, Betsy called it.
The walk to the park entrance is a short one, with too many people on not enough pavement, all chasing the infrequent free cabs. As she hits Fifth Avenue, the road is lined with smart office-bound New Yorkers, their right arms all thrust skywards i
n the hope of claiming one of those taxis. Giant black SUVs with no place in the city speed past, the rush of air forcing her backwards a little. She glances left and right, seeing how the expanse of perfectly straight road goes on forever, then looks up – something no one ever seems to do in this city – getting an immediate sense of her tininess in it. All that sunshine, bouncing off all that concrete and glass. She’s keen to get into the park and out of the madness, but even there she’s far from alone.
There are runners everywhere; old ones, fast ones, painfully slow ones that have no business calling themselves runners, some not wearing nearly enough clothes, one running in his jeans. Some are pushing triple buggies full of babies. Another is shouting motivational advice at himself as he sprints towards the central reservoir. Most are doing something as well as running – boxing, bellowing into a mobile phone, skipping, singing along through headphones. Nat passes a small patch of grass littered with dogs of every possible breed and size: doggy training. She notices the man hosting the session is wearing a faded sweatshirt that says ‘Say no to drugs and yes to pugs’ across the front in loud orange type. For a city with so little spare space, why do so many people have dogs? Nat wonders what they do all day in their tiny high-rise apartments while their owners are at work.
By 10 a.m. she’s made it down to the ice rink, where she pauses to watch the first early-morning skaters gliding around its glossy surface, framed by a backdrop of the city skyline. It’s mostly couples, holding hands and laughing as they skid from one side to another, some gripping the edge, desperate not to fall and get soaked in the first ten minutes. It’s a magical sight, but Nat can feel her smile fading. She wants to get on and have a go, but no one is skating alone. Everyone on the ice has someone to hold onto and she doesn’t. She suddenly feels really disappointed that she’s going to miss this because she has no one to share it with.