The Midwife's Here!: The Enchanting True Story of One of Britain's Longest Serving Midwives

by Linda Fairley

Mrs Sully was propped up comfortably on a chair next to the bed in the labour room. She looked as radiant as ever and greeted me with a wide grin.

  ‘I hoped I’d be seeing you this week,’ I told her. ‘How are you getting on?’

  ‘Marvellous!’ she said. ‘Hurts with contractions, but they’re regular enough and I’m doing all right with the pain, touch wood.’

  She leaned over and touched the wooden trim on a cupboard.

  ‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘Can I ask you to pop in the toilet and provide me with a urine sample, then I’ll take a look and see how things are progressing?’

  ‘No bother!’ she smiled, easing herself out of her chair and padding her way slowly across to the bathroom, clutching her stomach protectively.

  I checked Mrs Sully’s notes while she was gone, and waited a minute. She was taking longer than expected, and I was just about to call through to see if she needed any assistance when the toilet door swung open abruptly, startling me.

  ‘There’s something between my legs,’ Mrs Sully announced, her voice quivering.

  ‘Let’s have a look, shall we?’ I said calmly, though my heartbeat had quickened considerably.

  I registered her demeanour. Mrs Sully looked flustered but was standing perfectly upright, breathing deeply but regularly. She was wearing a long gypsy skirt with tiny mirrored sequins on it, which she was hitching up at the front with one hand, and her knickers were round her knees. There was no way she’d had the baby as there simply hadn’t been time, thank goodness, and she didn’t even appear to be in the advanced stages of labour.

  ‘Let’s get you up on the bed,’ I said, steering her slowly across the room, ‘and we’ll see what’s going on.’

  My heart skipped a beat when I lifted her skirt but I tried not to let the shock show in my face. Part of the umbilical cord was hanging between her legs and I immediately remembered the words of Miss Greeves, one of the tutors during my training.

  ‘This is known as cord prolapse and is an emergency situation,’ Miss Greeves had told us during a lecture, showing us an alarming diagram.

  I remembered getting goosebumps all over when she first described this life-threatening scenario, and I got them again now, tenfold.

  ‘The baby’s head presses on the cord and you have to literally hold the head back inside the vagina so it doesn’t compress the cord and cut off the oxygen supply. You also need to keep the cord as warm as possible. An emergency Caesarean is the only way to deliver the baby safely, and it must be performed as swiftly as possible.’

  I went into autopilot, the words ‘swiftly as possible’ crashing round my head. I pressed the red emergency buzzer on the wall to summon Sister Lees, tipped the foot of Mrs Sully’s bed up to relieve some of the pressure of gravity pushing down on the baby, and pushed my fingers inside her to tuck the cord back in as best I could to keep it warm, while at the same time holding the baby’s head so it didn’t descend any further and crush the cord.

  ‘Try to stay as calm as possible,’ I told Mrs Sully, my throat as dry as an old bone. ‘It’s best for the baby. Help is on the way.’

  Mrs Sully began to cry a bit but, mercifully, didn’t ask any questions. ‘My husband is at work,’ was all she said. ‘He won’t be here for another hour or so.’

  Seconds later Sister Lees appeared, took one swift look and said, ‘I’ll alert the duty doctor and theatre.’

  All the colour had drained from Mrs Sully’s face now and she was shaking her head and saying, ‘Please tell me everything will be all right’.

  ‘We’re doing the best we can,’ I reassured her as two theatre technicians raced in and prepared to push Mrs Sully’s bed to the operating theatre. ‘We’ll get you to theatre as quickly as we can, then we’ll have to deliver your baby by Caesarean section.’

  I was desperately trying to keep my fingers off the cord and on the baby’s head inside the birth canal. It was incredibly awkward, especially as the bed had to be raised onto its wheels before being pushed rapidly down the corridor. As we sped around a corner I almost lost my grip on the baby’s head and I decided there was only one thing for it; with a tremendous leap, I launched myself onto the moving bed beside Mrs Sully so I could hold my fingers in the best position to keep the baby safe. I thanked my lucky stars I was still a nimble size eight and able to squeeze onto the slim patch of mattress beside her left thigh.

  ‘You’re doing ever so well. Just try to stay calm.’

  From this position I managed to keep my fingers in place as Mrs Sully was carefully but swiftly lifted off the bed and placed on a theatre table. I felt relieved that I had done exactly what was required in the circumstances and everything had gone to plan, so far. Mrs Sully was silent, breathing deeply, and looked utterly terrified.

  ‘Can you feel the cord pulsating?’ the surgeon asked me.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied positively. ‘Yes I can.’

  Gregory, the anaesthetist, got to work immediately. I noted that less than ten minutes had elapsed since Mrs Sully’s trip to the toilet, which meant we had every chance of delivering her baby safely by Caesarean. All we had to do was anaesthetise her as quickly as possible while continuing to keep the cord warm, pulsating and uncrushed by the baby’s head.

  Gregory placed an oxygen mask over Mrs Sully’s nose and mouth to help improve the baby’s oxygen supply, and he administered an intravenous drug to anaesthetise her.

  Any moment now, I thought, she’ll be unconscious and the surgeon can make the incision in her abdomen. This might be a tricky Caesarean, with the baby already pushing down low, but we had every chance of success as we’d got her to theatre so rapidly.

  To my horror, though, instead of falling into a deep sleep, Mrs Sully suddenly began thrashing and fighting on the theatre bed. This can happen when a patient is very tense and frightened, but I knew it could be catastrophic in these circumstances. I was still doing my best to simultaneously hold the baby’s head back and protect the cord, but Mrs Sully was in such a state I was struggling to keep my fingers in the correct position inside her.

  Minutes passed and the tension in the theatre was mounting. The surgeon surveyed his patient with alarm while an ashen-faced Gregory tried to inject her with more anaesthetic. Although her eyes were closed, unbelievably she continued to jerk and struggle on the table. I could feel the foetal heartbeat start to fade in the cord and it became apparent that we needed a miracle.

  At last, several minutes later, Mrs Sully’s body stopped moving. Thank God, she was finally fully unconscious, with a tube down her throat to keep her airways open. The relieved surgeon immediately got to work making an incision vertically down Mrs Sully’s belly, while I prayed silently this precious baby would make it.

  Another quick glance at the watch on my chest told me it had taken a full twenty minutes to anaesthetise Mrs Sully, and I felt tears prick my eyes. I couldn’t see her face now as it was covered with a green theatre cloth. I was glad of that. I couldn’t bear to look at her if things went wrong. I held my breath as the surgeon expertly opened her up and lifted a blood-smeared but perfectly formed little boy into the world.

  The baby breathed when his cord was cut, but only just. He took gasping breaths, fighting for life, and I feared the worst. As I whisked him into a waiting resuscitaire for the paediatrician to take over, I knew his life was hanging in the balance. With the cord falling as it had, the baby’s oxygen supply had been restricted for too long. I could feel sadness crushing my lungs as I watched the paediatrician working hard on the little mite, warming him, massaging him and willing him to live.

  In the end Mrs Sully’s son lived for just fifteen minutes. When the paediatrician shook his head and stepped away from the resuscitaire, the whole room fell deathly silent. I could hear my heartbeat thumping in my ears, too loud, too strong. This wasn’t fair.

  Had he survived, Mrs Sully’s little boy may have been severely brain damaged because of the oxygen deprivation, but I knew that would be precious little comfort fo
r his bereaved mother. There was nothing that could soften the blow of this dreadful loss. What could anybody say or do to make it less painful? Nothing, because nothing at all could bring her son back to life. Of all people, how could this have happened to sunny Mrs Sully? Until that day she had appeared not to have a care in the world. I couldn’t get over it.

  Later, when Mrs Sully came round and was alert enough to talk, I held her hand as I prepared myself to explain what had happened and answer her questions. In a case like this, the doctor would normally have spoken to her, but as I knew her from antenatal clinic it was right I should be the one who was there for her, with a doctor on standby in case he was needed.

  Before either of us spoke Mrs Sully burst into tears. ‘I know it’s not good, Nurse,’ she sobbed. ‘I know my baby is dead, I know it.’

  My eyes were full of tears as I bent over the bed and hugged her. ‘I’m so sorry. You had a little boy. The doctors did everything they possibly could. Sometimes that is just not enough.’

  The baby had already been taken away, and I had never seen a woman look so utterly bereft as Mrs Sully did that day. The roses I was used to seeing in her cheeks had disappeared, leaving a ghostly paleness in their place.

  Before she was discharged, I knew Mrs Sully would need to be given post-operative advice about her Caesarean scar, and I thought what an awful task that would be for another midwife. Normally women joked that they’d be glad of the rest when we told them not to hang out washing or get down on their hands and knees and mop the kitchen floor for six weeks. They generally weren’t worried that they’d undergone major surgery and would have a scar to prove it for the rest of their lives, because they had a beautiful new baby in return.

  I knew there would be no jokes with Mrs Sully. Luck had deserted her when she needed it most, and there was nothing anyone could say or do to put things right. I wrote up her notes with a heavy heart that night, and at the end of my shift I took out an extra piece of paper and jotted down some personal notes, for myself.

  It’s been a terrible day. I want to write down my thoughts and feelings here and now. It’s not fair to unload on Graham, but I need to get this out. What would Sister Mary Francis say about this? Can I still believe there is a God, and if so why does he let such dreadful things happen to such lovely people as Mrs Sully? There is no answer that can satisfy me. I know some people say these things happen to make us all stronger, to make us grow and make us better people. I’m finding it hard to accept, but I know I must. It’s part of my job and I have to accept how cruel and powerful nature can be. I pray I can stay strong, because I want to carry on doing my job as well as I can. I hope Mrs Sully has another baby one day. She deserves some good fortune. Thinking of her with another child in her arms makes me feel better. I will hold that thought.

  I tucked the note in my pocket and smiled wistfully. I remembered Sister Craddock once telling me at the MRI ‘it’s good to debrief’, and I agreed with her wholeheartedly. I felt better for getting that off my chest, and I vowed always to try to take a minute or two to write down my feelings when I felt the need to unload.

  I revisited that day in my head countless times over the following weeks and months. Mrs Sully still needed to have postnatal visits, even without a baby, and each time I saw her name on the community midwife’s list I pictured her grief-stricken face and wanted to cry all over again. I rarely let the tears fall, though. Instead, I made myself imagine Mrs Sully coming back into the antenatal clinic with a brand new bump and fresh roses in her cheeks. ‘I’ve always wanted a hatful of kids, I have.’ That’s what she had told me, and I prayed I would see her bouncing back before too long. Somehow, I had a feeling that she would. I think you can make your own luck in this world, and Mrs Sully had just the right nature to attract good fortune and be blessed with another chance.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Your baby is showing signs of life … He’s alive!’

  ‘So, Linda, which have been your most memorable births so far?’ Marjorie asked as she coated herself in coconut oil on the beach.

  It was July 1971 and Graham and I were on holiday in Marathon, Greece, with our good friends Marjorie and Colin. It was considered quite a luxury for ordinary, working people like us to holiday abroad in those days, and I felt very grateful for the break. I’d looked forward to it more each month as we put savings aside.

  I’d been abroad with Sue to Beirut and Turkey, of course, and as a child I’d been to France, but I was thrilled to be taking a foreign holiday with Graham for the first time. Knowing I had such a treat to aim for had really helped me cope at work. I’d been busier than I ever could have imagined: after just six months working as a staff midwife, I had delivered more than 100 babies.

  Marjorie never tired of asking about my work, and I was flattered by her interest. I welcomed the opportunity to tell her about some of my most interesting deliveries, as I’d been so rushed off my feet lately I’d had precious little time for reflection.

  Unfortunately, Mrs Sully was the first patient I thought of because her loss was so recent, and still so raw in my mind. Hers was just too tragic a story to share on this idyllic beach, though, even with a good friend like Marjorie. In any case I didn’t imagine that was the type of thing she would want to hear about on holiday.

  Instead, I relayed my favourite story of Geraldine Drew and how I’d got my wish and had the privilege of delivering one of her triplets earlier that year.

  ‘I will simply never forget that lady, or the delivery,’ I told Marjorie as I lay back in my denim-look bikini shorts and top, soaking up the sun’s strong rays. ‘She was such a character, and she was magnificent when she gave birth.’

  I didn’t share Geraldine’s guilty secret, of course, as it wouldn’t have been right to break that confidence, but still Marjorie was hanging on my every word.

  ‘Midwifery is such a worthwhile job, and so interesting!’ she said, eyes ablaze under the fiery sun. ‘I bet you are constantly surprised, aren’t you?’

  ‘You could say that,’ I smiled. ‘I must admit I’ve had one or two women whisper to me in antenatal clinic, “I don’t know if it’s my hubby’s. Can you work out my dates?” And one woman actually gave birth without telling her husband.’

  ‘Never!’ Marjorie exclaimed. ‘How on earth did she manage that?’

  ‘She was very smart and professional and always came to antenatal classes in her work suit, during her lunch break I assume. Her husband was away working on the oil rigs, that’s what she told me. When he didn’t even accompany her to the hospital when she gave birth I thought it was a bit strange, but I could never have predicted what would happen next.’

  Marjorie was wide-eyed with anticipation. ‘What did happen?’

  ‘She had the baby adopted and went back to work the next day as if nothing ever happened. It’s my guess she never told her husband a thing.’

  Marjorie was fanning herself rapidly with a copy of The Lady. ‘I’m blushing just thinking about that,’ she said, adjusting the wide shoulder straps on her rather matronly floral-print swimming costume. ‘How can anybody have the nerve to do that? And how can they live with themselves?’

  She looked at me, as if expecting an answer.

  ‘Don’t ask me!’ I retorted. ‘It’s certainly not my job to judge the patients. My job is to make each lady feel like the most important pregnant lady in the world, whatever her circumstances. And anyway, most women aren’t so different. Pregnancy is a great equaliser.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ Marjorie said. ‘You’re wiser than your years, Linda Buckley! Tell me another story, go on!’

  ‘Let me see,’ I said, trawling my mind. ‘This is another of my favourites. It happened about five months ago, when I was on nights.’

  Our husbands appeared just at that moment, casting shadows over us and asking us if we wanted to book an excursion to visit the famous Parthenon temple in Athens.

  ‘Hush!’ Marjorie said impatiently. ‘
Just a minute! I’m listening to Linda.’

  With such a captivated listener, I couldn’t help but rise to the challenge. I settled into my sun-lounger and, whilst the men disappeared to have a cold beer, I told Marjorie all about Muriel Turner’s delivery, in as much detail as I could.

  As I spoke, the events of that fateful night came back to me so vividly I could have been on duty in hospital instead of lying on a beach. Muriel Turner’s name appeared before my eyes as clearly as it had on that unforgettable night back in February when I’d been alarmed to see it on the admissions list with the words ‘query, labour?’ next to it. I’d seen Muriel at antenatal clinic the week before, and a quick mental calculation told me she was only twenty-six weeks pregnant. She certainly shouldn’t be experiencing labour pains; it was three months too early for that.

  ‘We’ve made her comfortable and told her to rest,’ a pupil midwife told me. ‘There’s nothing else we can do about premature labour, is there?’

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ I replied. ‘There’s no miracle drug to stop the onset of labour, more’s the pity. If she really is labouring all we can do is hope the bed rest will settle things down. I’ll pop along and see her. Fingers crossed it’s a false alarm.’

  Muriel was lying very still on a bed next to the window, a terrified expression on her face. I had to walk past three heavily pregnant women to get to her, and Muriel’s bump looked pitifully small in comparison to theirs.

  I said a silent prayer in my head as I approached her. ‘Please God, don’t let this baby come now. It’s far too soon.’

  ‘Nurse, I really think it’s coming. I’m sorry,’ Muriel said. Her voice was trembling and she dissolved into tears.

  ‘Now don’t go getting upset,’ I replied, wiping a tear from her cheek. ‘Let me look and see what’s happening.’

  I drew the curtain around her bed and helped her remove her pants. As I did so she let out a whimper as a large contraction rippled across her stomach.

  ‘It’s hurting me,’ she sobbed. ‘It’s making me push. I’m so sorry, I can’t stop it …’