The M Word

by Eileen Wharton

  I logon to the laptop. You’d have thought a quick phone call would have been easier, but no. Google has taken me to an NHS site. There’s a video of a matronly, patronising nurse with white bouffant hair and a mole on her chin telling me not to worry and then listing everything that can go wrong. Sadistic bitch. Now, she’s telling me there are societies and support groups to help me if I decide to go ahead with a pregnancy that may result in birth defects. Marvellous. Are they going to move in and change the shitty nappies for the next forty years? I think not. They will however sit around in a circle and moan about how no one understands what it’s like to have a special child. How is that any help? If they come and do the washing, that’s help. Mow the lawn, help. Spouting crap about the state of the pavements for wheelchairs and the lack of accessible parking facilities or decent special school places, no help at all.

  I really wish I hadn’t Googled the risks. There’s a list as long as a dodgy placenta of things that can go wrong when you’re past thirty-five and even more when you’re older than forty. Then, at the bottom in blue writing (not sure of the symbolism of this, perhaps it’s to represent drowning), it tells me not to be anxious. Anxious? I’m frick fracking apoplectic!

  I’m at risk of developing diabetes. Cut out the sugary snacks and drinks. If I don’t get my quota of Curly Wurlies, I’ll be a maniac. Seemingly, eating a healthy diet, stopping smoking, exercising and cutting out alcohol are all ways I can help mitigate against these risks. They’re also ways to make life miserable and unbearable. I put down the packet of chunky KitKats and grab a stick of celery from the fridge. The celery tastes like dog wee, but I persist. It’s like chewing a decade old cheese-string. I spit it into a tissue, fling it in the waste-paper basket and rip open a Double Decker.

  I bite the bullet and make an appointment with my doctor. He suggests therapy. He says I have issues that I should resolve before the birth of the twins. You’ve got issues, I want to say. Personal hygiene being one of them. ‘You need to get to the bottom of why you feel the way you do before we can begin to help you.’

  ‘I know why I feel the way I do. People are irksome.’

  ‘Obviously, your hormones are all over the place, so…I’m going to refer you for counselling. It’s up to you whether you take the appointment. Good day, Roberta,’ he says, standing up. To my horror, I burst into tears. I could slap myself.

  He presses a button on his intercom. ‘Mary, would you mind bringing me a cup of sweet tea?’

  ‘Of course, Doctor,’ says the fawning receptionist, who appears moments later clattering a tray and shoving the door open with her backside. She places it down on the desk (the tray, not her backside), throws a patronising look in my direction and toddles out.

  Doctor Lambert pours the tea into a cup, adds milk, and says, ‘Sugar?’

  I shake my head. ‘Sweet enough.’

  He rolls his eyes, stirs the brown liquid and hands the cup to me. ‘What exactly is the matter, Roberta?’

  ‘You have to ask what the matter is?’ I say, taking a sip from the lukewarm tea. ‘I’m almost fifty, I’m alone, my kids hate me, my parents are dead, and I’m pregnant with twins to a man who obviously has someone else and despises me.’

  ‘I’m sure your children don’t hate you. We often have disagreements with family members, but the bonds between parents and their offspring are the strongest bonds known to man.’

  ‘Which makes me a freak, because I find them hard to like and they find me impossible to love.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not the case. Counselling would help you work through all of these feelings.’

  ‘Would it help my children like me? Would it help me if I give birth to a child with Down’s syndrome or spina bifida?’

  ‘Is that what this is about? It’s perfectly normal to have reservations about a pregnancy at your age – or any age for that matter. Your fears are very real, but I’m sure you could cope with anything that comes along. God only sends us what we can cope with. You’re strong, Roberta. You’ve proved that time and again. Everything you’ve been through, and you’ve never cracked. Many people would break under the strain.’ Oh, God, where are these tears coming from? ‘You can do this.’

  28

  #waterwaterseverywhere

  I’m in town on a Friday night with Julian. I told him I wouldn’t go to Flares or Sinners under any circumstances in my condition. ‘I’m approaching my due date, and I might catch anything from those toilets.’

  ‘Really, Roberta. You cannot catch syphilis from toilet seats.’

  ‘I’m taking no bloody chances.’

  How we end up in Gaynor’s nightclub, I have no idea. But I feel a searing pain in my back while I’m standing at the bar and retire to the toilet, handing my credit card to Julian and telling him to make sure he doesn’t buy the whole bar a round.

  I’m in a cubicle leaning against the wall when my waters break. It’s a trickle at first, and I think I’m wetting myself due to the pressure of the babies’ heads on my bladder. Then, there’s a gush and a warm wetness. A puddle appears at my feet. I fall to my knees and try to breathe through the pain. I must be making a noise as there’s a knock on the door. ‘You ok in there?’ says a voice. I groan. ‘Do you need some help?’

  Another voice says, ‘Is she drunk?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘I’m – aaaaaaaaaarrghhhh…’

  ‘She’s in pain, whoever she is.’

  ‘Can you open the door for us, love?’ says a camp male voice.

  I can’t reach the handle. The pain has me pinned. I can’t speak.

  ‘Hello, love. I’m going to call the fire brigade to get you out. Are you locked in?’

  I try to shout. Pain grips me again. Something must be wrong. My labours with the others had built up slowly, beginning with back ache and progressing to unadulterated agony over many hours. This was nought to sixty in ten seconds.

  ‘A…ahhhhhh…ambulance,’ I manage.

  ‘What did she say?’ says the camp voice.

  ‘Ambulance.’

  The loud music and chatter suggest the main door opening, and Julian’s voice shouts, ‘Roberta.’

  ‘In here. Ahhhhhh.’

  ‘What’s wrong? Is it the babies? Where’s that water coming from? Oh, God.’

  ‘Get me out of here,’ I scream.

  ‘You’ll have to open the door.’ Oh, God, it can’t be. I’m getting the urge to push. Surely, they can’t be coming yet. ‘You’ve only been gone half an hour. Surely they can’t be on their way?’

  I hear ringing and a voice on speakerphone. ‘Emergency services, how may I help you?’

  ‘Ambulance, please.’

  ‘Do you think we need the fire brigade to get her out too?’ says one of the other voices.

  I use every ounce of strength I have to force myself off my knees and from a crouch position. I stretch up to reach the catch and unlock the toilet door. I collapse in a heap, and the door pushes into me.

  ‘Can you move back, Roberta, so that I can get in?’

  ‘No, I can’t. Aaaaaaaaargh.’

  ‘Just try and move to the side, so I can get in next to you.’

  ‘It’s coming,’ I say. ‘I want to push. Oh, God, I am not having my child in this shithole.’

  ‘Go and get someone to take this door off its hinges,’ Julian screams. ‘Shall I ring Mick?’

  ‘No, why would you?’

  ‘Because he’s the father, and he should be here.’

  ‘No, he shouldn’t. He’s a liar and a cheat, and I hate him.’

  ‘Roberta, you don’t hate him.’

  ‘I do. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. If you contact him, I will never, ever speak to you again as long as I live. We don’t need him. Aaaaargh.’ Another pain rips through me. Again, the urge to push. There’s a clatter and a bang.

  ‘Which door?’ I hear someone say.

  ‘That one.’

  ‘There’s a leak,’ says the new male voice.r />
  ‘It’s her waters.’

  ‘Just get me out of here,’ I scream.

  There’s a grinding and a scraping, and the door dances before my eyes; a man wearing a penguin suit brandishes a screwdriver. I’m now lying in a heap, in agony.

  ‘Get me out of here,’ I repeat. Next thing, I’m being pulled across the floor by my legs and the urge to push is too strong to resist. ‘They’re coming.’

  I’m lying on a cold, tiled floor, surrounded by a dwarf in a hobbit costume, a man in drag with blonde bouffant and red sparkly heels, and a man in a leather waistcoat wearing a butcher’s boy cap and lederhosen.

  ‘I never thought I’d be saying this to you, Julian, but get my knickers off.’ This has to be the most undignified thing ever to happen to me, and there are many from which to choose.

  ‘Give me your phone,’ Julian says.

  ‘We are not going live on Facebook with this,’ I shout.

  ‘Someone get on YouTube and find out what we have to do.’

  After much pressing of buttons, a soothing voice and music tells us to relax and watch the miracle of birth.

  More pain. Burning, searing, stabbing.

  ‘Have a look,’ I say to Julian. ‘I think they’re coming.’

  ‘Oh, God, I can see the head. What shall I do?’

  The hobbit takes control. ‘Roberta, you’re going to have to push.’

  ‘You don’t say.’ My face is going to burst. The skin around my eyes feels like it’s swelling. I imagine I look like a basket of bruised forest fruits. I’m stretching and burning. I feel like I’m going to split in two, like a wooden stake separated by an unforgiving axe.

  ‘Come on, one more push, and baby will be here,’ Bilbo Baggins says.

  ‘Aaaaaargh.’ I squeeze and push. One more scorching pain.

  ‘The head’s out.’ I pant, remembering this is what the midwives always told me to do when the head was out. One look at Julian’s face sends me into a panic.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Something’s wrong.’

  ‘You have a person hanging out of you.’ He falls like a felled tree. There’s a crack as he hits the tiled floor.

  ‘Where’s this fucking ambulance?’ the hobbit shrieks. ‘Get this knobhead out of here.’ A bouncer pulls Julian by his feet, just as he pulled me. The dwarf looks at the screen of her phone.

  ‘Roberta, give me one more push.’ The rest of the baby slides out of me in a hot, bloody, wet mess. The dwarf puts down her phone, takes off her jacket and wraps the baby in it.

  ‘Oh God, I can’t do that again,’ I say.

  She looks at me, incomprehension in her eyes.

  ‘It’s twins. There’s another one in there.’

  Her eyes flicker with panic, but she quickly takes control again. Handing the baby to me, she feels down below. ‘I can’t see the head.’ She taps on the screen of her phone.

  ‘You’ve got to get it out,’ I say. ‘It’ll die. You can’t let it die.’

  ‘Shhh, let me read this. I need to find out what to do.’ I catch sight of Wikipedia. Oh, God, I’m going to die.

  ‘Right, I’ve got this,’ she says.

  My head pounds. ‘I’m going to be sick.’ The man takes off his hat and hands it to me. I retch into the baker’s boy cap. My head feels like it’s going to explode. Paramedics rush through the doors, just as I’m losing consciousness. Everything turns black.

  29

  #twicethelove

  I take a selfie of me and two small humans.

  I was unconscious for the birth of my son. My daughter came out no trouble, but you know what the male of the species is like. They’re bloody awkward. They have to make a drama out of a crisis. My blood pressure went through the roof, so they used suction and forceps to get him out. They were all a bit scared, apparently. He was a little blue and struggling to breathe, but he soon pinked up and started screaming his lungs out.

  I can’t believe these perfect little things came out of me. They lie next to my bed in transparent cots, marshmallow soft and squawking like kittens. They’re incubated like newborn chicks, a heater above keeping them warm. My son is a little jaundiced. They say it’s nothing to worry about, and they’re a good size for twins. Especially considering they were a week early. A boy and a girl. Twenty fingers and twenty toes. My undercarriage feels like it’s been hit by a truck, and my stomach looks like it’s been through a mincer, but I’m inexplicably happy. Carolyn, Shoni and Drew have all been and held them, looking in wonder. Shoni cried. Not the temper tantrum water fest she’s wont to indulge in when she’s seeking attention but real, emotional tears. Drew kept shaking his head and smiling.

  I lift Alice to my breast, and I’m struggling to get her to latch on when I hear a commotion outside.

  Mick’s raised voice bounces round the ward. ‘Don’t tell me I can’t see my own children.’

  ‘Ms Gallbreath has left explicit instructions that you are not to be allowed to visit. She has every right…’

  ‘What about my rights?’ he shouts. ‘Roberta! You’re not going to get away with this. Let me in for God’s sake.’ I hear a woman scream, and Mick’s voice saying, ‘Sorry. I thought my wife was in here.’ Wife, indeed? Who the hell does he think he is? ‘Roberta, where are you?’

  ‘In here,’ I say. ‘Stop causing a drama.’ He pulls back the curtain, and the first thing I notice is that he’s unshaven and disheveled. ‘Jesus, Mick you look like shit.’

  His eyes widen and fill with wonder. ‘Are these my twins?’

  ‘No, I borrowed them from the woman in the next bed. She wants them back when they’re eighteen. Of course, they’re your bloody twins.’

  ‘Oh, Roberta, they’re beautiful. Just like you.’ He’s looking at me with a soppy expression.

  ‘Give over,’ I say. ‘Stop with the mushy stuff.’

  ‘I love you, Roberta Gallbreath,’ he says. ‘I know you find that difficult to hear and even more difficult to accept, but I love you, and if I have to climb onto the hospital roof and shout it to the whole city to get you to believe me, I will. I have loved you from that first moment in Harrogate when you were berating the barman for serving me ahead of you when you’d “been waiting all fucking day” and were you “fucking invisible?” I loved you when I transferred over and started managing your team, I loved you when it looked like you were dating anything that moved…’

  ‘I bloomin’ wasn’t, you cheeky…’

  ‘I know that now, but at the time, you seemed like a right player. I loved you when you were dating everything on Tinder.’

  ‘That was…’

  ‘A mistake?’

  ‘An experiment,’ I say.

  ‘Me and you have more chemistry than the rest of them put together.’

  ‘Hmmm, we’re like potassium and water.’

  ‘We click,’ he says.

  ‘We bang,’ I say.

  ‘That’s what I love about you.’

  ‘Do you know what I love about you?’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ I say, but I give him a wink, so he knows I’m just joking. ‘Only kidding.’

  ‘You can’t keep doing that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Saying offensive things and then saying “only kidding” so people will forgive you.’

  ‘I’ve got away with it so far,’ I say. ‘What about Sian and how amazing you were?’

  ‘She was talking about my presentation to Campbell and Cook’s. I secured the contract, and they were originally going to go with Palmer’s. When are you going to realise how much I love you, Roberta Gallbreath? I don’t want anyone else.’ He hugs me, and he kisses the twins. Even with down-below burns, stinging nipples, and my stomach feeling ripped to shreds, I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I believe him. I think I might be able to trust him.

  Epilogue

  #familylife

  I take a selfie of me, Mick and the twins and u
pload it to Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. We get 224 likes in a matter of minutes. We are a family. Mick and I are back together. I have become one of the very annoying “feeling contented” people on social media. I may have to slap myself at some point.

  Shoni has been every day to see the twins. She stares into the baskets in wonder, and every time they cry, she claims they’re the best contraceptive she could ever have.

  ‘Good, I’m far too young to be a grandparent yet,’ I say.

  Drew brings them inappropriate presents like Spirographs and Scooby-Doo Mystery Machines. The burger van business is going well, and he says he might extend his empire and buy another. ‘McDonalds started somewhere,’ he says.

  Carolyn lifts the twins, even when they’re fast asleep, and cradles them, kissing their tiny foreheads. ‘We might adopt,’ she says.

  ‘We?’ I ask.

  ‘Me and Lisa,’ she says.

  ‘Oh good,’ I say. I think that was my daughter coming out.

  ‘When I’ve finished my PhD, though.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Unruly toddlers and university don’t mix.’

  The door opens, and Mick walks in with a bouquet of flowers the size of a tree. I resist the urge to tell him they’re a waste of money and will only die. I’m secretly thrilled. I can’t see his face for the huge pink and blue bears he’s balancing. ‘Gender stereotyping already?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he says, ‘The pink one is for our son, and the blue one is for our daughter.’

  Said daughter wakes and screams as though letting us know she approves. Mick smirks. He’s the only person in the world who gets me. I can totally be myself. He doesn’t judge when I’m grumpy (most days), or when I’m sad, mad or bad (every day).

  Personally, I can’t stand these “happy ever after” tales. I’m sure there’s lots of heartache in store. Mick is sure to turn out to be a serial sheep shagger, and the twins will be ram raiding off-licenses before their sixth birthday. But, just for now, everything is perfect.