by Jane Yeadon
It was a relief to get off duty and join Seonaid. We went to see Marie, whose agonies over work with the tinies in the Special Care Nursery started to make the labour ward feel like a course in relaxation .
‘It’s a terrible responsibility, so it is,’ sighed Marie, ‘and desperate hard to imagine any of them surviving. All those little lives hanging by a thread.’ She looked at her hands, spread them and held them up. ‘Some of them are no bigger than these and I can’t stop wondering what’s going to happen to them if and when they get home. They’re just so helpless.’
Seonaid stopped bouncing on the bed for a moment. ‘Well, here’s something to cheer ye up. I’ve good news about Mrs Murphy. She’s in my post-natal ward and recovering faster from her Caesarean than finding her old fella’s kindly allowed her to have a sterilisation. Now would that not warm your little oulde heart?’ She slid off the bed and did a graceful pirouette.
It didn’t impress Marie. ‘I suppose so, but what about the babby?’ She sighed and rubbed her brow. ‘Everybody’s talked about that mammy and daddy but d’you notice nobody’s ever mentioned the wee dote? It’s as if he’s just an item.’ If it had been anybody else but Marie she’d have sounded angry. ‘Sure an’ he must have had an awful shock arriving in the world so quickly.’
‘Better than squashed through a tunnel sideways.’ Seonaid was dismissive. ‘And he’s grand. Lovely wee fella. Doin’ well. Thriving.’
‘Thanks be to—’ Marie’s look dared me to interrupt ‘—God!’
I said nothing so she rushed on. ‘Some of my poor wee lambs are so frail they might die without even being christened.’ She twisted her hands in anguish and bit her lip.
‘I’m sure God won’t mind.’ I meant it kindly. ‘I expect he’s got a nice selection of names for them to choose from.’
Marie allowed herself a crafty smile. ‘Ah, but he won’t have to bother. I give them a wee christening when nobody’s looking.’
‘Well I hope you whisper it,’ said Seonaid, suddenly looked serious. ‘Different faiths mightn’t like you putting yours in over theirs. Anyway, what names do you give them?’
‘That’s easy! Marie or Mario. Anyway, God’ll change them if need be – and,’ Marie was triumphant, ‘I just say it inside my head when I’m taking a drop of water from the incubator’s cooling system to make a wee cross on their foreheads. They don’t seem to mind and at least if anything does happen to them God’ll know they’ve already been blessed.’ The thought seemed to cheer her up.
The next day on my way past the nursery I wondered what names were swirling about those incubator occupants Marie was so zealously christening. At least Mary-Jo was already named and actually giving Marie a rare moment of optimism.
‘She’s thriving, out of her incubator, and making such progress she’ll soon be running the Nursery.’ Marie gave a fond chuckle. ‘Then her mammy’s getting confident handling her, and even her daddy’s been in. Handling her like a professional and dying to get her home. It shouldn’t be long now.’
However, I couldn’t linger. Sister Flynn’s demanding punctuality ruled, so I hurried to the Labour Suite from which this morning not even the unborn would be exempt.
‘Come on now, Nurse Macpherson, we’ve a whole morning of overdue babies to induce and you’re late.’ She had the slight figure of an athlete with a running step that made you feel breathless just watching. Now she was hurtling a loaded trolley towards me at such breakneck speed I thought she mightn’t brake in time.
‘Here. This soap needs diluting.’ She took a jar from the trolley and thrust it at me. ‘The whole hospital’s crying for it. Hurry on now!’ Sounding like a late milk float, the trolley with its driver flashed past.
Given that I was not yet allowed near a patient other than for chasing autographs to prove I’d witnessed deliveries, making an elixir of enema soap must be a sign of promotion. I went to the cubbyhole of a kitchen where the sink was stacked full of dirty dishes and the cooker looked like a discarded chip supper.
I knew that when administered via a rectal tube, enema soap caused a dramatic rush to the toilet, but I didn’t know much about its other properties. On a voyage of discovery, I threw a handful of the thick green soapy glue into a big pan of boiling water and stirred.
‘I’m off to antenatal to get our first patient, so hurry up. We haven’t all day and you’re always so slow.’ Sister Flynn was charging out of the Labour Suite. Her voice floated back, taking the air of urgency with it. I wondered what she did to relax – probably whizz through a book of timetables.
Staff Midwife McQuarry came to investigate. She brightened up the place with her Doris Day looks and ability to burst into song to celebrate everyday things. Today she was especially cheerful. ‘Happy days are here again,’ she sang, throwing a packet of sanitary towels in the air and catching it with the poise of a ball game expert. ‘So what’s cooking?’
The mixture had come to a nice rolling boil with green bubbles attractively frothing the surface then spattering over onto the cooker and explaining its greasy marks.
‘Welcome to the soap kitchen. Want a taste?’ I offered her a spoonful.
‘Ach, but you’re a card,’ she said, ‘but no thanks. It’s strong and black stuff I’m after and it’s not Guinness before you say it. Now where’s that coffee?’
‘Try behind the bread bin,’ I suggested, wondering who’d eat anything from such a rusting bucket and relieved when she looked in, found nothing and saved herself from food poisoning.
‘The boys have been here.’ She sounded exasperated. ‘You’d think they’d leave something for the workers. I suppose I’ll just have to settle for plain coffee on its own.’ She spooned in enough to guarantee a caffeine overdose then made the hot water pour from a height to waterfall splash into her mug.
‘Makes all the difference,’ she said, smacking her lips. ‘Now you be sure to label that brew, we wouldn’t want it going in the wrong orifice.’
‘For such a lovely girl, Lisa, you can be quite common.’ Dr Welch had strolled in, sitting down on the only chair and looking around as if expecting a waitress. ‘Is there another cup?’
Lisa pulled on a blonde curl, which corkscrewed right back as she nodded at the sink. ‘You’ll have to wash one first. Jane here’ll give you something to wash one with, and before you ask, there’s no biscuits either.’ The empty bin now seemed to please her.
‘Mind your pinny.’ I splashed in a ladle-full of bubbles. ‘And be sure and rinse that out unless you’ve been swearing lately and need your mouth cleaned out. Look,’ I handed him a dishtowel. ‘You’ll need that for drying.’
‘I think I’ll take my custom elsewhere.’ He got up then, reaching the door, asked casually if Lisa was going to the Medic’s Ball.
‘Course I am,’ she said. ‘Jimmy asked me.’
‘Ah, the luck of O’Reilly.’ He sounded disappointed and drifted off.
I’d stopped stirring and now peered into the depths of the pan.
‘One of our crowd’s taken an awful shine to that bloke,’ I said, slightly alarmed at the toffee-like lump sticking to the bottom. ‘He could ask her.’
‘She’d be welcome.’ Lisa drained the last of her coffee and gave an exasperated sigh. ‘He’s so slow he could do with a rocket up his arse.’ She sniffed and looked puzzled. ‘And what would you say’s that smell?’
I was glad she wasn’t watching as I quickly poured the unstuck mixture into a jug, moved into bottling mode and slid a badly burnt pan out of sight.
Sister Flynn would be furious. Her precious pot was going to need some serious scrubbing and would have to remain hidden until I could take it with me off duty. The prospect of an evening dealing with a burnt pan was an item only likely to appeal to Marie as an addition to her disaster collection.
Lisa pointed to a freshly-filled bottle. ‘I’m just glad I don’t need any of that. It doesn’t usually have that smell, but come on now. How many more witnessed deliveries do you need bef
ore you get your own freckled hand on a baby’s head?’
‘Bagged the last one yesterday.’ I was quietly triumphant, especially as neither Cynthia nor Margaret, stuck in the antenatal clinic, were near this stage.
On the positive side however, Margaret’s makeup expertise was improving with her lipstick now aiming in the right direction. She was even developing listening skills, not something much required in her previous life in theatre.
Having been handed a huge bottle of urine with a week’s worth in it, Cynthia was also learning, but by a hard way. ‘They don’t seem to understand I’m only needing a few drops to test their urine,’ she said in frustration.
Margaret couldn’t let that pass. ‘Well, that’s the Irish for you, generous to a fault. I expect that wouldn’t be a problem in your London Hospital.’
‘Ah! You see – that’s why I’m here,’ Cynthia was all sweetness and light, ‘to help the people with their problems.’
I was dying to lord a first delivery over them and told Lisa so.
‘Right! I’ll have a word with Flynnie. Look she’s back with that patient – can’t you hear her marching her through? Probably telling her the walk’ll do her good.’ Lisa chuckled and, draining the last of her coffee, chucked the mug into the sink. ‘Come on. This’d be a good chance to get you started.’
Which is probably what must have been said to Denise who was our patient and whose distended fingers and puffy face made her look like a blown-up version of the original.
After a discussion that seemed to involve Sister Flynn shaking her head like a metronome against Lisa’s ultimately successful counterbalance , the news was broken to Denise waiting in the corridor, her elfin if swollen beauty turning it into a palace of sorts.
‘Would you mind Nurse Macpherson helping you with your labour? She’s really keen and very competent.’ Lisa’s confidence was breathtaking.
‘I’ve met her already,’ said Denise in a damning sort of way.
‘That’s grand then! Come on now, let’s get you into bed. I see your locker’s come with you too. Good! It’ll save us transferring all your stuff.’ Lisa led the prisoner into her cell and helped her climb aboard, then laid out on an overbed table enough charts and paperwork to start a typing pool riot.
Patting them in an affectionate sort of way, she explained, ‘These are so we can record the baby’s heart, your heart, contractions and strength, waterworks, blood pressure, and your drip monitor if it’s fitted. Nurse Macpherson’s going to do that and keep you company as well.’ Lisa made it all sound like the start of a great party.
Sister Flynn came in and being a busy, important person she disregarded Denise’s look of doubt and anxiety and wagged a finger. She had the single-minded look of a blackbird pulling on a worm. ‘I’m sure Nurse Macpherson’s going to be fine. She’s been shown how to do these readings often enough, and if an induction’s on the cards it might all take a little time so she’ll get plenty practice.’ Then, as if unaware she might be compounding the problem, she added, ‘Of course, we wouldn’t have to do it if your blood pressure was stable.’ She sighed and tapped her watch. ‘You’ll have to have an enema first. Ah, but time’s the divil!’ The hint that it was all Denise’s fault hung loud.
‘But this is my first,’ Denise protested.
‘Mine too, Denise,’ I could have said if I didn’t have to clamp my mouth over chattering teeth. Moving from spectator to participant was suddenly a scary prospect and Denise’s nervousness didn’t help.
Compared to her farm home, the labour ward with its beige walls, grey flooring and clinical furnishing must have had all the appeal of a grim institution. She looked about her fearfully. Her swollen fingers, like sickly starfish, clutched her dressing gown. She wasn’t wearing the sparkler but maybe this wasn’t the time to ask about it. Hopefully it was safe in the hospital security vaults.
I tried for a bright tone. ‘Does your husband know you’ll be having the baby soon?’
‘Yes. He says he wants to be with me.’ Denise’s voice trailed off uncertainly whilst Sister Flynn reacted as if at a starter’s gun, her feet already in the running position, her brow in a disapproving furrow. ‘Well, let’s get going – no time to be standing about gassing or waiting for husbands.’ She said it with such disparagement Denise must have got the message that her husband had already served his purpose. ‘But you’re in good hands. There’s the medical team here as well as Nurse Macpherson, and there’ll be Mr Allan.’
Denise brightened and smoothed her hair. ‘Is he a doctor then?’
Sister Flynn moved into selling mode. ‘No. He’s a medical student. He’s here for some labour ward experience and is already proving he’s very good.’
And a misery guts, I thought as Oliver appeared, looking earnest with a notebook in hand and a stethoscope necklace lending suitable gravitas. He walked round the bed with the anxious step of a man used to missing buses.
‘Hello, Denise. I hope you don’t mind but I’ll be taking your history whilst she,’ he nodded at me, ‘will be recording your progress and doing any needful nursing chores.’
At least I was going to be on the right side of the enema funnel, I might have said. Instead I went for just the right amount of sugar. ‘That’s right – as well as attending to some delicate procedures, so why don’t you go and sharpen your little pencil whilst we girls get on with the real work.’
His mouth opened but whether in surprise or with a stunning reply we will never know because the doors flew open admitting a patient at the height of labour.
‘Oh, look! Excuse me, Denise, but there’s a good chance I’ll get my last witness now,’ he almost looked enthusiastic, ‘and then I’ll get back to you and then – who knows – I might even get to deliver you.’ He cantered off after the cavalcade heading for the labour ward, a man determined to catch this particular bus.
‘I wish I wasn’t here,’ said Denise, showing poor faith but heaving herself out of bed and following me to a soapy future in a room within sprinting distance of a toilet.
10
HANDS-ON CARE
More drastic measures were needed to get the baby on the move. Denise’s baby had apparently reasoned that the unpleasant nature of an enema administered to its mother was a good reason for staying put.
After a little discussion with Dr O’Reilly and a lot of reassurance from Lisa, she was wheeled into a delivery room.
‘Don’t go away,’ said Denise, holding onto my hand. Then she submitted herself to the internal and secure bag of water, which had been the baby’s home for so long, being popped. I was glad she didn’t see the instrument used by Dr O’Reilly. It frighteningly resembled a crotchet hook.
A strong contraction and irritated kick shifting the shape of Denise’s abdomen meant the baby had got the message and was already beginning to flit.
Dr O’Reilly said, ‘That’s good. We’ve now ruptured your membranes and your internal examination shows that your labour has started.’ He pulled off his gloves and slung them along with the recently used instrument into a kidney dish. ‘Get rid of these will you?’
Sister Flynn took them with a sigh, giving a hard look at Denise who, clinging onto my hand, had no intention of letting go.
‘I’ve to do everything around here,’ she said and threw them into a sink with such a clatter the sound seemed to bounce on the bleak walls then hang overhead like an angry reproach. Ignoring the noise, Dr O’Reilly patted Denise’s leg as if to soothe. ‘We’ll also put up a drip – see if we can hurry things along.’
Not being in control of much else, Denise widened her eyes and fluttered her eyelashes. ‘You’re very gentle, Doctor. It’s good to know I’m in your hands.’
‘That’s the girl, but let’s see what you can do now.’ He spoke in a preoccupied way, watching Dr Welch who had come in and was idly chatting to Lisa.
‘Excuse me, I’ve a few more patients to attend to, but Dr Welch over there seems underemployed so I’ll get him to do the re
st.’
‘Dr Welch’s been an absolute saint,’ began Denise but Dr O’Reilly had gone and the houseman was coming towards her, looking as if he’d had a row.
Since Sister Flynn had probably tidied William away in a husbandcontaining cupboard, there was still no sign of him, and in the absence of any other comforter and just in case Dr Welch’s wonderful touch had gone, Denise continued the hand grip. Only once she was back in her own bed and realised I might have to climb in with her did she let go.
‘You’ll need to keep a close watch on the readings,’ Lisa had warned, wrinkling her brow and looking unusually anxious. ‘Sister Flynn thinks this is quite a difficult case and you haven’t enough experience, but I’ve told her you’re more capable than you look, so keep a close eye on her blood pressure and that foetal heart. Any drastic change and you’ll need to tell us, but we’re really busy at the moment so don’t press the panic button unless you’re sure you need to.’ She rubbed her forehead whilst in the distance an ambulance siren sounded. ‘Ach! That’s maybe for us. The place’s goin’ daft alright.’ She bustled off.
Denise, perkier now, fluffed up her hair and settled back on her pillows. ‘“Mad house,” she says, but this is better than that oulde labour theatre place, though you’d hardly call here home sweet home. Is it any wonder my blood pressure’s up?’
She tapped her hand over her mouth. ‘But at least I’ve stopped being sick.’
She looked so relieved I was glad she hadn’t read the chapter on eclampsia that had been dealt with in such gory detail in the textbooks it was enough to ratchet up any law-abiding heartbeat.
This wasn’t the time to be competitive but the worry of Denise was already giving me palpitations. Not for the first time in a career on which I was so determined, I wondered why on earth I was pursuing it. It was bad enough having responsibility for one, never mind two, even if the second had sentenced its mother to a ninemonth puke. Denise’s rocketing blood pressure could lead to a ‘bad news all round’ eclamptic fit whilst still to come was the actual birth!
