The Cactus

by Sarah Haywood

  “I’m afraid I’m rubbish company today,” I manage. “And I’m about to get worse,” I add, as another contraction starts building. I clutch at the sleeves of his jacket.

  “Don’t forget about the breathing.”

  “Shut up. You’re as annoying as Kate,” I gasp.

  “I’ve been Googling childbirth,” Rob says, as the pain subsides and I let go of him. “I could apply for a job as a consultant obstetrician, I’m such an expert.” He turns to Kate. “Do you want to take a break?”

  “I wouldn’t mind. I need to make a few phone calls and I’ll grab myself a sandwich.”

  “So, how’re you doing?” he asks, when she’s gone. He straightens my hospital gown, which is starting to fall off one shoulder.

  “Not great. It’s been hours. I should be nearly ten centimeters dilated, but I’m nowhere near. I’m going to have to ask for pain relief.”

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “I wanted to do it naturally.”

  “That’s all well and good, but if you need it, you need it. Shall I grab the midwife?”

  I hesitate, then nod. Failure, I can’t help thinking to myself. And then I think, but who gives a shit? Within minutes the “gas and air” has been set up and I’m given a mouthpiece to hold. I suck at it greedily. It makes me feel light-headed, as though I’ve had a few too many glasses of wine. It doesn’t take away the agony, but I feel distanced from it; from everything.

  “So, did you get my message?” I ask Rob between contractions, my head reeling.

  “You mean the minimalist ‘yes’? A bit cryptic.”

  “Not cryptic at all, unless you’d prefer to forget the question you asked me in the van.”

  “What do you think?” He takes my hands and kisses them. “But should you be making life-changing decisions at a time like this? When you make up your mind, I want you to be compos mentis. I don’t want you waking up tomorrow morning thinking, ‘What the hell have I done?’”

  “This isn’t spur-of-the-moment, you idiot. It’s just that it’s taken an extreme situation and pharmaceutical assistance for me to pluck up the courage.”

  “Well, that’s decided, then. We’re going to be a family—you, me and this little one, when she decides to show her face.”

  It sounds extraordinary: a family.

  * * *

  Kate returns at some point. Time is starting to slip and slide. The “gas and air,” which gave me some relief, has stopped numbing the pain and is simply disorientating me. The contractions are excruciating; I’ve given up trying not to scream. Rob sits on one side of the bed and Kate sits on the other, both holding my hands. They keep telling me how well I’m doing, to keep it up, that it won’t be much longer now. Ann comes in and examines me once more; still hardly any progress, despite all the time that’s passed. She tells me we need to do something to speed things up. She’ll put me on a Syntocinon drip, which will make the contractions bigger, and hopefully cause my cervix to dilate. Maybe now’s the time to move from “gas and air” to pethidine, she says. I’m beyond caring. I just want this agony to be over and my baby to be safely out of my body.

  I’m given an injection in my thigh, a catheter is inserted into my arm and I’m hooked up to a drip. Monitors are strapped to my belly to measure my contractions and the baby’s heart rate. When the pethidine starts to kick in, the pain’s still there, but seems separate from my body. I feel elated, as high as a kite. My impulse control has been switched off, and I find myself telling Rob, in between thumping contractions, that he’s the kindest, funniest, sweetest man I’ve ever met. I love his unruly hair, and the straightness of his nose, and the mole on his cheek and his blue, blue eyes. I’ve even got used to his excessive height. He laughs. He says he loves me, too, that he rather likes Susan-on-drugs. He might ask Ann if we can take some pethidine home with us.

  I turn to Kate.

  “I remember thinking how cool he was the first time I saw him at a student party. He used to look like the lead singer of a grunge band, so laid-back and sure of himself. On a completely different planet from me.”

  “Hang on a minute,” says Rob. “You kept telling me you couldn’t recall ever meeting me.”

  “Well, I wasn’t going to admit you’d made an impression, was I?” I pant, as the next contraction comes crashing over me. “You should know—even I tell white lies occasionally.”

  * * *

  The initial elation from the opiate drug ebbs away and I feel spaced-out. When I’m not contorted with pain, I listen to the steady drumbeat from the baby’s heart rate monitor and stare at the screen next to the bed, where numbers are changing at random and a wiggly line is going up and down. Rob and Kate take it in turns to talk to Ann, then try to explain things to me. I’m having difficulty understanding what they’re saying.

  There’s another change of shift, and Claudia’s back. She’s surprised to see I’m still here. The pain is ramping up fast; the pethidine must be wearing off. Claudia says there’s been a bit of progress with dilation, but I think she’s just trying to keep me positive. At the next contraction, I scream that I’ve had enough, I can’t do it. Claudia says she knows I was clear in my birth plan that I didn’t want an epidural, but she can see I’m not coping well. She asks if I’ve changed my mind.

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes, please. Please give me an epidural.”

  The wait is endless and I lose any last remaining shreds of self-restraint. Eventually, an anesthetist comes in. I’m asked to sit up, bend over, and I’m given an injection into my spine. It works like magic; the agony starts to subside, then disappears completely, although my body feels like I’ve run ten marathons back-to-back. I’m hugely relieved that the pain has gone, but I’m scared. Things have spiraled out of my control; none of this was part of my plan. My baby should be here by now, safely in my arms. Instead she’s in limbo, waiting for me to push her out. And I can’t. I just can’t seem to do it. Claudia feels my belly, and says, with a concerned frown, that my contractions are getting weaker rather than stronger. The rhythm of the baby’s heartbeat is less regular, and there are intermittent silences. Each time the sound stops, I hold my breath until I hear it start again. The midwife leaves the room and comes back almost immediately with a doctor. They look at the printouts from the monitors, and whisper urgently about fetal distress. Rob goes to talk to them, while Kate pats my arm reassuringly. I notice she looks done in. She must have been here almost a full night and day.

  People crowd around my bed. The doctor tells me the baby isn’t happy, that it’s all gone on too long. They need to carry out an emergency cesarean because I’ve failed to progress in the first stage of labor. Do I understand? I do; my body’s well and truly let me down this time. More important, it’s let my baby down. I’m handed a clipboard, with a form attached. I sign my name without reading it. The doctor says we should make our way to the theater, and Rob asks me whether I want him or Kate with me during the operation. I can’t answer; all I can think is that I want the baby out safely, as quickly as possible. They must have decided between them, because Rob is at my side as they wheel my bed down the corridor. He whispers words of encouragement, but my mind’s elsewhere. My baby’s stuck inside me. In distress.

  A screen is erected across my chest to hide what’s going on. Rob, who’s changed into blue scrubs like the medical staff, sits in a chair pulled up close to my head. There are a lot of people in the room; doctors, nurses, midwives, all wearing masks. Someone explains what will happen, but I can’t take it in. I’m terrified. Is she hanging in there, or has my body failed her completely? There are murmurs, metallic sounds, a suction noise, and I feel a tugging and pulling. Then my baby is held up above the screen for me to see. She looks limp, purple-white. I thought she would be given to me immediately, but she’s taken away. Nobody speaks, and I can’t see what’s happening. Rob grips my hand tightly. There are tears streaming d
own his cheeks. I can see he’s trying to choke them back, trying to be strong for me. It’s no good. He lowers his head to mine, cheek to cheek, and our tears mix together. I close my eyes. Then I hear a high-pitched squeak, and another. The midwife appears from behind the screen with a bundle wrapped in a white cotton blanket. It’s placed on my chest. I see a small pink face, and a tiny mouth opening and closing, looking for something to suck. My baby. My beautiful, beautiful baby.

  28

  When the doctors have completed their morning rounds, and there’s a hiatus in the bustle of the ward, I open the rain-streaked envelope Rob found on my front doormat yesterday. Inside, I find a greeting card showing a woman at the wheel of a red convertible, her blond hair streaming out behind her. Underneath are the words Congratulations on passing your driving test. I open the card; it’s from Edward. I can just about decipher his scrawl:

  “Hey, Suze. Rob told me it all went well (in the end) and that you’ve produced a niece for me. Would’ve dropped into the hospital to give her the once-over and see whether she looks like her old uncle, but a mate’s just asked if I can fill in as roadie on his tour, and we head off tomorrow. Am leaving the sale in the capable hands of Mr. B. Will be back in Brum in a couple of months for a quick stopover before I go traveling. Maybe we should do something with those ashes while I’m home—scatter/bury/whatever. Can’t think where Mum’d want them deposited. Can you? Aunt Sylvia might know—but she’ll probably want to build a replica Egyptian tomb in her back garden. Anyway, have a beer on me to celebrate. I’ll give you a fiver when I see you. If I remember. Ed x.”

  I turn it over. On the back is a postscript:

  “Sorry about the card. Was in a rush, and only read the word ‘Congratulations’ in the newsagent’s. You might as well hold on to it—it’ll save me buying another one if you do pass your driving test one day. I mean, who knows what you’ll do next?!”

  I put the card with the small pile of rubbish that’s accumulated on my bedside cabinet, then change my mind and stand it next to the more conventional cards I’ve received from Rob, Kate and my colleagues at work. Every atom of my body tells me I shouldn’t let Edward near my daughter—his behavior toward me over the years has disqualified him from any entitlement to be a part of our lives. Not only that, he’d be a terrible role model for her as she grows up. There is, however, a tiny, flickering notion in my head: that by excising him completely I might be depriving her of something. That there might be a void in her life, perhaps even in my own. I need to extinguish that thought; it can only be a manifestation of the high levels of oxytocin surging through my veins. I’m relieved he’s going away.

  Richard has been to visit. Rob phoned him to tell him the good news while I was in the post-op recovery room waiting to be transferred to the ward. He called in to the hospital the next day, dumping a very large parcel at the foot of my bed. I wasn’t in any fit state to unwrap it, so Richard told me what it was: a chemistry set. He’d always wanted one himself when he was a child, but the family could never afford one; his daughter wouldn’t miss out as he had. Standing next to the cot, Richard stared and stared at the baby, responding to my observations with disjointed replies. I said he was welcome to hold her if she woke; he left very soon afterward. He’s in a state of shock. I understand; he’ll get there, in time.

  * * *

  Rob’s been busy browsing estate agents’ websites. At visiting hour, he kicks off his boots, stretches out his long legs on the hospital bed next to me and switches on his iPad to show me details of rental properties. He’s keen to have a decent-sized garden. In fact, that seems to rank above all other requirements, as far as he’s concerned. He doesn’t mind how far out of London we live, but I tell him I need to be within easy commuting distance of my office. As he scrolls through the listings, I think again about the wisdom of our plan. He needs to be stopped before he wastes any more time on this search. I tell him I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s not such a good idea, after all; I’ve changed my mind. Rob puts down the iPad and turns to me, propped up on one elbow. He says he knows it’s all very quick, he doesn’t want to rush me, he’ll wait until I’m ready. There’s been a misunderstanding. I explain I’ve changed my mind about renting. It’s vital that I stay on the London property ladder—if I step off I may never be able to get back on—so I think we should buy. His expression changes quickly from dark to light.

  To manage Rob’s expectations, I tell him we’ll purchase the property as “tenants in common” rather than “joint tenants.” That way our shares will be defined by law, which will make it much easier if we decide we’ve made an appalling mistake. Plus, as tenants in common, if one of us dies our share would pass to our next of kin rather than to each other. Rob laughs when I explain this to him. Whatever I want to do is fine by him, he says.

  Our discussion’s interrupted; my daughter’s woken. Her tiny fists are punching the air and she’s making squeaking, creaking noises. Rob picks her up and cradles her in his arms, bouncing her and patting her back. He’s a natural, and she senses it; his sisters have five children between them, so he’s had practice. She’s calm, but not for long. Rob just won’t do when she’s hungry. He passes her over to me. I unbutton the top of my nightdress and she latches on. I bend down and put my cheek against her downy head. I need to think of a name for her; I can’t keep calling her “my daughter” or “the baby.” Obviously, family names are out of the question. I don’t want to give her a common name like my own, but neither do I want to give her one that’s silly or ostentatious. And I don’t want a name that can be shortened—that can lead to all sorts of aggravation. I thought, perhaps, an abstract noun, like Hope or Joy, but I’m not one to advertise my feelings. Rob’s first suggestion was “Roberta.” I presume that was his idea of a joke. Next, he suggested giving her a name that’s already been shortened, like Kate, Meg or Nell. Nell. Little Nell. Rob looks up the meaning: bright shining one. It fits.

  * * *

  Nell’s fallen asleep on my breast while she was feeding. I remember the baby training manual said you should wake them up again when they do this so they don’t think they need to feed to get to sleep. As if I’d do that to her. I gently slide my finger into her mouth to disengage her, and pass her to Rob so he can put her back in the clear plastic crib next to my bed. She stirs, chirps a little, but the mission is accomplished with success. A moment later, Kate pushes through the ward’s heavy swing doors, carrying Noah on her hip and holding her daughter with her free hand. Ava gazes at Nell, with her nose pressed flat against the walls of the crib. Noah sits on his mother’s lap and plays with a cloth book while we chat. Kate says that, when she was in my flat picking up some clean nightclothes, Aunt Sylvia called. My aunt was overjoyed to hear that I’d had the baby. She asked Kate to pass on her love to us both. She also asked her to say she’s told my cousins she’s my mother, and that they’re speechless with delight. More important, Aunt Sylvia wanted Kate to tell me she’s changed the name of her bungalow from Wendine to Swendine. She’s had new signs made for the gatepost and porch, and she’s got new headed notepaper and calling cards. She was most concerned that I know that.

  “Changing the subject,” Kate says, “I’ve got a suggestion.” A divorced mother she knows from the mums-and-babies group has told her she’s looking for another single-parent family to buy out her ex’s share of their house. The two cohabiting mums will then be able to help each other with childcare and domestic chores. Kate says she’s a great woman, and it’s a nice house, not far from where we live now. She’s very tempted. If she goes for it, Rob and I can buy her flat from her and un-subdivide the house. It’s not a bad idea. In fact, it might even be a fantastic idea. I like where I live, and so does Rob.

  Kate also updates me on the latest news about her campaign against the withdrawal of funding for the local mums-and-babies group. She’s received an email from the council this morning; the funding will definitely stop. It’s w
rong. Kate’s told me all about the group; families in the area rely on it. I may even need it myself. I wonder aloud if it’s possible to sue the local authority. I tell Kate and Rob that, when I’m back on my feet, I’ll do some legal research and send a few emails. And I’ll phone my very useful friend Brigid to ask if she’d like to drop in to meet Nell. People always want to see new babies.

  “Oh, hell,” says Rob, “not another bloody legal dispute.”

  “I’ll have so much time on my hands while I’m on maternity leave, I might as well put it to good use. Plus, it’d be a shame not to use all the skills I’ve picked up over the last few months.”

  “I’m not sure you’re going to have quite as much time as you think, Susan,” says Kate. “But thanks for the offer of help.” She turns to Rob. “Don’t look so worried. It’s different this time. It’s for the good of the community, not some misguided personal fixation.”

  Rob sighs, theatrically.

  * * *

  Visiting time passes quickly this evening. Kate, Ava and Noah head off, along with the other patients’ relatives and friends. Rob leaves his things next to my bed while he nips to the bathroom. He says he’ll be back in a minute to say good-night. The ward goes quiet again, or as quiet as a ward can when it accommodates six newborn babies and their mothers.

  I’m itching to start my new life with Nell, but I’ve been told it’ll be one more night before I’ll be discharged. I’m in pain from the cesarean section, but it’ll be manageable at home with a little pharmaceutical assistance. I look across at the crib. Nell’s still in a deep sleep, lying on her back, her rosy face turned toward me. Her arms are raised from the elbows, and her hands are palms-up next to her plump cheeks; her legs are bent at the knees and splayed like a frog’s. She has a tag around her slender wrist with my name on it. I made her; she belongs to me. If I stretch out my hand from where I’m lying in my hospital bed I can stroke her cheek; her skin feels soft and pillowy, hardly more than a puff of warm air. I gently reposition Bunnikins, my old knitted rabbit, who’s sitting in the corner of her crib, watching over her as she sleeps.