This is my second diary. I’ve misplaced the first. I think Keith, my so called best friend, has stolen it. He’s always struck me as a literature thief.
Just in case I don’t find it again: I started the last diary as I was about to become a father. The mother of my baby, Alison, and I had only been together for a matter of weeks before she fell pregnant. It wasn’t a recipe for success, but it seems to have worked thus far.
Tuesday September 25th 2012
5.00 a.m.
I’ve just got home from the hospital. Charlie Peterson is now with us. He’s great. Tiny little ears, tiny little hands and big brown eyes looking up at the world. I read in my book that I bought to help me cope with the pregnancy that he can’t actually see anything at the moment, but I’m not so sure, his eyes seem pretty focused to me. A little glazed, if anything, like a doughnut. He’s got a full head of hair, too, more than me, even. I was holding him less than an hour ago. Alison and Charlie have headed down to the mother and baby ward now. I was told to go home and get some sleep as I’d started staggering about an hour after he was born. Mother and baby are OK, though, that’s the main thing. The birth was awful, but I can’t bring myself to talk about that now.
9.30 a.m.
So, the birth:
We arrived at the hospital about ten to nine yesterday morning. I’d not slept more than five minutes at a stretch as I was worried about what was happening next to me, although Alison seemed to sleep with no problems at all, only waking up once to move about a bit and go to the lav. In films the contractions seem to be a lot more violent than they were in reality; I still wasn't sure she was having them. But we were at the hospital, so everything was going to be OK.
Or so I thought. Once the obligatory three hours' wait had passed, the midwife on duty took one look at Alison (down there) and told us we needed to go home again until she was seven centimetres dilated. I was already pissed off before we even heard that, but the stony faced cow’s standard ‘don’t care, I’ve said all I’m saying’ response to every attempt I made to get her to change her mind really wound me up. She was sending us home and that was that. I was fully prepared to collapse and then let them deal with me, but Alison suggested it might not be helpful to do that, so I loaded her back into the car and aimed it towards home.
We didn’t even make it out of the car park before Alison was screaming like there was a knife attacker in the back of the car with her. The calm lady that had suggested it best I not throw myself to the floor barely five minutes earlier had suddenly turned into devil woman. The screaming and name calling was definitely post-watershed stuff; I was told I needed to ‘get the fucking car back in the pissing car park now’, which was more difficult to do than you’d think: I was on a single carriageway road. Looking back, I can see it was a bad idea to try and do a three-point turn. I’m not that good at them at the best of times, but in those noisy conditions I ended up forgetting to turn the wheel before I moved the car again. I wasn’t counting, but it was more like a thirty-seven-point turn by the time I finished. I also lost the indicator from the front nearside. By the time I got back to the hospital car park I didn’t even bother paying for a ticket, or in fact finding a proper parking bay. I just wanted to get out of the enclosed space where all the screaming was going on. I suppose it was good practise for what was to come, although I suspect Charlie will have less violent intent behind his racket.
Nurse Miserable was at the door of the ward when we got back there; I’m not sure if it was the look on my face or the way Alison walked, but she didn’t say anything like she’d been reeling off before. I think she must have realised she’d been stupid to send us away in the first place. I was mentally noting it all down. Heads were going to roll when I got out of there and managed to write a strongly worded letter.
They took us straight through to the ward, got Alison on the bed and went off to do something. It was the last we saw of them for two hours. Alison was going in and out of screaming fits, as were the other women on the ward. I went off a few times looking for a nurse, doctor, midwife, or indeed anyone that looked like they worked there. On the occasions that I found someone, they explained that it was extremely busy and that they’d be along as soon as they could. Every time I had to go back to Alison and tell her that I couldn’t get her any pain relief and I couldn’t help her, it was awful. I did think about going into the street and seeing if I could score some heroin. I’ve heard that’s a good pain killer. Alison told me to shut up when I asked her ‘where the fuck is everyone?' loud enough for the whole ward to hear. The next time I went looking for someone I saw several blokes in the same position as me, all looking up the corridor waiting for someone to come and help their partners.
I imagine the camps Hitler killed all the Jews in had a similar atmosphere to that ward. People just looking for help that never came, it was horrible feeling powerless to help. Things seemed to have slowed down for us over the past hour spent waiting. I don’t know why, maybe that’s what happens. Hollywood has a lot to answer for. They’d tricked me into thinking: get to the hospital, scream, push, baby – done. It isn’t like that, though. Lord knows, it isn’t.
There must have been a shift change, because all of a sudden we had staff all over the ward, all attending to the women. I could hear them tell the woman across from us to stop pushing as she wasn’t in the labour room; she was wheeled away sharpish and within a couple of minutes they announced that she’d given birth.
It was our turn next. It was happening. Alison was taken into the delivery room and I followed shortly after; first I had to run and get a pasty from the machine at the other end of the six mile corridor. By the time I got back things were well underway. Legs were up, and Alison was sucking on the gas and air tube like her life depended on it. I asked if they were going to get the real drugs out once the contractions started, only to be stared at by the nurse.
‘It’s Alison’s choice,’ she told me, before making herself busy. I looked at Alison, who had her eyes scrunched shut and looked like she was in a lot of pain. I pointed to the green papers and asked the nurse to check the back page, where it clearly stated that I knew the birthing plan and would be asking for the pain relief. I’m still not sure how exactly it happened, but within a couple of seconds I was having a stand up row with the midwife.
If I had a button to push to win arguments I’d use it all the time. I don’t, though, and the midwife did; she called in the cavalry and before I knew it there were three more midwives, and a couple of porters who looked like they smoked more than half the people in the mortuary did.
All I was asking for was the epidural that was on the birth plan and they threatened to remove me. I won in the end, as the head midwife told me the anaesthetist was on the way.
That wasn’t a lie, but when she got there she informed us that she was only popping in for a chat before heading to A&E, where it was really busy. I asked what good she thought a chat would do my partner, who by this point had started crying. She just shrugged and went off, promising she’d be back.
The relationship between me and the midwife in the room never really improved; by the time the doctor started showing up, I’d been standing over a helpless Alison for about fifteen hours. The only thing of use I could do was give her sips of water when the contractions stopped. Things changed in the room when the doctor was there; people started milling about. The doctor knew what she was doing, she knew how to speak to me, and she gave very clear, direct and confident instructions to her team.
At that moment, at 4 a.m., I knew I was going to be getting a look at my son within the next hour. I started to feel a bit overwhelmed and the doctor asked if I was OK. I held my eyes as wide as they would go to make sure the tears didn’t fall and maintained my male stance.
It was happening; mind you, the pushing had been happening for a while, although in the times that Alison could find the strength to talk, she complained about being too tired to push. The doctor seemed to breathe new life into us all. She told Ali
son what she needed her to do and she told her the time that it was going to take, which was something none of the other medical professionals had been prepared to do. A trolley was brought in containing all the things you’d expect to see on a trolley being wheeled into a birthing room, and some that I’d never seen before. It was just then that the doctor didn’t announce that she could see the head, like I’ve seen on the TV, she asked if ‘Dad’ wanted to have a look at the head. I couldn’t say 'no', but I wanted to. I’d managed to keep at the top end until then. I did have a glance, though, as I didn’t want to disobey the doctor. If I’m honest, I couldn’t really make out a head, it was a bit of a mess down there, and I am struggling to think about it now as I write.
Needless to say, as soon as I could I went back up to the top end and held the gas and air pipe for Alison. It was at such an angle, and the pipe was made of such tough tubing, that it was always wanting to bend the other way. I was getting cramp, but I couldn’t not give her it. I was glad when Alison started screaming at me to ‘get that useless fucking pipe’ out of her face. It wasn’t long after that, that the doctor got excited and told us that after three more pushes she was going to pull the baby out. The head was out at that point. I couldn’t hear screaming, but I didn’t have time to be worried because the doctor told us it was time; she grabbed a knife, cut something or other and then yanked my son out with a pair of forceps.
Then I heard the screaming. A little, white, soggy baby appeared and was handed straight to Alison, who looked in wonder at the child that was now in her arms. If I forget everything else in my life, the look on Alison’s face when she first met our son is the one thing that I’d want to keep hold of. It was amazing. The first thing I noticed about the baby was his head. It was a funny shape. The shape of a cycle helmet. I was later assured that it was only like that for the birth and would go back to normal after a couple of days.
And I didn’t faint, like Boris had suggested I probably would. He only said that because I did faint one time when I walked into the staff toilets after he’d been in there having one of his gentleman’s sit downs.
I got shoved in the corner while everyone had a look at the baby, checked it over and cleaned up the poo he did pretty much instantly. It was then I thought I’d have a seat; I’d been on my feet for ages and they hurt. I sat down and stared at the floor, reflecting on everything that had just happened. It was an experience I’d never had before and at that moment in time I swore to myself I wouldn’t do it again. I looked up and saw the doctor remove the afterbirth; it was then that I was sick in my mouth a bit. It was like the really awful part in the film, Alien. The doctor calling it ‘breakfast’ didn’t help. And I had to swallow the sick.
Shortly after I was sick, Alison was also sick. I hadn’t realised, but I’d fed her about three litres of water over the last few hours. The sick went on the baby a bit and that’s when it was decided that I could have a hold of my son, which I did. He was so delicate. So small and so, so angry. I’ve never thought about what it must be like to be born, but I should think it's an absolutely terrifying experience. All of a sudden you’re forced out of somewhere nice, warm and dark, with food on tap and no need to ever go to the toilet, into a bright room where someone in rubber gloves is just waiting for the chance to slap the shit out of you … literally. I bet it’s freezing, too, like when you step out of a shower. He stopped crying for a while when I was holding him and went back to sleep. Then a nurse grabbed his feet and jammed a needle right into his heel which made him squeal for a minute before he went quiet. I wondered what they’d given him, thinking it must be some heavy duty shit for him to pass out straight away. We were assured he was OK and that it was just some harmless vitamin K that all babies are given. She then took him off me and got him dressed. I was able to see Alison; she’d finished having her downstairs sorted out and was padded up. She looked shattered. Shattered, but content. We were a family and without saying it, we knew we were linked together forever.
I got my phone out and took a couple of pictures, which I sent out to the people that had asked for them, then I asked if it was OK if I went home, as I was really tired and to be honest I wanted to get out of the way of the midwives. I knew that Alison would be moved to the mother and baby unit soon and up there they’d have different staff. I started to feel a little bit guilty about the outbursts I’d made throughout the night due to the utter incompetence of the hospital staff, but deep down I knew that we’d been given a substandard service and I didn’t want to find myself apologising for questioning it. Alison was fine with it and was going to start to see if she could start feeding Charlie when I left. There was someone there to help her do it and her motherly instinct had kicked in. I gave them both a kiss and headed outside to ring our parents and let them know the news. I rang my folks first and discovered that all four parents were together and waiting for the call before they opened some champagne. It was a bit weird, but I didn’t really think too much about it. I just tried to remember where it was I’d left my car.
So that’s how it happened. I’m now just about to leave the house and go and see my son again. I'd promised myself I’d get a decent sleep, but to be honest, I couldn’t get to sleep as I was thinking about my son. I was thinking about all the things we’re going to get up to in the years to come. All my hopes and dreams for him and us as a family. I was thinking about the family holidays I’d had as a child and how I hoped I’d be a good enough father to be able to recreate that for Charlie.
When I did wake up I had a message from Alison. It was a picture of Charlie and the message said, ‘We love you, Daddy. Sleep tight. Visiting is at 10 a.m. Can you bring babygros? x’
I’d only been out for a couple of hours, but my brain wasn’t interested in letting me go back to sleep, so I hauled myself up and made a coffee before sitting down and waiting for 10 a.m. I was going to sit down and write a long complaint letter, but I've decided that I’m not really interested in getting the inevitable reply that tells me they don’t really care and that they haven’t the money to make it better. It would just be a massive waste of time.
I’m going to see my son now.
So Low, So High
Debut novel, published in the UK by Caffeine Nights.
For Andy Rivers and all at Byker Books.
Thanks for giving me my first experience of being published.
Contact Pete:
I can be found on Facebook here: https://www.facebook.com/Pete.Sortwell.Author
Twitter: @petesortwell
Email: [email protected]
Cheers, all the best,
Pete
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