by A J McDine
‘I wasn’t going to tell him.’
‘Because he’d go ballistic and tell you to start your maternity leave right now?’
I can’t disagree because we both know she’s right. Instead I say, ‘I can’t go before the open day. There’s too much to do.’
‘You’re not the only one who works here. Let one of the others take the slack for a change. You have to put the baby first.’
I lean towards her and touch her shoulder. ‘We’ll be fine, I promise. There’s nothing to worry about. But I love you for caring, I really do.’
Isn’t it just amazing what you can find on the internet? For instance, while I was browsing online last night I happened to discover that self-inflicted Caesarean sections are actually a thing.
Not a very common thing, admittedly. But cases of DIY C-sections have been reported since the 18th century. Who knew?
Most times the mother, baby or both have died, but according to Wikipedia there are five successful documented cases.
My personal favourite is a woman called Juliana Sanchez, who lived in rural Columbia and in 2005 performed a Caesarean section on herself when she went into premature labour.
Juliana sent her nine-year-old son to the nearest shop half a mile away to buy a kitchen knife, downed a couple of cups of almost neat alcohol, sliced through her abdomen from the bottom of her ribs to her pubic bone, rummaged around a bit and pulled her baby out by his feet.
She then cut the baby’s umbilical cord with a pair of scissors and put her organs back in place as best she could before a man from the village attempted to stitch the wound with a sewing needle and thread.
‘Blood came out of me like a fountain,’ she told reporters.
She and the baby both lived, despite the risk of bleeding out, the potential for infection, the very real danger of dying from shock.
She knew the risks, yet she went ahead anyway. A mother’s ultimate sacrifice to save her baby.
Her story moves me beyond words.
Chapter Nineteen
Now
I check my wing mirror to see if Roz is still following me. As we were leaving Cam she offered to wash and blow dry my hair, and although all I want to do is snuggle up on the sofa and watch trash on the TV, I felt it would be churlish to say no.
‘You’ve had a crap day,’ she’d said. ‘Let me come over and spoil you for an hour. On the house.’
‘Won’t you miss Caitlyn’s bedtime?’
‘They are staying at Phil’s mum’s for a couple of days. I couldn’t go with them because of today.’
‘You should have said. We could have fixed your induction for another time. Where have they gone?’
‘I just told you. To see Phil’s mum.’
‘Sorry, I mean where does she live?’
‘Oh, I see. Brighton.’
‘Same as Matt!’
‘Same as Matt,’ she’d agreed.
‘Hey, seeing as we’ve both been deserted, why don’t you stay for dinner? Nothing fancy, just a bowl of pasta.’
She’d smiled. ‘That’d be great. Thank you.’
I pull up outside our house and Roz reverses into a space a couple of cars down.
‘I still can’t believe you’d want to spend a precious evening off washing my hair,’ I say, opening the front door and ushering her inside.
She shrugs. ‘I’d rather be here. The house feels so empty without them.’
I deposit my keys and phone in the ceramic bowl on the sideboard in the hall while Roz sets out her hairdryer, mirror and brushes on the kitchen table.
‘Cuppa?’ I ask.
‘Wouldn’t say no.’
As I lean against the kitchen counter waiting for the kettle to boil the baby kicks me so sharply under my ribcage that I gasp.
‘Hey, you OK?’
I rub my belly and smile. ‘Junior’s trying out some karate moves.’
Her eyes light up. ‘Mind if I feel?’
‘’Course not.’
I take her hand and place it on the side of my bump where the baby was kicking. Her hand feels warm and firm. Her head dips as she gazes at my belly. The baby kicks again and her face breaks into a smile.
‘If you press here you can feel its foot.’
‘Got it!’ She’s silent for a while as the baby wiggles and fidgets. When she does speak her voice is thick with emotion.
‘It’s amazing to think there’s a whole new little person in there, isn’t it? A person who is as pure and perfect as freshly-laid snow. A completely blank slate, untainted by life.’
‘It is,’ I say. It’s a strangely intimate moment and I feel my own voice wobble. Roz is so clearly moved by the baby it’s hard not to be affected. It must remind her of being pregnant with her own hard-fought for baby.
‘I think it might be a boy,’ I tell her. ‘People say they are more active in the womb. I know it’s only an old wives’ tale but there’s got to be some truth in it, don’t you think?’
Roz’s hand is still on my belly and the baby is treating her to some fearsome kicks.
‘What was Caitlyn like?’
‘Caitlyn?’ She pauses. ‘It was so long ago I barely remember. Does that make me a bad mum? Let’s think… She was quite placid. Yes, very quiet. Not like she is now, running rings around me, the little madam.’
The kettle boils and I pull away to make our tea. ‘I bet. I’m not sure I’m looking forward to the terrible twos. Mum says I was a monster.’
Roz takes her mug and sits opposite me. ‘Do you believe in nature or nurture?’
Her question takes me by surprise. ‘I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘I’ve never thought about it.’
‘You should. It’s important. Are we defined by our genes or by our history? Is our behaviour a product of inherited or acquired characteristics? You, for example. I can tell from their wedding photo that you inherited your brown eyes from your mother and your curly hair from your father.’
The only photo I have of Mum and Dad’s wedding is on the mantelpiece in our bedroom. I hadn’t realised Roz had seen it. But she’s right, I always blame Dad for my unruly curls and Mum for my muddy-brown eyes. I nod.
‘So where did your cautious personality come from?’
‘Cautious? Am I?’
Roz snorts. ‘You’re the most cautious person I know. Do you take after your mum or your dad?’
‘Dad, I suppose. He was a very prudent man. The type to hope for the best and plan for the worst, you know?’
Roz nods in satisfaction. ‘So, you agree with me. Genes determine our character traits. Your dad was cautious, hence you are, too. There’s nothing we can do about our personalities. We are all pre-wired.’
‘I suppose I could have learnt through his cautious behaviour -’
But Roz has started fixing her shower attachment to the kitchen tap and doesn’t hear. She beckons me over. My bump’s never felt bigger as I lean forwards and dangle my head over the sink.
She holds the shower head over the exposed nape of my neck. ‘How’s that?’
‘Bit hot,’ I say in a muffled voice.
She fiddles with the mixer tap.
‘Much better.’
She washes and conditions my hair and wraps a towel around my head, turban-style. My back has set and an old lady ‘ouff!’ escapes my lips as I straighten and hobble over to the table.
Roz uses clips to separate my hair into sections. ‘Straight or curly?’ she asks, watching me in the mirror.
I grin. ‘Let’s stick two fingers up to my genes and go straight for a change.’
‘And there I was saying you were cautious.’
She plugs her hairdryer into the socket behind me and sets to work drying sections of my hair. It’s too noisy to talk and I let my mind drift.
I hope Martin’s OK. Geoff took me to one side just before I left for the day. ‘I’ve spoken to Maureen. She’s really worried about him. Says he’s retreating into himself more and more. His support worker is popping round in t
he morning to see if he needs to be admitted.’
‘I hope not. He hates it in there,’ I said.
‘It’s the best place for him if he’s deteriorating. They can adjust his meds, re-start his talking therapies. Get him back on an even keel.’
‘I know but -’
‘And you must tell Angela what happened. She needs to log it in the incident report book in case there are any repercussions.’
‘She’ll hit the roof.’
‘Better for her to hear it from you than from one of the new volunteers,’ Geoff had said, and I knew he was right.
Sitting in my kitchen with blasts of hot air warming my neck, I wonder if I can get away with not mentioning the knife. If Angela knows that’s what Martin was asking for, she might realise I’ve let him use it before. She may be many things, but she’s not stupid. When she clocks the fact that I’ve lent a penknife to someone with a severe mental health problem she will throw a major wobbly. But if she finds out I’ve lied to her she’ll have my head on a stick. I sigh loudly.
Roz turns off the hairdryer. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Just worrying about work. Angela’s going to lose the plot when she hears about this morning.’
‘I know her type. All bark and bluster. Don’t let her bully you.’
Roz is about to switch the hairdryer on again when she stops mid-air and cocks her head. ‘What’s that?’
The tinny notes of my ringtone can be heard from the hallway.
‘My phone. It’s probably Matt. I’d better get it. He’s going out with the work crowd later.’
I push my chair back, the scrape of wood on tiles drowning out the sound of the phone for a second. Roz, still holding the hairdryer, steps towards the back door and out of my way. Impatient to hear Matt’s voice, I don’t notice the hairdryer’s lead stretched across the gap between the kitchen units and the table, as taut as a tightrope.
I take a step forwards and feel a sharp tug on my shin like the jaws of a gin trap. I stick my hands out in front of me to steady myself but it’s too late, I have already lost my balance. As I tumble forwards, my hands are not outstretched to break my fall. They’re wrapped around my bump, protecting my baby. I scream and the world goes black.
Chapter Twenty
Now
When I come to, I’m propped up against a kitchen cupboard, a cushion behind my head and Roz’s anxious face inches from mine.
‘Sophie! Sophie, can you hear me?’ Her voice is distorted, as if we’re under water, and my head is throbbing like I have the mother of all hangovers. I run the tips of my fingers over my forehead. There’s a bump over my right eye, as big as a quail’s egg. I touch it and wince. ‘What happened?’
‘You tripped over the hairdryer lead. You must have caught your head on the back of the chair as you fell.’
I try to remember. ‘You were drying my hair -’
She nods. ‘And you went to answer your phone. I tried to grab your arm but I was too far away.’
A feeling of dread unfurls in my belly and for a second I think I’m going to vomit. I clutch Roz’s arm. ‘The baby!’
‘Can you feel it move?’
I shake my head. It was so active this evening, virtually kicking on demand, and now it’s completely still. I massage the side of my bump, which usually elicits a reaction, but there’s nothing. My eyes grow wide. ‘Oh my God, what have I done?’
‘Nothing. You haven’t done anything. I’m sure the baby’s fine.’
But Roz’s forced cheeriness doesn’t fool me. I can tell she’s as worried as I am. Her face is pale and she seems to be weighing something up in her mind.
‘I tell you what, why don’t I take you to A&E, just to be on the safe side?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course. We’ll get you and the baby checked over so you don’t need to worry. Can you stand up if I help you?’
I take the hand she offers me and haul myself to my feet. A wave of dizziness grips me and I sway. Roz pulls out a chair and guides me to it.
‘You stay there,’ she orders. ‘Have you packed a maternity bag yet?’
I shake my head again. ‘Didn’t want to tempt fate,’ I mutter, hoping fate isn’t about to have the last laugh.
‘I’ll grab some things for you. Stay put, OK?’
I blanche. ‘You think they’ll keep me in?’
‘I’m sure they won’t, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, eh?’
I sit slumped at the kitchen table listening to the floorboards creaking overhead as Roz walks from our bedroom to the en suite and back again. As I listen I become aware of a warm sensation between my legs. Panic grips my chest and squeezes it like a vice. What if the baby is already dead, its lifeless body floating in its leaking amniotic sac like a heart suspended in formaldehyde? I could never forgive myself.
I stumble to the downstairs cloakroom and wrench down my maternity jeans and pants. I almost can’t bear to look but when I do the relief is immense. It’s urine. I must have wet myself as I hit the floor. I struggle out of my clothes, kick them into a corner, wrap a hand towel around my waist and stagger upstairs to find Roz.
She’s in our bedroom with my Cath Kidston overnight bag open on the bed, studying the photo of me and Matt on his bedside table. It’s a selfie, taken a couple of years ago during a weekend trip to Barcelona. Wrapped up against the cold, we’re laughing like loons. She starts when she hears me, and quickly replaces it.
‘What are you doing up here? I told you to stay put!’
‘I need some clean jeans.’ I gesture at the towel. ‘Had a bit of an accident when I fell.’
She pulls a face and I don’t blame her. Losing control of your bladder isn’t exactly dignified.
‘I’ve packed a clean set of clothes, some pyjamas and a wash bag. What else do you need?’
I glance around the room, my eyes falling on my phone charger curled on the floor by the bed. ‘Just this,’ I say, handing it to her. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind taking me?’
‘We need to check the baby’s OK. And there’s no way you’re driving yourself after whacking your head like that.’ Roz zips the bag closed and hooks it over her shoulder. ‘See you downstairs.’
We pass most of the journey to Ashford in silence. Roz seems agitated, flicking between radio stations incessantly and drumming her fingers on the steering wheel whenever we get stuck behind anyone doing less than fifty miles an hour. Is she regretting her offer to take me? If she is, I don’t blame her. If I had a rare night off from toddler tantrums and demanding husbands, the last place I’d want to spend it would be in A&E. I stare out of the window, willing the baby to move, fretting when it doesn’t.
As she pulls into a parking space in front of the sprawling William Harvey Hospital, Roz looks at me. ‘Feel anything yet?’
I shake my head. I go to take my overnight bag from the back seat but she beats me to it. She strides off towards the main entrance and I scurry behind her, my hands supporting my belly and my head still pounding with the ferocity of a wrecking ball.
We follow the signs to A&E and walk up to the harassed-looking woman at the counter. As I feared, the place is heaving.
‘Name?’ she says, and for a second my mind goes blank. Roz nudges me in the ribs.
‘Um, Sophie. Sophie Saunders.’
I give her my date of birth, address and the name of my GP. She types furiously, her eyes never leaving the screen.
‘And what’s the problem?’
‘She had a fall. She’s thirty-four weeks pregnant,’ says Roz. ‘The baby hasn’t moved since.’
Hearing the words spoken so starkly sends me into a spin and I clutch the counter in desperation. The woman’s expression softens and her voice is sympathetic when she says, ‘Take a seat, dear. The triage nurse will be with you shortly.’
I follow Roz to a couple of empty seats tucked behind the door. Opposite us a small boy of about eight in grey school shorts and a white polo shirt is clutching a blood-
stained cloth to his right index finger. He’s waxwork pale. Beside him a woman in a pinstripe trouser suit and perfectly plucked eyebrows - his mum I presume - is ignoring the No phone signs that are dotted around the noticeboards and is scrolling down her iPhone.
To their right a dazed-looking woman with a frizz of white hair like candy floss is mumbling to herself, watched over by a care worker in an emerald-green tunic. A young woman in tennis whites cradles a limp wrist in her left hand and a man in his late fifties holds a bag of peas wrapped in a tartan tea towel to an impressive-looking bump on his forehead.
Roz sits neatly with her legs crossed and her hands clasped in her lap. I don’t have the energy for conversation, so I pick up a tattered copy of Hello! and flick through it, feigning interest in the empty-headed celebrities and their tasteless homes.
After about ten minutes a cheerful nurse with a round face and even rounder hips approaches with a clipboard. ‘Sophie Saunders?’
I nod.
‘What’s brought you here today, Sophie?’
She listens, making occasional notes, as I recount the fall.
‘Did you lose consciousness?’
‘I don’t think -’
‘She did,’ Roz interjects. ‘Only for a couple of minutes, but she was out stone cold.’
The nurse sucks the end of her ballpoint pen. ‘And the baby hasn’t moved since?’
‘No,’ says Roz. ‘We’ve already told your colleague. We could do with seeing someone this side of Christmas.’
The nurse ignores Roz and smiles at me. ‘We’ll get you in to see a midwife as soon as we can.’
To my relief it’s only a few minutes before my name is called again. As I heave myself out of the chair I think I feel a twinge in my abdomen. But it’s so faint I can’t be sure, and I don’t mention it to Roz in case I’ve imagined it. Another nurse directs us to the maternity ward. We stop at the door to use the sanitising hand gel and head towards the waiting area. I give my details again and am assured someone will be with me shortly. Somewhere in the distance a newborn baby wails.
