Hymn

Work to do

The doctors and nurses did a grand job but sometimes they made me wonder.  And it wasn’t just their enthusiasm for drugs.  The various midwives seemed to enjoy a good row at the strangest of times, usually around tea breaks and between contractions.  And when the doctor wanted to make some room for the ventouse sucker (made by Hoover), she seemed surprised that an unsedated woman yelped.  And later, I was intrigued that T’s tummy was apparently the best place to rest knives, jack hammers, needles and cotton, an electrical generator and bloody swaps while minor surgery took place.  All seemed slightly odd, but then I’m not a medical man.       

All Present and Correct

I know it’s a dangerous thing for me to say, but it wasn’t too bad. Afterall, my effort was little more than holding hands, mopping brows, soothing and encouraging but T was a real star.  She bravely resisted the drug-pushing nurses who seemed to be working on some sort of commission basis and pushed all the way, only needing a little help at the end.  I don’t think the staff are used to additive-free labour, particularly as T didn’t scream blue murder or heap curses on me.  The worse it got (and I’m not making this up) was “Ow!  Ow!  Ow! That hurts!”  And it really did. 

Baby Reeve has all the bits where they should be and enough of everything.  All 3 kilos of her (that’s 6lb 9oz in Old Money).  She has a shock of dark brown hair, her Daddy’s nose and her Mummy’s frown and fingernails.  And of course she is utterly utterly beautiful and perfect.

Here

12.47pm.  I have a daughter.

Nine Trees

I found a short cut to the hospital, at least that’s the only way I could explain the speed of my arrival after the midwife called at 8.45.  T’s contractions were 3 minutes apart and she had been moved a delivery room. 

It took two more hours before the Pushing phase, that’s about 30 minutes of self-inflicted electrocution and Gas and Air.  It’s a bit like sticking your tongue on one of those square nine volt batteries while being gassed at the dentist, as I discovered during the ‘quiet time.’  And then there’s the real business as well.  It’s an odd thing waiting for the next inevitable wave.  Trying to be supportive, trying not to sound like a patronising jerk.

Out of the window, looking for inspiration, there were nine tall trees on the horizon. 

Tic Toc

7am. I cut my hair.

7.10am. I clean the bathroom.

7.50am. I write this.

Early Bird

Of course I can’t sleep.  As dawn breaks, awaiting the call, and utterly clueless how to busy myself, I am in my neighbours’ garden digging up turf.  It’s all right, they’re not at home.  And I’d asked.  They’re paving over their back lawn and I have a bald patch.  It seemed like a good idea until the birds started their early morning tweeting.  They made me feel a trifle foolish.

1...2...miss a few

For the last couple of weeks, I’ve met every one of T’s twinges with the expectation of labour.  Tonight caught me unawares, although in my defence, I was asleep when The Waters Broke.  It was 12.53am and 9 days early. 

Although we seriously considered going back to bed until morning, an uncharacteristic rush of sense made us call the hospital.  They ordered us in.

By 4.30am, the nurse has decided that the waters had leaked, not broken, that T, with contractions 5 minutes apart, wasn’t close enough to warrant a delivery room and that as a Man, I couldn’t stay in the Labour Ward.  I went home, alone and helplessly separated from my heart.

Bulk Carrier

It’s unusual to find a pair of empty seats in the morning.  I thought it might have something to do with what looked like the outcome of a bomb in a newsagents. Trashy celebrity magazines, empty crisp packets, assorted sweet wrappers and a half-consumed cup of something lay strewn across the seats.  On the floor lay a carrier full of uneaten food and more crappy mags.  The train’s arrival at a station clearly caught the previous occupants by surprise.  Or some poor WH Smiths rep had spontaneously exploded.

I had just settled when I felt the carriage lurch.  At the far end, a woman, wide enough to block out the sun, was sashaying down the aisle.  She wasn’t swaying about for effect, no, she had to manoeuvre one hip into a gap and then swing the rest round to follow.  It was like watching a wardrobe squeeze itself around a series of too narrow corners.  And carrying armfuls of provisions from the onboard shop.  I knew immediately where she was heading.  My seat.  Her seat.  She’d obviously gone to restock, just in case her meagre supplies didn’t last the entire 50 minutes to London or there was nuclear war.

I weighed up the options, heavily illustrated with mental imagery.  And moved.

Standby

It's like going out with a celebrity, albeit a celebrity Weeble. Everywhere we go people stare; complete strangers come over and strike up conversations.  Of course, they take no notice of me.  I'm just the And Friend, I'm just the one carrying a mop, some towels and a flask of hot water just in case It happens.  And it could.  Any time now.

Stop

It might be nothing.  It almost certainly isn’t anything.  I'd finished my sheep book on the way home and then listened to some young squaddies discuss music.  I waited for the train to pull into the station.  I had to look twice but I’m sure that the reflection of the adjacent track was moving more slowly than the view out of the window.  I checked again.  Definitely and impossibly slower. 

As I stepped off the train at 6.34, something somewhere stopped.  Don’t know what or where.  Not a premature or painful finish, but an end just the same.  I felt a moment of loss but in the quiet evening sunlight of a Spring day, it felt okay.