Bump, Bike & Baby Page 7

  The midwives have a good look between my legs now and then to see if there’s any sign of baby. If I had any dignity before this moment, it has totally evaporated. I am sprawled out in the bath, naked from the waist down. I don’t have the energy to cover up or adopt a more attractive, seductive pose. All I want is this pain to go away. All my thoughts and energy are devoted to this single, solitary cause.

  I push down when I’m told to, and stop when given the sign. I’m so focused on getting Bump out that I don’t even question the midwife when she whips out a sieve from out of nowhere. She skims the water’s surface and scurries away its contents. I glance down, and see no blood or baby. Just some brown-floating stuff. Here I am, trying to push a baby out, and all I’ve succeeded in doing is emptying out my bowels.

  The midwives keep a close eye on me, advising me on what to do and when. When the time comes for the penultimate push, I feel like I’m shitting a gigantic watermelon.

  ‘Do you want to see your baby crowning?’ I hear the midwife say between my screams. I look down, and see her angling a mirror right between my legs.

  I shake my head ferociously, and divert my eyes away. The last thing I want to see is the total mess of blood and hair that is wriggling away down there.

  ‘Oh my God. Oh my God,’ Pete cries, when I give my final push. ‘It just slithered out.’

  Our water baby is born at 2.30 am.

  The midwives scoop him up out of the water and place him in my arms. He is small, red, and naked. I can’t believe he has just come out of me. ‘You poor thing,’ is all I can manage to say as I hold him to my skin.

  The midwives leave him with me for a few moments before taking him away for some paperwork. Once my placenta is delivered, the other midwife is charged with hauling me out of the bath. I stand up and shuffle towards the exit steps. I look like a wrinkled prune from five hours underwater. But just as I start to emerge from the bath, I begin to shake uncontrollably.

  It’s a lovely feeling. I’ve shaken violently like this after multi-day long-distance runs. It is my body’s unique way of dealing with exhaustion and sleep deprivation. After the strange, unknown sensation of childbirth, it is good that my body is doing something I finally recognise.

  The midwife is not as appreciative of my body’s reaction.

  ‘Call the doctor,’ she shouts. ‘I think she’s going into shock.’

  I hear her words, but am so absorbed by recent events that I forget to intervene.

  Pete immediately steps in instead. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I hear him say. ‘She always does that when she’s really tired.’

  It’s nice when your husband knows your idiosyncrasies.

  Somehow Pete manages to convince the midwives that all I need is a little lie-down. Within a couple of minutes, I’m right as rain again.

  We name our baby Aran after the Aran Islands, a stunning yet bleak set of rocks anchored off Ireland’s west coast. Such a combination of beauty and desolation perfectly depicts my experience of pregnancy and childbirth.

  I pity the boy already.

  Pete stays with me for an hour before making the short journey home. I catch snatches of sleep, but wake often, despite how exhausted I feel.

  I open my eyes the next morning to see Aran in a cot by my bed. He is fast asleep, the rigours of childbirth having exhausted him the previous night. I watch him breathe in and out, trying to make sense of it all.

  Is this love at first sight?

  Am I totally elated?

  Have I achieved my purpose in life?

  No. I don’t think or feel any of these things.

  What I do feel is guilt that I am not awash with endearing, warm emotions. I wish I loved babies and dreamed of smothering him in cuddles for hours. Whether I like it or not, that is unfortunately not who I am.

  What I do feel is fiercely protective. This child beside me looks so small, and so terribly helpless. I want to hold him when he cries, feed him when he’s hungry, pick him up when he falls. I want to make sure he comes to no harm. I am the one who has brought him into the world. I am responsible for him.

  Aran starts to move his chubby legs, and lets out a tiny whine. I look over at him, not entirely sure what I should do now. I’ve never been around a newborn child before. I take a wild guess and pick him up. My hand slides under his fragile neck, with my other hand cupped under his tiny nappy. I lift his eight pound five ounce body and do what comes most naturally to me: I cradle him like a doll.

  He lets out the briefest of yawns, then falls asleep on my bosom. I stare down at him, amazed that he trusts me enough to sleep in my arms, especially when we only made our acquaintance in the early hours of this morning.

  My friends were right. Maybe it is different when they are your own. Maybe I will be able to figure out this maternal thing after all.

  7

  Trapped

  I slide Aran out of my arms and place him back in his bedside cot. I then get out of my hospital bed and tiptoe to the bathroom. I’m unsure of how much noise wakes a sleeping infant, but I don’t want to find out right now by disturbing baby Aran. I close the door quietly behind me and make my way over to the toilet. It takes a while for the pee to come, and it stings like hell when it finally does.

  I was extremely fortunate that Aran came out without tearing me, and no stitches were required. I can’t imagine the screams I’d hurl now if I had been torn apart last night.

  A large mirror is stuck on the wall above the washbasin. I suppose I should have a look at myself now that the baby is out. I start at the top and work my gaze slowly down. My hair looks bedraggled, after a crazy late night of childbirth. But it still looks beautiful, thick, and shiny thanks to a rich hormonal supply of oestrogen. I know my mane will slowly but surely fall out over the coming months as the oestrogen levels subside. Equally numbered are the days I will behold these long, strong fingernails and perfect cuticles that adorn my ageing hands.

  Next, my billowing, stripy, cotton nightgown comes into view. I bought it especially for my hospital stay, and it is so not my style. But it manages to cover up nicely my post-natal torso, which I dread to look at even now. I see the outline of my oversized breasts, which are all ready to swing into feeding action if and when required. And there it is, my wobbly belly, still swollen after months of growing a child. Before, it felt like a basketball, pumped up hard with air. Now, it feels slightly deflated, but still very much bloated and round.

  How will I ever get my body back in race shape again?

  I don’t have time to work out the answer to this burning question. Instead I open the bathroom door to hear a faint whimper of a baby looking for his mother.

  The midwives had shown me last night, just after his birth, how to breastfeed my new baby. Both Aran and I were full of first-time fumbles. Him, opening his mouth like a goldfish, trying to work out what he is meant to suck. Then there was me, moving his head back and forth across my upper body, directing him towards the nearest nipple. Finally, we made contact, and he took his first proper drink of milk.

  Now, with the midwives busy elsewhere, I have to attempt this feeding process on my own. I pick Aran up from his cot, holding his head gently, petrified that I might break this tiny creature at any moment. I carefully put him in the position the midwives suggested and, after a few near misses, he manages to latch on successfully. This breastfeeding malarkey might just out work in the end.

  ‘Look at you!’ a voice coos from around the bedroom door. I have lost all track of time, but it must be visiting hours. My mum has come to the hospital to see her first-ever grandchild.

  ‘Oh, isn’t he the cutest?’ Mum says, coming over to the bed and beaming at the breastfeeding baby. I look down at Aran. Cute? He looks just like every other baby I’ve seen before.

  ‘Aren’t you so lucky you can feed him yourself,’ Mum says. ‘I remember when I was in hospital after giving birth and the midwives told me I didn’t have enough milk to feed you.’

  I am surprised by
this revelation. Mum is much more endowed than me in that department. But I suppose, back in the day, the benefits of breastfeeding weren’t fully appreciated. Formula feeding was the preferred maternity policy.

  ‘Do you want to hold him?’ I say, expecting Mum to snatch Aran straight right out of my arms.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she says, aghast. ‘I might break him.’

  ‘Sure didn’t you bring up a whole pile of children yourself?’ I say. ‘I thought you’d be a dab hand at it.’

  ‘That was a long time ago, my dear,’ Mum says. ‘I don’t remember much about child-rearing.’

  ‘But I thought you were meant to give me loads of parenting advice?’ I say. I heard some mothers can be quite interfering when their daughters reproduce.

  Mine shakes her head. ‘I’m certain the midwives will give you much better guidance that I can, my dear,’ she says. ‘They are surely more up-to-date on all the new-fangled baby stuff.’

  I force Mum to take a seat as I deposit Aran on her lap. She slowly melts as she rocks him back and forth. Watching the two of them happily swaying away, I realise that as long as Mum’s there to be his granny, that will be ample enough.

  Though everything goes well with the birth, Aran is not immediately discharged from hospital. The doctors find he has a touch of jaundice caused by a build-up of bilirubin in his blood.

  Bilirubin is a yellow substance produced when red blood cells are broken down. It is a common enough condition with newborns, especially those who are breastfed. Aran needs to undergo phototherapy to help his liver break down this intrusive blood by-product.

  Most new mums would be distressed by their baby’s unforeseen illness. But I come from a medical family, where sickness is dealt with stoically. My grandfather was a doctor who delivered thousands of babies across Derry city throughout the Second World War and during the Troubles. His two sons, my father and uncle, both studied medicine at university. I am therefore used to medical male relatives intervening with their expertise and knowledge, restoring calm as soon as sickness hits my family. So when I see a doctor taking charge and ordering Aran’s immediate treatment, I promptly place my confidence in this professional, never doubting that my son is in anything but perfectly safe hands.

  Aran is stripped down to his nappy, given some eyeshades, and placed on a blue florescent sunbed. Despite the seriousness of this illness, I can’t help but see the lighter side of his treatment. All Aran needs now is a piña colada and some calypso background music and he’s on his first sunshine holiday.

  I stay with him during this time, allowing me to grow gradually accustomed to motherhood. I change his nappies. I practise breastfeeding, waking every few hours to feed him. The midwives give me lanolin ointment to soothe a cracked nipple or two; but apart from this minor discomfort, breastfeeding comes pretty naturally.

  Aran makes a slow and steady recovery. Every day the nurses draw his blood to check his bilirubin levels and to ensure that they are dropping.

  I had originally hoped Aran and I could go home straight after his birth. Admittedly, I had an ulterior motive. I wanted to go to the first-ever Wicklow Round prize-giving ceremony that week, where I was to receive a commemorative plaque. But with Aran’s unexpected illness, I am unable to attend. Before, I would have been devastated at missing such an event. Now, with Aran around, I know that it is more important to stay with him until he gets better rather than receive prizes and adulation for some long run I once did.

  After seven days in hospital, Aran is given the all-clear. Pete and I hastily pack up his things, and prepare to bring him home. We still haven’t acquired a stroller, let alone a travel system. Instead, we spent thirty pounds on a strip of fabric that wraps itself into an African-style sling. I carefully tie all the knots and place Aran inside the cloth’s folds. He is snug within the wrap, held tightly against my chest.

  Pete and I carry our brand-new baby down to our old, faithful car. Pete has managed to install the second-hand car seat we were given, after a few frustrating attempts in our home’s driveway. We lower Aran into its arms.

  ‘I’m amazed that the hospital has allowed us to take him away,’ I say. ‘We needed far more paperwork to bring Tom back home.’

  Pete starts the car and inches us on to the main road. Every couple of seconds, he glances into the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Is he okay?’ Pete says, throwing looks over his shoulder. ‘Is he still breathing?’

  I am nervous too. It was fine when Aran and I were in the hospital, with medical staff close at hand. Now we are out in the wide open, with just Pete and I completely responsible for Aran’s well-being. Fortunately, help is at hand from the community midwife service. Just as Pete and I are leaving the hospital with Aran, I am informed that a community midwife will visit us in our home the next day.

  I really appreciate the offer of help. However, being confined to a hospital for a whole week has made me a little stir-crazy. I was really looking forward to getting out and about with baby Aran. But now this midwife visit, at an unspecified time tomorrow, means I have to stay at home the whole day.

  The next morning, I get up with Aran bright and early and make ourselves ready for our visitor. I feed us both, get washed and changed. 9 am comes and goes, but no sign of the midwife. 10 am soon arrives, and I’m wondering what to do with myself. I can’t leave the house, so I instead start cleaning the place from top to bottom. I dust the shelves, the mantelpiece, then the picture frames. By 1 pm, I start to polish the silver that hasn’t been touched in decades.

  Where is this midwife? If she leaves it any longer, she might find me stripping the wallpaper and repainting the walls.

  Finally she arrives at 3 pm, and immediately apologises. ‘There were a few urgent cases I had to attend to this morning,’ she explains.

  ‘No worries,’ I say, hoping we can now just get this over and done with so that we can both be on our merry way.

  ‘So how has everything been going?’ the midwife asks, when we finally sit down in my sparklingly clean living room.

  ‘Fine,’ I reply, trying not to look at the time on the watch dangling from her lapel. I wonder how long this will take.

  ‘And your stitches?’

  ‘No, no stitches.’

  ‘Okay,’ she replies, noting that down in my file. ‘And how’s the breastfeeding going?’

  ‘Grand,’ I reply. I figure the less I say, the sooner I can get out of here.

  The midwife puts the file to one side. ‘And how are you feeling in general?’

  I open my mouth to give another curt response, but all that comes out is a muffled whine. Then I burst into desperate sobs.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ I say. Emotions have secretly pooled somewhere, unknown to me, and now they are exploding all over this poor midwife. ‘It’s just . . . It’s just . . . I want to go out for coffee,’ I blurt out. I try in vain to stop the tears streaming from my eyes. I am blubbering from my very core. All because I need a cup of coffee, from a real coffee shop in town.

  ‘That’s all right, love,’ the midwife says, resting a hand on my knee. ‘Are you feeling a little down?’

  Oh God, please let this not be post-natal depression. When I was expecting, several friends had told me how they suffered from this condition after giving birth. And after hearing about their dreadful experiences, I have prayed night and day that I will not suffer a similar plight.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, fiercely wiping my nose and face. ‘It’s just all been a bit much. Aran got sick, you see, and we had to spend a whole week in hospital, and I wasn’t sure if or when he would be all right.’

  I had managed to hold myself together for the whole time in the hospital. But now that I am back in my own home, and I’ve a kind, listening ear, I have totally fallen apart.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘Many women get baby blues a couple of days after their baby is born.’

  She assures me it is totally normal. But if I continue to feel emotional or
anxious, I should contact her or my local doctor.

  We conclude our home-based meeting, but it’s not long before I have to call the midwife again. I know next to nothing about babies and their health, and my total ignorance in this department becomes apparent very soon.

  I accidentally cover up his umbilical cord wound with his nappy, and it becomes oozy, red and sore. Aran’s left eye starts to weep pus, as he develops conjunctivitis. His scalp becomes horribly flaky when he contracts cradle cap. Then he doesn’t poo for days, as we anxiously wait for his first stool deposited outside of the hospital environment to arrive. Thankfully, the midwife’s threat of a suppository soon gets Aran’s bowels moving once more.

  Soon, ten days have passed since Aran has appeared on the scene. And I’ve barely left the house.

  ‘Why don’t we go for a walk with Tom?’ Pete says. ‘I think we’d all appreciate some fresh air.’ The mere mention of the word ‘walk’ sends Tom into a mad frenzy. It looks like we’re going out, whether we like it or not.

  We opt to visit the deserted beach I walked on just before my waters broke. I enclose Aran in his wrap on the excursion, and despite being buffeted by strong coastal winds and swirling sands, he soon nods off to sleep. The beach walk is the remedy I needed. Every step I take makes me realise that my lung space has finally returned. I don’t feel too breathless from the gentle steps I take on the shore.

  Pete runs after Tom, who has spotted another dog frolicking in the waves. However, I am very aware that even a gentle jog towards the sea would be a very bad idea. Aran’s abrupt exit has caused my pelvic floor to collapse. In addition, I have suffered a urinary prolapse. I am so stretched down there that I fear running might cause all my internal organs to slump out between my legs.

  I am disappointed with myself. Irish Olympian Sonia O’Sullivan was back running ten days after giving birth. I am nowhere near that stage. So if I ever had the notion I was even close to Olympic material, I now know I was terribly mistaken.