Spriggy

Spriggy

They start as soon as I wake up- the first contractions. They are so gentle- is labour this easy? I run a warm bath and carefully lower myself into the water, watching it run down the sides of my stomach, like lots of little rivers down a steep hill. I trace my finger down my liana negra- a mark, long after your child’s grown up, of motherhood. 
I clasp my stomach gently, and a fierce kick erupts from beneath my ribs.

‘Ow! Are you going to be a footballer, Spriggy?’ I address my bump.

Spriggy is the pet name that I have for my unborn baby. I thought that it sounded much nicer than ‘it.’

‘Let me out of here!’ I imagine him yelling. ‘I don’t fit anymore!’

Kick, kick, kick. The water ripples like waves against a beach.
Another twinge. I make the most of my bath, thinking that it might be the last time in a long time that I get to relax. The next bath that I would have would be in the hospital, later that day. I would be in pain and barely able to support myself. I would want to escape the body that was betraying me. But all that was to come. For the moment, I enjoy the sight of the morning sunlight streaming through the bathroom window.
I was worried about labour, of course. The extract from my diary on 31 January 2006, five weeks before, reads:

‘I’m a bit worried about the pain + length of labour (+ lack of food during it + once Spriggy is born, the lack of sleep (argh) + that s/he might not feed well.)’

I had good reason to be worried. I was a happy 23 year old, married, ecstatic to be pregnant after eleven months of trying, and I had no idea what I was letting myself in for.
I hoist myself out of the bath and waddle into the bedroom, towelling dry my long brown wavy hair. My husband Mike is still asleep, in his usual pose of right arm over his eyes, and left arm spread across the red duvet on my side. His feet poke over the end of the bed.

‘I think I’m in labour.’ I announce.

‘Are you?’ He sits up quickly in bed, his green eyes lighting up, and reaches for his glasses on the bedside cabinet.

‘Well, I’m not sure. It’s still very gentle.’

‘Oh.’ He slumps back on the pillow, closing his eyes again.

After lunch, my contractions get much stronger, and they’re only four minutes apart. So we go to the hospital, excited and apprehensive. Labour slows down as soon as we arrive. Dawn, my midwife- a motherly woman of about 40 with dark brown hair in a bob and kind blue eyes- suggests that I walk around to get things going again. Waddling along the green and cream corridors on the second floor of The Great Western Hospital: gazing at the abstract paintings that line the walls. A violent slash of blood red against a vivid orange and purple background. Not very calming. I start to feel a contraction coming- the slow tightening and the fear of the pain to come. Grabbing the low wooden handrail that runs along the length of the corridor. Staring out of the window onto the children’s outdoor play area. A pretty little cottage with a red roof. Bright cars in primary colours. And as the crest of the pain comes, visualising a Cuban beach with soft white sand that I can sink my toes into, a palm tree waving gently in the breeze. And the pain peaks. Grip the handrail even tighter. Breathe in… and out. In… and out. The contraction passes. I relax.

With every contraction the pain and the fear of the pain, grows. I turn the corner, and notice the sticky-soft green floor. Green flooring and green walls- a calming colour. But I am not calm. That sickly-sweet smell everywhere. A scent of illness, a scent of death. Floors that are easy-wipe: how much blood has been spilled here? A scream of a young child as we pass the Children’s Outpatients Department. Past the Special Care Baby Unit, where another contraction racks my weary body. Grab the handrail. Visualise the island- the sea, the palm tree. Breathe in… and out. In… and out.

‘I want to go back to the room.’ I mumble to Mike. ‘I’m too tired, I need to lie down.’

He takes my hand wordlessly and leads me back to my bed.
It’s 5 o’clock now- I’ve been in labour for ten hours. I lie down on the crisp sheets and look at the room in which my child will soon be born. White walls, white blinds, white sheets. In the corner sits Mike, doing a Times Sudoku. Next to him is a portable plastic crib. Inside the crib is a blanket depicting puppies. My child’s first bed. Behind my head, attached to the wall is a selection of intimidating instruments. I think that one is for the gas and air, but I don’t know what those are for. Probably for if something goes wrong. Another contraction and I lie back, eyes closed, gripping the sheet between my hands. Visualise. Breathe. Relax. Dawn comes in, and gently touches my arm.

‘We’re going to need to get this moving, Alex. I’m going to wait ‘till six, and then break your waters. Is that ok?’

‘Yes.’ I reply uncertainly.

‘Ok, is there anything you’d like in the meantime, a drink maybe?’ She asks kindly.

‘No thanks.’

She smiles and leaves the room. And so, at six o’clock, when on a normal day, I’d just be finishing watching Neighbours at home, my waters are broken. I don’t feel a thing. Until the next contraction that is.

‘Can I have the gas and air?’ I ask desperately.

It helps- I feel drunk - but the pain doesn’t go away. I ask for pethadine. By now I am unaware of my surroundings. All I know is the pain, and the blessed space between pains. I wring the sheet in my hand, and cry out. I’ve given up visualising the island- it doesn’t help anymore. Mike is there by my side. I believe that my REM CD is on in the background- Michael Stipe’s gentle voice was soothing before the pain got too bad. I am trapped inside my body, which is turning against me. I want to escape. I want to die- anything to get rid of this agony. And then Dawn leaves, and a new midwife starts her shift. I can’t remember her name. She is younger and has a mean face with a pinched nose. She exudes uncertainty.

‘I need an epidural.’ I plead.

Her face falls. Why does she look scared? Aren’t I the one in labour? She struggles to get a needle into my arm, jabbing me uselessly.

‘I can’t find a vein.’ She mutters. ‘I need to get someone to help.’

I curse the fates that sent me this useless woman.
A man enters and rambles on about risks. I don’t really listen. I nod my assent to whatever he’s said.

‘Tell me if you get a contraction.’ He warns. He’s standing behind me. I am bent over on the side of the bed, head over my knees.

‘I’ve got a contraction.’ I cry.

‘Don’t move!’

I know that if I move, I might be paralysed. I am petrified, but I don’t move. And then relief, and even sleep.
I wake up feeling better. The rest happens quickly.
I hear a beep…beep...beep that is reassuring in its regularity, but then it suddenly slows down to beep……..beep. I panic. That’s my baby’s heartbeat- he’s going to die. All this for nothing. The room fills with people.

‘Push!’ Someone shouts.

I push down with all my might, but I can’t feel a thing. I push harder, and harder, until my face turns purple. I can’t breathe anymore. I stop pushing.

‘Well done.’ They say.

But I know I haven’t pushed hard enough.
A blonde woman sits between my legs (that are in stirrups), frantically working. I can’t see what she’s doing, but Mike tells me later that she had vontouse and forceps in one hand, and an extremely sharp pair of scissors in the other. She seemed to be using all of them at the same time, while the tip of a little bloody head poked out nearby. He was very impressed with her skill. I’m glad that I didn’t have to watch.
And eventually one final, massive push that knocks all the air out of my body, and Spriggy’s out.

Silence. A man takes Spriggy over to a table on my right and does something with him. I can’t see what.

‘Waaaaa!’ A soft cry breaks the tension.

They bring the child to me and place him on my chest. Just like Hemmingway said- a skinned rabbit. It’s a boy – I knew it. I am so tried, so relieved. 

He weighs 9 pounds 5 ounces. We name him Connor. Born 7 March 2006 at 2:46 am. My little boy. He opens his big blue eyes and stares at me.