Week 0: Hey Jude

 Day 1

We didn’t mind our last baby was two weeks late. My dad, Harriet’s father-in-law, had just passed and we needed time to process sadness before we could register joy.

However, we really didn’t want this baby to be late.

If our little boy was born early in the summer, it would give us the opportunity to be a family whilst the school holidays were still in full swing. Also, last time round was a complex situation; in any other context, you don’t want to be waiting weeks and weeks for a child to be born.

Harriet’s baby shower had friends guess the name, due date and weight. Unsurprisingly, the latest someone put down was August 17^th, the due date. (Note: If you are at a baby shower, always put down a date before the due date or- if you’re particularly close to the mum-to-be - the due date itself. Never put down a time that exceeds the expected time of arrival, the mum-to-be will kill you and the police won’t charge, accepting there were mitigating circumstances.)

I was nervous when she came home from her afternoon tea with dates in late July and early August. I thought, “These women have acted with no regard for me. I’m going to have to be the one that picks up the pieces when we’re in a heatwave at the end of August, no baby in sight, living with a woman whose thermostat is on the blink, whose central heating can’t be controlled, who has vaporised into raging steam. Thanks a bloody lot.”  

It's no game for the partner who has to deal with the consequences at home.

So it was with some relief that we find ourselves in Ward 31 on Thursday evening. Harriet has been having mild contractions and because of the pulmonary embolism (clot on the lung) she inherited with her pregnancy we’ve been advised to come in. (Note 2: Harriet is fine and the clot is under control. Don’t panic.)

 Ward 31 or Triage is what we’re later told ‘A&E for pregnant people’; it is busy, bustling and loud. Norah, a lovely Irish midwife, seems to be the lady charged with controlling the chaos. Her lexicon consists of vaginal terms and terms of endearment; she says things like, “Darling, your cervix is lovely” or “Sweetheart, your uterus is doing a beautiful job.” She is the kind of lady that you would want to wear on your shoulder. She makes Harriet feel good, and in an uncertain situation like childbirth that is a wonderful quality to have. We’re both sad when her shift ends.

Day 2

Harriet is moved up to Ward 32. Moving up the floors in L&D is a bit like going up the levels in a computer game: you know you’re moving up in difficulty rating but progressing towards the ending. Unfortunately, things don’t seem to move on, meaning Ward 32 becomes a place of limbo for Harriet. Other women go ahead of her in the birthing queue and she is left in a holding place, a netherworld between going home and the delivery suite. It feels like being in the departure lounge where your train has been cancelled, but there’s no news yet as to when the replacement will arrive. It’s a waiting game. If only Norah, the vagina whisperer were here, she would jolly a baby out of the womb.

Sorry, must have typed in the wrong 'limbo' into Google Images.

Day 3 

Bad news on the doctor’s round as Harriet is told she’ll have to go home. There are too many queuing for inductions today, so we’ll have to pack up and head home. Harriet is crestfallen. It feels like we’re back to square one. I tell her that we’re still many days before the due date and in the grand scheme of things we’re still further ahead than we thought. But I can tell Harriet’s thinking, “But I’m still two weeks after where the girls at my baby shower said I would be.” I make a note to restrict visitation rights to any of Harriet’s friends who put down a July birth.

Just as it looks like we’re being going home, Harriet gets a reprieve. The contractions kick in slowly again and she’ll stay in another night for observation. I go home thinking it will be days yet.

11.30 pm

“Ryan, you need to come now. They’re taking me to delivery.”

 

Day 4 

I decide not to mention that Harriet’s timing is inconvenient, that I was just about to sprawl ecstatically in our double bed, unencumbered by a maternity pillow, to sleep perchance to dream. Instead I say, “Great work, H.” It’s the little lies that keep a marriage together. The midwife tells Harriet that the night could be long, that the contractions are still few and far between, but things are moving. To help her on the way she breaks Harriet’s waters. The last time Harriet was in labour her waters broke all over a student midwife. Sure, the student got an anecdote out of it, but she is also -like Venkman in Ghostbusters - got slimed on. “Welcome to Midwifery,” I imagine her mentor deadpanned afterwards. This time Harriet’s amniotic fluid shows some degree of decorum and doesn’t attack a valued public servant.

Things seemed to be moving slowly until all of a sudden they aren’t. A rush and a push and the land is ours. Harriet was incredible, and our baby arrived. Jude Ellis Theivamanoharan. We wept, we cried. I remember crying last time; of course out of joy, but also relief that the worst pain for Harriet was over. It’s hard watching the person you love in pain – in many ways it’s a pain greater than labour itself. (A lot of women not wanting to laugh at that joke there.)

We were overjoyed when our son entered our world. Harriet asked me to put ‘Hey Jude’ on in a quasi-naming ceremony, baptising him in the waters of a McCartney’s classic. I then put on Elvis ‘Can’t Help Falling In Love’ and The Villagers cover of ‘The Wonder.’ We were in a blissful bubble of happiness. Unfortunately though, there was a problem removing the placenta and Harriet was taken to theatre. The team of anesthetists, nurses, midwifes and doctors bantered back and forth about holidays, indicating that although deeply uncomfortable, this procedure wasn’t something to be alarmed by. Soon we were back on Recovery with Jude resting in Harriet’s arms. Nine months they lived with one another, and now they finally, truly met. I’m so full of admiration for my wife and what she’s done to get him here.

United.

And as for Jude if any boys try to roughhouse him at school, he can always retort, ‘My mum’s placenta is bigger than yours.’