Not Bad

12th April, 2004

I am lying in bed with my paramor, heavily pregnant with another man's baby (by whom you should note I was dumped several months before). It is Easter. I have two weeks left until leaving work (and three until giving birth).  I am extremely grateful to Courtney Love posing pregnant in a baby doll nightdress.

A slight twinge in my back makes me think "how odd, I'm pregnant and yet getting my period."  I decide that chips and mushy peas will solve all, so trot off to the local fish and chip emporium across the street, whilst Himself (for it is he) has a bath.  I return, and we scoff chips in bed.  He is supposed to go home that night, but decides to hang around as he is worried about me.  Despite my protestations that I will be fine and all is ok, I am extremely grateful that he is staying.  Naturally, I cannot say this to him and instead grunt through what I assume is either indigestion from too many chips or, as above, my period.

The pain in my lower back ache and stomach provokes me into having a bath. Whilst in there. I am slightly horrifed that my stomach visibly moves and is, temporarily, in the shape of a triangle.  It is an Alien moment and I am, frankly, freaked out.  The sight of a limb poking through under my ribs gives me what can only be described as the collywobbles, and I jump out of the bath as quickly as a 38 week pregnant bird can.

13th April 2004

At around 1am, it becomes apparent that I am most likely not having a period, and neither do I have indigestion.  The sensation of someone tightening and releasing an elastic band the size of Streatham in my womb increases, and it is clearly time to head off to the hospital.  My mum is called, who tells me that I can probably just wait until the morning.  *That* ex (or, as he will herein be referred to, Rat Face) is called, a message left that the baby is coming. Himself and I hug, and he promises to look after Furry Boo.  Furry Boo, understandably, scowls at me from on top of the wardrobe, and flashes me her "whatever" look (a Furry Boo classic).

Mum rolls up, and I precariously make my way down the several flights of stairs from my current slum residence, past the kid downstairs who is having (another) party, down the poorly attached fire escape, and gingerly into Mum's car.  She fusses about my putting a seat belt on.  I, ridiculously, have a small hand held battery powered fan that I am attempting to keep cool with.  I cannot sit on the seat as the sensation of my bowels escaping through my uretha doesn't appear to be lessening. We bicker, and I start what will be come to be known as not only the day The Boy was born, but the Night Wiltshire Called All The Staff On The Maternity Ward Cunts.

We arrive at the hospital, and I have a message on my phone stating that Rat Face has decided to go to my flat.  I ask my mum to call him to tell him to go to the hospital, but she has a petulant on and is in the midst of a show down telling me he shouldn't have been asked to come anyway.  I block her out, and because I am so worried that Rat Face will start a scene with Himself and upset Furry Boo, I call to advise him that we are at the hospital. Rat Face then starts a 5 minute diatribe, demanding to know why I will not be there to greet him at my flat, how I could be so selfish to get to the hospital without him, that he doesn't know where the hospital is etc.  At this point, the pain is starting to take hold and I desperately need to vomit, or poo, or possibly both.  I mumble and shuffle to get in to the maternity ward.  I am buzzed in, and am ushered in to a room to "change".  Halfway through, and I dash as quickly as I can to the toilet where I duly "evacuate".

I am moved to a larger room, where I am examined.  I am 1 centimetre dilated, and it will take a substantially long time for the baby to shift its arse out.  I proudly show them my birth plan (which is the legend "EPIDURAL" written in uppercase letters five centremetres high), and am told that this is not something for me to concern myself about at this time.  I am offered a sleeping drug, which I take.  I say at this point that I was a very quick delivery, and am told that it this is not a concern.

10 minutes later...

My waters break, I am 10 centimetres dilated and I do not have a fucking clue what is going on.  The contractions come in fours, and I should be pushing on each one.  Instead, the first one is waking me up, the second one registers the pain, the third one sees me grab for gas and air, and the last one I give a tiny, pathetic push.  During the second set of contractions, Rat Face rolls in wearing a new jacket.  He tells me I am lucky that he was in, as he was going to go to the pub that evening but decided not to.  I am pretty out of it, though I still manage to verbally castigate him for spending money on himself rather than his kid, and call him a fuck faced cunt for good measure.

I am told to "calm down" by the midwife, who I call a cunt and also tell to fuck off.  Rat Face tells me I must be calm for the baby.  I hit him with the gas and air inhaler, and tell him he is a faithless cunt as I jab it near his face.  I am crying quite heavily, not because it is particularly painful or because Rat Face has desperately upset me, but because I actually don't have a clue what is going on and I am already exhausted.

A group of medical students come in.  I shout at them to fuck off.  I threaten that if they do not fuck off, I will get off the table and kick them in their collective cunts.  They shuffle nervously.  I make a vague "I fucking mean it" move. They fuck off.

I send Mum down to the business end.  I want to destroy Rat Face's hand in the way my sister did when my neice was born, but the idea of touching him is pretty repellant, so I hit him with the gas and air inhaler again.  At this point, it is taken off of me.

5 minutes later

The midwife from the next room comes in to tell me that I am putting the other women off.  I scream "well it does fucking well hurt, you know."  She leaves.  Quickly.

Another 15 minutes later...

The baby is crowning.  I have no idea what to do.  I sob to Mum that I can't do this, and that she'll have to do it for me.  The midwife tells me that I am making a fuss about nothing, that she has had five children and not made the fuss I am.  I tell her to fuck off, and tell her she must have a cunt the size of the Blackwell tunnel if giving birth didn't hurt her.  I re-tell my mum that I cannot do it, that she will have to, and tearfully announce to the maternity room that I am going outside to have a fag.  I get one leg on the floor, and Rat Face tries to restrain me.  I tell him that he is a cunt and to fuck off.

There is now a crowd gathered around my vagina, staring at it.  I am shouted at by the midwife that I am not doing it right.  Naturally, I tell her to fuck off.

20 minutes on...

I am trying to do the pushing thing, but keep dozing off.  I start to question Rat Face as to why he was unfaithful, why he left me pregnant and alone, why he did these things, and sob that I loved him.  Then I call him a cunt.  The medical staff around my vagina tell me to concentrate on having the baby.  Rat Face is given a collection of very dirty looks.

3 minutes later...

The Boy has arrived.  He is taken off to be weighed, cleaned, checked.  I look at the clock.  It feels like it has been longer than it has.  I am then told I have to deliver the placenta.  I tell the midwife to fuck off.

10 minutes on...

I am being checked and stitched.  The woman working on me appears to be constructing the Bayeux Tapestry on my vagina.  She says that she will need to put her finger in my rectum to check for cuts.  I enquire why this is, asking her "you want to put your fucking finger up my fucking what? Fuck off."  She does it anyway.  Apparently, that's not a kosher move.

30 minutes later...

The room has emptied.  Rat Face has gone to phone news of The Boy's arrival.  Mum has gone home.  The hospital staff have left the room.  There is toast and tea on the table next to me.

The Boy is beautiful.  I will not need to name him Lord Justice, as he will clearly attain this title anyway.  Old ladies will clamour to peer at him.  Old men will produce coins from behind his ears.

The fact that I will not sit down comfortably for a week, that I will be scared to wee, is not even present in my mind.  The pain fades to nothing.  There should be some sort of animated baboon holding him aloft to a song being badly sung by a bald man.

This is my baby, and he is fucking amazing.  Wiltshire Towers has been established with his birth.  Not bad. Not bad at all.