Milo

Milo
Is that a smile I see before me?

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Remember, remember, the fifth of November

Written just over two weeks ago:

So here I am writing to you from my hospital bed. You’re not due for another four weeks, but on Sunday, just as I was about to go to Mothercare to buy some baby gear (not for anything, you know, important, just the cot, the sling, the pram, some nappies, a baby monitor, your bath, a moses basket…), my waters broke.

Just like that. It wasn’t dramatic. It was more of an ‘oh my god, is that what I think it is?’ moment. I reluctantly called Trafford General, they told me to come in and before I knew what was what I was legs akimbo on an NHS-issue bed while one doctor after another poked about to see what they could see. Doctor Number One (a bossy lady doctor who you’d think would be a bit more maternal in her bedside manner), couldn’t tell. She barked at me like it was my fault and ordered me to stay in bed, overnight, in the hospital. I complained loudly that it was like being in prison (I can’t call anyone! I have to pay to watch TV! There’s no email or internet! And I didn’t pack a toothbrush!) but the Doc wasn’t for moving. She unveiled her trump card: if I went home and then came back, I could be misdiagnosed and that could lead to a c-section. As if, I thought, huffily. But I got into said NHS-issue bed anyway.

Next day, Doctor Number Two pitched up and asked me to assume the position. Just as he bent down to get a closer look, my/ your waters flowed forth, soaking the bed, the blanket, me and, I think, the doctor. He stood up and, with a slightly pained expression, said, ‘I think we can safely say your waters have broken.’ Given that the ward was now knee-deep in amniotic fluid, Doctor Number Two should be awarded the Trafford General Hospital Medal for Stating the Bleedin’ Obvious.

Since then, midwives have come and gone, I’ve been assigned a consultant, the other patients who were in the not-quite-ready-to-give-birth ward have been allowed home (or ‘set free’ as my midwife chirpily tells them) and I’m still here.

I’m currently waiting for a scan and to see the doctor again. They told me I could go home earlier but may have changed their minds since – the decision-making process here appears swathed in several impenetrable and inexplicable layers of gauze bandage. They also want to take me for said scan in a wheelchair. I said I’d walk.

As you can probably tell, I’m not the best of patients. But it’s really not my fault: in amongst the lack of sleep, the boredom and the terrible realisation that I have deadlines I can now never meet, is another, altogether more important one.

Whatever happens, and however it happens, I’ll be giving birth to you this week. If you don’t come by Sunday, they’ll induce you.

Honey, I don’t know that I’m ready. The house is barely back to normal (update on Colin the builder: he STILL hasn’t finished. I entertain fantasies of calling him during a contraction and screaming ‘just finish it – I’m having a f***ing baby!’)). Simon is, as I type, running round Mothercare doing a supermarket sweep so that you at least have somewhere to sleep when you come home. And all my plans to finish work this week, file my accounts, put my feet up, clean, wash all your cute little outfits and read some childcare books have gone out the window. My hospital bag so far consists of some lucozade tablets, several pairs of big pants and a tennis ball.

I wanted to be ready for you, but it seems you’re just as impatient as your ma. And I’m worried, too. How can I not be? The visions I had of you as a 10lb bruiser with your Dad’s giant head and your Mum’s colossal appetite have disappeared and now I’m left wondering whether your lungs will be strong enough, whether you will be strong enough. Doctor Number Two says you’ll be fine, but….

The one thing I’ve learned during all this is that you never get what you want. You will be who you will be. You will come when you’re ready (with some chemical assistance if necessary). You won’t be anything like the little boy I entertain fantasties of. You will owe me nothing and you will be, I hope - I truly hope - your own person. And it’s times like this that I’m reminded of that and all I can do now is sit and wait, and hope.