Page 4 of Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?
I nod. That much I know. We devoted evenings to preparing this playlist in preparation: ‘Labour of Love’. Music is a shared love of Will’s and mine that the baby needs to inherit or else we will disown him. We have played him everything in our indie lockers; we explained that trance and house are two very different genres; we experimented with classical and rock and punk because we want a child who has edge too. I’ve even decided to birth him in a Kings of Leon T-shirt. If we play our cards right, this child will end up being an international hit-producing DJ or the next John Lennon. Will sets up my phone and carefully inserts two AirPods into my ears. It’s some jazz. Jazz is calming. ‘Jaaaaazzzz,’ I say in a lilting voice. It’ll do. He does some curtain twitching while I feign impending death.
‘Go, find someone.’
I climb into the bed and curl into a ball. It’s like someone’s throwing weights at my stomach, like fire enveloping my nerves. I whimper and suck air through my teeth. Right, let’s put those NCT classes to some use: a house on a beach, palm trees and warm summer breezes, the sun shining, waves lilting on the sand – and deep, gut-wrenching spasms pounding my stomach and punching into me like a double-decker bus. I try to gain perspective: this is surely not the worst of it – the midwife said with inductions it could be a wait of up to two days. Two days of this?Breathe. Pain means the baby is coming and he will be with us soon.
Crapping mother of tits, that stings. My beach house has been enveloped by an upsurge of liquid magma. Jazz can piss off. Next up on the playlist, Boney M., ‘Daddy Cool’. That’s some bassline. I hum it out loud but assume a position on the bed on all fours, rocking to that beat like I’m a small bucking donkey. Christ alive, this is horrific. So horrific I yell. Kate and Rob next door stop chattering to eavesdrop. The curtain opens and Will stands there a little confused to see me in the table-top position. I pull him close, retch repeatedly and throw up on him. He looks down at his new trainers, trying not to care. My knuckles turn a lighter shade of pale clutching my metal bedstead. A girl stands there who looks like she’s here to wash my hair and sweep the clippings off the floor.
‘The midwife will be with you in a minute,’ she whispers. ‘What’s the matter?’
I glare at Will. Is this girl medically trained? How old is she? I want ID.
‘I think, I think I’m in labour…’
She shakes her head and reassures me that it will probably be a while yet. I glance at her badge:Maternity labour assistant trainee breastfeeding clinic girl. I nod and smile, shooing her away like a pigeon.
‘When I die, can you make sure our baby learns to be kind? Make sure he appreciates the outdoors. And Stevie Wonder, play him Stevie.’
I hope Will heard that. Maybe he needs to write it down. He mops my brow and tries to kiss me but I can’t even feel it. A dentist could be pulling out my molars now and I wouldn’t feel it compared to the volcano that is my abdomen.
‘Don’t give the baby a stupid name either. Everyone will think he’s a tosser.’ I wince. Will furrows his brow at me. I am jibber jabbering away which is my default setting when angry or stressed. Usually he solves this with chocolate and leaves the room. I can see the thoughts whirring around his head.I am pretty sure this is not death.
‘I’ll make sure our baby isn’t a tosser.’
The curtain moves again and this time it’s Maggie, who twitches her eyebrows at the sight of the blood. She hoists my legs up in the air and examines my nether regions.
‘Daddy, can you just push the button to the left of the bed, please?’
The button? That’s the emergency button. Aren’t you supposed to push that if my heart’s stopped? Will does as he’s told and looks at me, panicked. Another wave of pain strikes me and I bellow out some feral crescendo through the ward. Wolves in London Zoo howl back in reply.
‘Yup, Mummy. Looks like that gel worked quicker than we thought. We’re about seven centimetres dilated at the minute. Let’s get you moved into a room on the labour ward,’ she says, trying to contain her concern.
‘I can’t be. It hasn’t been two days yet.’
‘Babies don’t work to schedules, love.’
Baby. Now? I look into Will’s glassy eyes, tears on standby, trying to keep up as he skids around in a puddle of my vomit. Shit, it really is time. I feel Will’s hand in mine, fingers squeezed down to the bone. I squeeze back. It’s a flurry of activity as they adjust the bed and start to wheel me out of here. Kate and Rob look over at us, ashen.I’m sure your birth will be much different. There will be candles and stuff. Not like this visceral slanging match I’m having with my own body.
We stop at a lift. All fours worked before, so I take off the sheets covering my nether regions and try to rearrange myself, baying like a wounded deer, my bulbous arse and much more staring at the face of the porter. This is how farm animals birth and they always look fairly unaffected by the process, I tell myself. Will and the midwife wrangle me down.
‘Let’s leave that move for upstairs, Mummy.’
Who is Mummy? Oh, that’s me. I’m a mummy? Everything is a bustle of strip light, a metal-clad service elevator, nosy onlookers, orange curtains. We suddenly stop. I see Crocs and retch again.
A man with blond hair smiles at me. ‘Hi! I’m—’
But the pain charges through me and I arch my back, trying to get off the bed to better position myself.
‘Whoa! Careful. If you break your arm, how are you going to hold your new baby?’
At this moment, I’d wear him on my back like a monkey for all I care. Blondie can see my reticence for polite chit-chat, spreads my legs and gloves up, chatting to Maddie from downstairs. Will, who would normally be more protective about who looks at his lady’s private areas, has a look too and they all rub their chins like they’re figuring out the best way to tackle a blocked drain. Blondie looks up.
‘Alright, this baby wants out.’
‘DRUGS!’ I say with some force.
I’m handed a mouthpiece. I bite down on it and I inhale. Not even inhale, I suck that stuff in like crack. Man, this is good shit. It numbs everything for a small moment and takes my focus elsewhere. I love Will. I really do. I love Blondie here too. I take a couple more hits, wondering why this isn’t sold in supermarkets. They need to sell this part of labour far more.
‘OK, so I can see the head and I need you to concentrate on pushing. No more gas and air.’
