Love... And Sleepless Nights MAY 2012 (17 page)

…I’ve never been so terrified in all my days on Earth.

First of all we have to get to the hospital.

And what a
fantastic
time we’ve picked for a high speed car journey through town: a Saturday afternoon a few weeks before Christmas...

Jamie’s Blog

Monday 2 December

I’d love to give you an accurate and pulse-pounding description of the drive from the Apple shop to
Queen
Alexandra
Hospital
just outside the city…

I’d love to, but I can’t.

That’s because I remember very little of it.

This is probably just as well, as I’m pretty sure I violated every single law of the road, apart from ‘do not drive your vehicle across the middle of a roundabout at eighty’ - though to be honest I can’t even be sure about that one.

I inspected the car a little later that day when things had quietened down a bit. I discovered a two foot long scratch down the driver’s side, a wad of grass in the front spoiler and a passenger seat in need of immediate replacement, so I know it must have been an exciting trip, to say the least.

I do remember screaming ‘BREATHE!’ at my wife repeatedly as we hurtled northwards on the motorway. This is quite the most stupid command you can issue to another person. You might as well shout ‘CONTINUE TO EXIST!’ at them for all the good it does.

The orderlies at the hospital must listen out for the screech of tyres that signify the arrival of another expectant mother, as I’ve hardly so much as flung my car door open before a genial fellow in a white jumpsuit is there with a wheelchair.

I’m somewhat disappointed. The melodramatic part of me was all ready to roll across the bonnet and scream ‘My wife is about to give birth! Help us!’

As it is, Laura is in the wheelchair and through the lobby doors before I can say a damn thing.

‘Yes Marigold, I know,’ she says into her mobile phone. ‘I am Marigold, I promise.’ She looks at me. ‘No, he hasn’t fainted or shit himself yet.’ I take great exception to that. ‘Okay. We’ll see you shortly then.’ Laura ends the call and doubles up, gasping in pain.

‘Are you alright, baby?’ I ask as I hurry alongside her.

‘Just peachy thanks.’ The sarcasm drips from her voice. ‘Being in labour is such a laugh!’

I feel exquisitely useless – and will continue to do so for the next few hours. There’s nothing pleasant about watching the woman you love in extreme pain, especially when you’re the one responsible for it.

The orderly brings us into the maternity ward, where I have never been so glad to see Marigold Ubantu in all my life.

‘Aha!’ she exclaims and slaps her hands together vigorously. ‘Time to squeeze that little bitch out, Newmans!’

All things being equal, I guess I would have preferred a homely midwife in her sixties, with a calm demeanour and rosy complexion, but what we got is Marigold.

If nothing else, Marigold knows what she’s doing, and never lets you forget it.

‘Let’s get that skinny arse up into bed madam!’ she tells Laura, who struggles out of the wheelchair and onto the bed.

Once she’s in position, Marigold ducks her head between my wife’s legs for a quick examination.

‘You’re at four centimetres,’ she says, slapping Laura’s calf. ‘Good girl!’

Laura tries to smile but it’s obvious she’s hurting. ‘Can I… can I have an epidural for the pain?’ she says.

‘No,’ Marigold intones.

The room falls silent.

‘What do you mean
no
?’ Laura says.

‘No
anaesthetist
 
on duty. He’s off sick girl.’

‘Are you telling me there’s only
one
anaesthetist
 
on duty today?’ I ask incredulously.

‘Only one who can give epidurals,’ Marigold says. ‘Welcome to the NHS!’ she barks by way of explanation and laughs.

‘Can’t you give me one?’ Laura asks.

‘Nope. Not qualified.’ Marigold watches Laura’s face darken considerably. ‘Don’t worry girl! You’re young and healthy. Gas and air will be fine for you today.’

Something bad is happening to my wife.

A tremor has started from the tips of her toes and is working its way like a tidal wave up her body. It reaches her head, which shudders briefly, before the tremor finds its voice. ‘I don’t want gas and air, you stupid bitch! I want a fucking epidural!’

Marigold’s reaction is priceless.

Until now she’s only seen the cool, sweet-natured side of Laura Newman. But I know that when angered, beneath that lovely, even tempered exterior beats the heart of a raving maniac.

Seeing this dark side erupt in such a dramatic fashion puts the six foot African warrior woman on the back foot.

Marigold looks at me. ‘You married that?’ she asks. ‘You’re braver than I thought Newman.’

I nod my head and look a trifle sheepish.

‘If you two are quite finished,’ Laura interrupts. ‘I’m trying to have a baby here and need painkillers!’

‘Quit your bellyaching,’ Marigold bellows and wheels over the gas and air machine. She thrusts the mask at Laura. ‘Suck on that girl.’

Laura grabs the mask and takes a deep drag. A few moments go by. ‘Well, that’s not bloody helping at all!’

‘Give it a moment,’ Marigold says.

Sure enough, another five seconds pass and Laura’s face suddenly droops into a vision of drowsy contentment.

‘Fuck me on a rocking chair, this is goooooood fucking shit,’ she says in a dreamy voice. I’ve never heard Laura swear quite so much in such a short space of time.

‘Just take a breath any time you need it girl,’ Marigold says and turns to leave.

‘Where are you fucking going?’ Laura shrieks and points at me. ‘You can’t just leave me with him!’

This sets the tone for the next seven hours of my life.

‘You’ll be fine. Remember what I taught you about breathing and keep taking the gas and air.’ Marigold also points at me. I’m starting to feel like an army private being beasted for no reason. ‘You look after your wife!’

I hurry to the bedside, trying to remember all the stuff from the antenatal classes.

…the ones at the health centre Laura eventually made me attend I mean, not Trisha’s. I wasn’t about to start making whale noises and farting like a whoopee cushion.

Marigold exits the room, leaving me alone with the demon that has possessed my wife.

She (it?) takes another drag on the mask and gives me the stink eye. ‘You know what Newman? This is
all your
fault.’ Here we go. ‘If you had just bought some mother fucking condoms, I wouldn’t be in this mother fucking mess.’

Strike that last thought, Laura hasn’t been possessed by a demon. She’s been possessed by Samuel L. Jackson.

‘I know. I’m sorry dear.’ I figure there’s no point arguing in this trying situation. Laura is about to painfully squeeze a small human from her body, so I can cut her some slack.

‘Oh, you know,
do you
?’ She takes a big suck on the mask. ‘I’ll tell you what I fucking know, Jamie Newman…’

For the next few hours Laura proceeds to berate me for everything I’ve done wrong in the past nine months. Then she moves on to everything I’ve done wrong since we met. Then, inexplicably, she moves on to everything I’d done wrong
before
we met.

The monologue is punctuated at turns by rapidly increasing contractions, and grateful blasts of gas and air. Each time she takes a hit I’m afforded a few moments of peace from the constant character assassination.

Laura is telling me what an evil bastard I am for leaving the fridge door open last night when Melina walks into the room, saving me from this cold, cold Hell of my own making.

‘How’s the mum to be?’ she says excitedly.

‘Get this fucking thing out of me,’ Laura growls.

Melina, having been in this circumstance herself, takes a read of the sorry state of affairs and narrows her eyes. ‘Jamie, why don’t you go and find yourself a cup of coffee?’

‘Okay,’ I agree, and look at my wife. ‘Would you like some ice chips Laura?’

‘
Would you like some ice chips Laura
,’ she parrots in a high, sing-song voice. ‘No, Newman. I do not want ice chips. What I want is for you to have had more control over your cock nine months ago.’

‘Just leave for a bit,’ Melina tells me softly, like someone standing next to a ticking bomb.

I offer her a look of pathetic gratitude and high tail it out of there, looking back briefly to see Melina sit down next to Laura and brush hair off her forehead.

As I amble off down the corridor I wonder what it would be like to have a threesome with her. This proves – if proof were needed – that men can think about sex at the most inopportune of moments.

The worst cup of coffee I’ve ever had in my life was that mint monstrosity a couple of years ago during my date with Annika the blond goddess.

The one that’s just defecated its way out of the hospital coffee machine runs a close second, though.

I nurse it for a good thirty minutes, forcing myself to drink the entire bitter contents of the Styrofoam cup. Anything is better than being called an evil bastard by your heavily pregnant wife.

It’s only when I get down to the dregs that I decide it’s time to re-enter the dragon’s lair.

When I get back to the room Marigold is once more bent over Laura giving her an examination. Melina is sat back in her chair nursing a bruised hand.

‘Well?’ Laura demands.

‘Eight centimetres girl. Your baby is getting ready to be born.’

‘Not fucking quick enough!’ She sucks down more gas. ‘This shit isn’t working anymore Marigold. You told me it would help!’ Laura fixes the African midwife with a dead-eyed stare of implacable hatred. ‘You fucking
lied
to me Marigold.’

‘And my cousin had his testicles blown off by a rocket launcher. Life isn’t fair sometimes.’

Even Laura is brought up short by that one.

Marigold notices I’ve come back. ‘Where have you been, you stupid man? Your wife needs you.’

‘No she doesn’t. She needs an exorcist.’

‘Get back over here Jamie!’ Laura shouts at me. ‘I need you to help me with my breathing, you cocksucker!’

Marigold catches my distraught look. ‘Man up Newman. She’s just in a lot of pain. Be thankful she doesn’t have access to sharp implements.’