Open Writing

I didn’t realise that I was in labour with my first child, Lynda. I thought I just had a backache. When this didn’t change in intensity, but did come more frequently, I rang my mother, who lived around the corner from us. I had the same backache for most of the day.

When Tom came home from work, he rang our doctor, who told him to take me up to the hospital. With nothing more eventuating, after a few hours they sent me home, telling me to come back when the pains were more intense and coming every couple of minutes. I slept most of the night, with Tom rubbing my back when I woke and complained.

The next morning we went back to the hospital, where they monitored me for a few more hours. They then suggested that a ride along a bumpy road might help, so in the green Ford Prefect, which was quite bumpy, without deliberately looking for a gravel road, I thought, we found one. There were plenty to choose from over 40 years ago. Up and down, bump, bump, bump for ages, then home again. Still nothing was happening, except for the bad backache. I spent another night at home. By now, we were both exhausted, and I had started to worry about the baby.

We went back up to the Mater Hospital, determined to stay there this time until the baby was born. They admitted me, and with Tom rubbing my aching back, finally the contractions started. I think I was too exhausted to play much part in the pushing and breathing I had been taught. Tom religiously rubbed my back, until the skin was raw, and they had to ask him to stop. My doctor, Dr Whitley Otway, had been there for some time with us, and finally he took my hand and said, 'Don’t try anymore, Shirley, I’m sending for a gynaecologist. You haven’t the strength to push the baby out, and I’d rather a specialist did it.'

Oh, the relief of not having to push anymore, although the contractions kept coming. I suppose he must have sedated me a bit, because the next thing I remember is the specialist, Mr Bernard Kyle speaking to me, and showing me what looked like two huge spoons. 'These are forceps, I’m going to pull the baby out. Don’t worry, everything will be fine.' By that time, I was past caring, until I felt something being laid on my stomach. 'You have a little daughter.' What a wonderful feeling that brought. I can’t describe it, but I now know that it apparently forces the womb to contract, and helps one to bond with the baby. If it is possible, it should always be done.

They then took the baby away to wash and dress her, and he proceeded to sew me up. 'How many stitches are you putting in?' I asked. In my ignorance, I thought people only had about six at the most. 'I couldn’t possibly tell you,' he said, 'I’m sewing over and over.' I think I drifted off to sleep then. But then, once in the ward, I couldn’t sleep. All I heard were people talking, the rattle of instruments until I became very jittery and more exhausted than ever. The baby was taken away to a nursery. Above her cot on the card was written, Baby Henwood, Mid Forceps Delivery.

© Shirley Henwood

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Shirley writes for Bonzer! magazine. Please visit www.bonzer.org.au