It Shouldn't Happen to a Midwife! by Jane Yeadon Page A

Midwife.
    Miss Harvey made the introductions. ‘This is Jinty Allan, and she’s a very brave girl.’
    â€˜No I’m not. I need help. I’m in agony. Help! When’s all this going to stop? Oh Jasus!’
    Jinty’s name was the most cheerful thing about our patient. The sinews of her neck stuck out like whipcord, sweat stuck her curly hair to her forehead in dark question marks whilst her knees seemed to have relocated to her chin. She ground her teeth and groaned. ‘It’s purgatory. I’ll never do this again. Never!’
    â€˜That’s what they all say,’ said the midwife, ‘but it is hard work and you’ve been doing so well. Won’t be long now.’ She moved over to the table, patting it in an encouraging way. ‘Now! Between your pains could you move onto this?’
    Had anybody suggested I climb the north face of a delivery table from an existing bed of pain I’d have refused, but our patient was apparently made of sterner stuff and heroically scaled the heights before making her crash landing. Another yell split the air.
    â€˜Mother of God. Another bed of misery!’
    â€˜Have this. It should help,’ said Margaret handing her the Entonox which Jinty grabbed, inhaling with the enthusiasm of a smoker on a forty-a-day habit.
    â€˜I’m conducting this delivery,’ snapped the midwife, ‘and you’re supposed to be just watching. Go down and join the others please and mind out for the student midwife coming towards you. She’s scrubbed up, ready to do the delivery.’
    â€˜You’ll see better from here. It’s better than a ringside seat,’ I whispered , making room for a crimson-faced Margaret.
    â€˜I was only trying to help,’ she muttered and looked close to tears.
    â€˜Well see if you can get Marie to open her eyes, otherwise she’ll miss this delivery. She trusts you for some reason.’
    Having made sure her class was still in the upright position, if a little green, Miss Harvey murmured that she was going back to the classroom. ‘And, class, I’ll see you there after. And the best of luck, Mrs Allan, you’re going to be fine.’
    â€˜If anybody else says that I’ll scream,’ gritted our patient and did.
    â€˜Oh, good. Transition stage and I think we can just see the head.’ The midwife sounded positively breezy. ‘Now mind how you control it, Nurse. We don’t want it shooting out.’
    It was one thing having an audience for your labour but there was the student midwife’s performance too to consider. I wondered if she felt nervous about us watching or did she know our attention was as solely glued to her baby-catching hand as it was to the emerging head.
    â€˜Pant!’ yelled the midwife.
    â€˜Not you,’ I nudged Marie.
    â€˜She’s hyperventilating,’ excused Margaret, ‘but for goodness sake, Marie, let go of my hand.’
    â€˜We’ve lied, we’ve lied,’ whimpered Marie, ‘and now this!’
    Under cover of Mrs Allan’s impression of a dog expiring in the sun, the midwife picked up scythe-sized scissors and said, ‘She’s going to need an episiotomy – otherwise she’ll tear.’
    I had to take that deep breath forbidden to Jinty and wondered if I really wanted to be a midwife. Blood sports had nothing on this. Maybe life behind a nice tidy desk in a smart office was the way forward where the nearest thing to drama was the phone ringing. Still, I forced myself to watch, holding my breath as the scissors made a quick cut. The sound of metal on flesh was toe-curling.
    I supposed that a surgical cut to make an easier passage for the baby would make a clean wound. It would be easier to heal. Even then, it might be a while before Jinty could sit without discomfort.
    Somewhere, outside, was a simple world where people happily went about their business. They’d have no anxieties like