Читать книгу Delivering Love - Fiona McArthur - Страница 9

THE birthing unit was dimly lit and peaceful. The scent of lavender wafted lightly past Poppy from the aromatherapy vaporiser as she unhurriedly attended to the last-minute tasks before the baby’s birth. Soft rain-forest noises tinkled in the corner of the room from the CD player.

‘The bath water’s ready, Phillip.’ Poppy’s voice barely rose above the music as she dried her hands on a towel.

Followers of a Leboyer birth believed that the newborn benefited greatly from the return to weightlessness in the bath soon after delivery to allow a more gentle transition into the world. They believed this practice encouraged babies to be less stressed and more settled both in the immediate days following birth and in later life.

Poppy liked the idea but preferred no loss of contact from the mother once the child was born, usually leaving baby and mother skin to skin for at least an hour. It was her job to meet the needs of the parents to ensure they achieved as positive a birth experience as possible. As long as it was safe. If they wanted bath water, they got bath water.

Phillip, the father of the child, was stripped to the waist and lovingly held his wife’s shoulders as she bore down strongly with the contraction.

Poppy could see that Carolyn, the woman giving birth, was fiercely concentrating. She sat up with her arms under her thighs; the large blue beanbag supported her as she strained to see the child’s head reflected in the mirror at the end of the bed.

‘I can see it. Look. Black hair.’ Carolyn puffed.

Phillip and Poppy smiled at each other as Carolyn seemed to gain strength from the sight of her child easing its way down the birth canal.

Poppy savoured the aura of tranquillity they had created for the new arrival. This was midwifery at its least intrusive. If only the medical profession could have felt the ambience in the room she would have converted the lot of them.

Poppy heard a gentle knock and Jake’s head appeared around the door. She looked up and beckoned him in. This was in the safety of a hospital. Not a home. Surely he would see that nonintervention could be good and then he could help her convince the sceptics left in the hospital.

She fingered the peace sign around her neck. It gave her a thrill to see him. She hadn’t seen him for a week and he’d intruded on her thoughts more than she liked. It seemed as if her colleagues continually sang his praises. She smiled a welcome.

Unnoticed by the parents, Jake slipped to Poppy’s side and nodded. Disappointment hit her like a stone when, instead of appreciation for the setting, an almost bitter grimace crossed his face.

She watched him sniff and glance around the room, his eyebrows rising at the sight of a chunk of rose quartz the size of a small shoebox resting on the bedside table. He glared at the reflexology chart discarded on another table, before he schooled his features to impassiveness.

He whispered into her ear, ‘Dr Gates received your message but he’s been held up in Theatre. He should be along shortly and I said I’d pass the message along.’

He turned to go. ‘By the way, Sister, I hope there’s no naked flame burning that oil in case you have to turn the oxygen on. Surely you’re aware of that?’

Poppy frowned at his tone. His voice had remained quiet but had vibrated with a deep anger that seemed totally out of place. What had she done? It was almost as if he could hardly bear to speak to her.

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ she answered evenly, her own voice soft and not carrying to the others in the room. ‘I always use an electric aromatherapy vaporiser. Of course I’m aware of the danger of hospital oxygen and naked flames.’ She tilted her head. ‘There’s no indication that this child will require oxygen, Jake.’

He nodded curtly, gave one final look of revulsion around the room and then was gone.

A chill ran over her neck and Poppy shivered. She hated that. People with negative feelings should be nowhere near a birthing room. She glared at the shut door and shook off the feeling of disquiet to concentrate once again on the magical tableau before her. She wouldn’t allow him to ruin the mood.

Everything proceeded smoothly and Poppy stood back as Carolyn controlled the birth of the baby’s head by her own gentle efforts. Phillip cut the cord when it stopped pulsating and the bath scene made Poppy think of Christmas and mangers and what she was missing in her own life.

It was at times like these that she mourned the death of her dreams. She’d assumed when she’d married Tyson that this would have been a scene from their lives together. She couldn’t have been more wrong.

Still, maybe one day, a long time in the future, if she found a man she could trust not to try and stamp out all the things that were important to her, a baby would be hers. For the moment she gained great personal joy from helping other parents to achieve their dreams of a tranquil and natural birth.

Ironically, it wasn’t until her own husband had departed that this type of birth had become accepted at Midcoast.

Poppy helped settle the baby at her mother’s breast then left the new family alone together. She sighed as she shut the door quietly behind her.

An hour later, she stood in the shower at home, washing away the tensions of the shift as she went over her day. The new baby girl had been pink and placid, and not one cry had passed her rosebud lips, much to Poppy’s satisfaction. Phillip and Carolyn were ecstatic and would probably take their new daughter home that afternoon.

Yet she felt drained. It wasn’t like her to feel this way. It must be the responsibility of ensuring that all went well, she decided. Sometimes it weighed her down but the pleasure and satisfaction of a job well done was worth it. So why wasn’t she euphoric? She stepped out and towelled herself thoughtfully.

The chimes connected to the doorbell tinkled noisily. ‘Hang on.’ They’d have to wait. She pulled on her undies, slipped her batik caftan over her head and combed her wet hair. Only then did she answer the door.

It was Jake. She tilted her head. How had he known where she lived? His face was set in uncompromising lines and his greeting was abrupt, as if he had a lot on his mind. ‘May I come in?’

By the look on his face she didn’t know whether it was a good idea or not. But, then, who was she kidding? She couldn’t have made herself turn him away. ‘I suppose so, Jake. Come through.’ She gestured with her hand as she fought down the agitation his presence created in her stomach.

She had to admit that a lot of the time he just plain overwhelmed her. Hopefully her expression was as calm as she wanted to look. She’d only met him a few times but each time he seemed to be a different person. Maybe he had twelve personalities. Like Sibyl, that woman in the movie. She bit her lip to stop a smile.

He hesitated at the door so she went first, but he didn’t follow her. She turned back to see what he was doing. What was he doing? She didn’t need this.

‘I didn’t invite you here, Jake. If you don’t want to come in, why are you here?’

Poppy stood with her hands on her hips and waited for his eyes to meet hers. She watched him run his hands through his hair, a gesture that made him seem vulnerable. Something was bothering him seriously, and she softened towards him again.

He said, ‘I asked Sandy where you lived.’

When he finally moved into the house, she found it intriguing the way his head turned to note the abundant plant life, colourful mobiles and wind chimes and obviously Indian influence, so popular in the sixties, that dominated her house. He compressed his lips and nodded his head. ‘I should have known.’

‘Should have known what, Jake?’ Poppy tapped her foot, which wasn’t like her.

‘You’re one of those “alternative” people aren’t you, Poppy?’

She squared her shoulders and stared up at him as she weighed up the best way to present her argument. He topped her height by a good six inches and she had the feeling that every inch might count.

‘What’s your definition of “alternative”, Jake?’ She held his eyes. ‘Are we talking Greenie? Hippy?’ Her hands were back on her hips. ‘Maybe dangerous radical?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Or just someone who believes in something you don’t understand?’