Читать книгу Bundles of Joy: Two Thousand Miracles. One Unstoppable Manchester Midwife - Linda Fairley - Страница 8

Prologue

‘She’s on the bathroom floor!’ Sarah’s husband puffed as he flung open the front door and ushered me inside the house. ‘Come in,’ he said urgently, giving me a grateful smile. ‘You must be frozen.’ Turning his head towards the stairs, he shouted up to his wife, ‘The midwife’s here! Love, the midwife’s here!’

Robin Heywood then turned on his heel and charged upstairs. I hastily pulled off my Wellington boots and winter coat and followed him, dripping water all over the carpet as I did so.

It was just before Christmas 2002 and I’d driven and trudged through deep snow to get here. Sarah Heywood hadn’t planned a home birth and when her waters broke her husband had called an ambulance in the hope they could make it to Tameside Hospital, where she was booked in to have her baby.

Snow was already thick on the ground and still falling fast when I received the call at my home in Mottram, asking me to head up to their house in the Glossop hills, some three miles away. In situations like this it’s standard practice to send an ambulance as well as two community midwives, in case it’s too late to get the patient to hospital. One of my colleagues would also have had a call to provide me with back-up, though she was not here yet.

It was past 10 p.m. when my phone rang in my sitting room. I wasn’t actually on duty, but as I drove a 4 x 4 and lived closest, I agreed to help. I must admit I wasn’t entirely thrilled about this. My husband Peter and I were watching television and I had been feeling very cosy, cuddled up on the settee, drinking hot tea and warming my toes in front of the fire. We’d spent the evening wrapping presents and I’d baked a batch of mince pies, which filled our home with a wonderful festive smell.

‘What a night to be called out,’ I grumbled as I went to get changed into my uniform.

‘Well, you won’t be complaining about wearing trousers on a night like this, that’s for sure,’ Peter commented as he looked out at the wintry night.

He was right. In these conditions the only saving grace, if you could call it that, was that I no longer had to wear a dress to work. My NHS uniform had changed in 2000 to navy trousers and a matching cotton tunic, which I wasn’t sure about at first. I remember that, not long before trousers came in, I’d been called out very urgently to a delivery, and for the first time ever I’d rushed out in my own clothes to save time changing. I found this was a big mistake. Even though the delivery went very well, I just didn’t feel right at all.

Without my uniform I didn’t actually feel like ‘Linda the midwife’. I was just Linda, the person I am when I am off duty and, though I’m sure it didn’t show, I felt somehow unprofessional. I vowed never to do that again, but when the modern trouser suit uniform was first unveiled I had my misgivings. It seemed so far removed from the days when I wore long skirts, starched cuffs and stockings and suspenders during my nurse’s training in the 1960s, and I wondered if I would feel suitably attired and ready for action.

In fact, my fears were unfounded. The trousers proved to be very smart and practical, and on nights like this they were an absolute godsend.

A colleague at the hospital had informed me that Sarah had gone into labour with her first baby on her due date but had been too afraid to venture out in the snow, for fear of getting stuck and having to have the baby in the car.

I shivered as I stepped out onto my driveway, crisp new flakes of snow crunching under the soles of my black shoes. Peter always helped me start my car in the winter. He was a gem at times like this, and as he cleared the snow off the windscreen I began to check my A–Z as I didn’t recognise the name of the road despite having worked in Glossop for many years. With this not being a scheduled home birth I had never visited Sarah before. I had not seen her at antenatal clinic, either, but that was not unusual as I typically shared a case load of about 80 ladies at any given time with the two other community midwives in my team, Helen and Angela. I realised as soon as I studied the route that I might have difficulty reaching the address, because it was in a remote part of Glossop, well off the beaten track.

As I navigated the near-empty roads taking me out of Mottram and towards Glossop, thick, icy snowflakes were bearing down on the windscreen of my Honda CRV. I had the heating on full blast, but I could still feel the bitter cold penetrating the fogged-up windows. It was 10.15 p.m. by now, and visibility was poor. Every road I drove down seemed to be darker and quieter than the last. The sky felt very low above me, crowding in on me as it deposited a relentless barrage of snowflakes on the roof of the car. Only the occasional flash of fairy lights blinking from a porch, or the twinkling of a Christmas tree in a window broke up the white landscape stretching and deepening around me.

I turned on the radio and was heartened to hear some Christmas carols tinkling out of the car speakers. I might have been reluctant to leave my warm and cosy house, but deep down I felt pleased to be helping a pregnant woman in her hour of need, sharing this precious night with her.

It took me about twenty minutes to reach Hathersage Drive, a main road on the east side of Glossop, which runs parallel to the picturesque Derbyshire Level and close to a golf course. I was used to seeing rolling hills and green grass from here, but everything was white except for the blue flashing light from a parked ambulance that now came into view.

Sarah’s house was down a narrow lane leading off Hathersage Drive, but I knew as soon as I saw the ambulance parked up at the top of the lane that it was not possible to drive any closer. I pulled up behind the ambulance, had a quick word with the driver, who confirmed I was at the right address, and headed down the lane, delivery pack in hand.

I was wearing a jacket and gloves, and Peter had made sure I had my Wellington boots with me, but I hadn’t expected to have to walk such a distance. It was several hundred yards down the lane and the snow was so deep in places that I could feel the cold and wet going down inside my boots and through my trousers. I’d never seen such deep snow, in fact, and I had to take big, wading strides to get through it. I wanted to phone ahead, but when I pressed the buttons on my mobile phone with my cold fingers, I found I had no signal.

More snow began to fall at this point, which stuck in my hair and coated my clothing. I gritted my teeth and ploughed on, telling myself I was very nearly there and to keep going. I was panting and breathless, and probably looked like a snowman when I finally reached Sarah’s door.

The relieved and grateful look on Robin’s face when he saw me standing there was one I had seen many times before. It didn’t matter a jot that I looked like a snowman. I was a midwife underneath the snowflakes, and that was all the expectant dad could see in that moment.

Thank goodness Sarah had not delivered the baby before I arrived. This was not an ideal scenario, as Sarah had wanted to give birth in hospital, but as a community midwife I was well used to walking into situations where you simply had to make the best of things.

‘Thank God,’ Sarah blurted as soon as she saw me. She was wrapped in a pink cotton dressing gown and lying uncomfortably on the bathmat.

An ambulanceman was standing by, hovering beside the bathroom door. ‘Well done. I think you’ve made it in the nick of time,’ he said quietly to me as I dashed in and knelt at Sarah’s side. As he spoke the patient let out a rip-roaring scream. ‘Jesus Christ! It’s killing me! Make it stop!’

I pulled on a pair of rubber gloves as hurriedly as I could, though my fingers were still numb with cold. ‘I’m going to have a little look,’ I told Sarah. ‘Just keep breathing and panting as you are, that’s good …’

‘Jesus! Your hands are freezing!’

‘I’m really sorry. But let’s see … oh, that’s good. You’ve done ever so well here.’

Water was trickling from my hair, leaving big wet blobs on Sarah’s dressing gown. ‘Sorry, again,’ I apologised, wiping my face with the back of my forearm.

Sarah was ready to push, and I tried to soothe her with this good news. ‘Just give me a moment while I get my instruments out. I’m going to tell you when to push, and I think your baby is going to be here very soon.’

‘Will you hurry up?!’ she said, which prompted her husband to let out an embarrassed laugh.

‘There we are. Give me a nice big push right on your next breath … I can see baby’s head. Lovely, lovely. You are doing really well …’

‘Jesus. Jesus,’ she cursed. Robin was holding one hand and Sarah thrashed about for something to grab hold of with the other. The nearest thing to hand was a toilet roll holder, which she squeezed for all it was worth.

Moments later I guided one small shoulder out, then the next. The atmosphere suddenly felt incredibly calm as the baby girl arrived very gracefully, slowly emerging into my hands. There was a brief moment of perfect silence in the room, and then the little girl let out a piercing cry. It was an absolutely beautiful delivery.

‘There’s nothing wrong with her lungs!’ Robin gasped with relief.

‘You can say that again. And she’s not crying because I have cold hands,’ I smiled. ‘I’ve warmed up a bit now!’

Sarah burst into tears when she took hold of her baby daughter. ‘Aren’t you just perfect?’ she told her. ‘You’re gorgeous!’

The new mum was propped up against the side of the bath by now, and someone had fetched a pillow for her to lean back on, but from the ecstatic expression on Sarah’s face, any thoughts of being uncomfortable on the bathroom floor were not important right now. I could see snow falling outside the bathroom window, and the scene before me of mother and daughter sharing their first precious moments warmed my heart. This really was what life is all about.

Later, Sarah, baby Kate and proud new dad Robin invited me to sit with them around a roaring fire they had going in the lounge, which was decked out with a beautiful Christmas tree that filled the room with the smell of fresh pine needles. Robin made me a steaming mug of hot chocolate and we sat there chatting while I dried my clothes out. At about 2.30 a.m., when I was satisfied Sarah and Kate were both well, Robin drove me back down the lane in his Range Rover and made sure I could drive away safely, which, thankfully, I could. I had been told that the second midwife dispatched to the address had not made it through the snow and had had to turn back, so I was very grateful for Robin’s help.

‘Don’t thank me,’ he said. ‘It’s Sarah and I who are very grateful to you. I don’t know what we would have done without you.’

I don’t remember the cold or the bleakness all around me on my slow journey home. I was just thrilled to have played a part in Kate’s safe arrival, and the adrenaline was still flowing through my body, all the way back to Mottram.

A decade on, I still have a very clear image in my mind of that brand new little family huddled together in front of the flickering fire. They looked a picture of happiness. Sarah’s cheeks were flushed pink and she had a wonderful glow about her. Robin was beaming so brightly he practically had sparks of pride bouncing off him, and little Kate looked blissfully content, wrapped in a beautiful white fleece blanket as she slept soundly in her mother’s arms.

It is one of the many births I will never forget in my forty-two years as a midwife. I have delivered more than 2,200 babies and I still have my heart in my mouth each and every time I report for duty. I never know what might take my breath away next, and that is why I continue to do the job I love.