Special Deliveries

Butterfly Baby

                                   This story may not be suitable for expectant parents

‘The window!’ whispered Peggy urgently. I looked up in confusion. I was sure I had heard her correctly because my ears were fine tuned to catch even the faintest undertone that came from her. As a student midwife I had to act quickly on every instruction my mentor Peggy gave so I could help her provide the best care for the families we were assigned to. At that moment, unsure what was meant by those two words, and reluctant to question her I hesitated. Peggy broke her focus from the moaning woman on the bed and the pale man next to her to flick a glance over her left shoulder in my direction and then point with her chin towards the glass.

‘Open it.’

‘Oh, right.’ I hastened to do as asked.  A quick glance through the pane offered back the unappealing though panoramic view of leaden skies and rows of buildings far below, lining the streets surrounding the hospital.

A deep groan of pain from the woman jolted my attention from the bleak view.

‘I can’t. I can’t do this.  Help me, please. I’m too scared.’ she wailed. Finding reserves of strength, she sat upright and hit her husband on the arm with her fist.

‘You do it, I’m done.’ With those words she got off the bed and stood wobbling with exhaustion as the midwife steadied her.

I can’t do this, help me, I’m too scared. I mentally echoed the weary woman.  Mrs Strout, first name Joanie, husband named Paul, I reminded myself.  It was my first shift on the labour ward and for what must have been the hundredth time that day, I was wondering if I had made a horrible mistake.

Joanie gave a long drawn out moan, holding onto Peggy and bending her knees as she pushed with the contraction.

‘Well done, that’s good,’ Peggy gently encouraged as Joanie’s waters broke and splashed onto the floor. Carefully she moved her towards the bed and helped her on. Kneeling forward, resting her arms on the plump pillow which covered the top of the headboard Joanie wriggled her hips in pain and her quiet husband began to rub her back, in syncopation to her movements.

‘Get off me!’ she grunted at him. His hand dropped, as did the corners of his mouth. He looked helplessly at Peggy who flashed him a reassuring smile.

‘Could you wet a flannel with cold tap water please? You can pop it in here so it doesn’t drip.’ She handed him a kidney-shaped bowl.

Paul hastened to do as suggested, happy to be occupied. The mention of water made me move swiftly towards the wardrobe in the corner of the room, my confidence returning somewhat now that I too had found a way to make myself useful.  Grabbing a large handful of absorbent, open broadsheet sized thin pads, I mopped up the amniotic fluid from where Joanie had been standing.  I could hear Peggy murmuring a soothing litany to Joanie as her husband held a cool damp flannel against the back of her neck.  Lulled by the midwife’s tone, weary from the stress of this day’s work, my movements slowed until I was startled to attention when Peggy asked me to get the delivery pack.

I moved quickly and as I left the room my hip glanced off the baby monitoring machine – no, the Continuous TocoGraph, the CTG machine, I reminded myself- that had been placed just outside the door. I tutted, partly in annoyance and partly at the stinging in my hip but paused as I looked again at the silent machine. It was in the corridor where we had hurriedly shoved it when we first entered the labour room – a hasty removal of this painful reminder to the already grieving parents that their baby had no heartbeat to monitor.  No precious heartbeat for them to cling onto throughout the labour of love.

I rubbed my hip and made my way along the corridor towards the store room where the supplies were kept and wondered why a stock of essentials like delivery packs were not kept in the labour rooms.  I filed that question away to be asked at an opportune moment and grabbed hold of a two level square steel trolley from the assortment that lined the walls, pulling it inside the store room. Reading the list on the wall I began gathering items the midwife would need for the birth. 

Peggy and Joanie turned expectantly as I re-entered the room, pushing the trolley in front of me. Paul, already facing the door from the opposite side of the bed, went paler still , as he took in the trolley and it’s contents. Joanie’s body gave her no time to react to the implication of the delivery pack on the trolley as she swiftly moved into another, stronger contraction. She was moments away now. The room seemed to become smaller as we focused on the frantic last moments of the delivery until the tiny baby slipped into Peggy’s hands. She barked instructions at me and I operated automatically, not forgetting to soothe Joanie, squeezing her hand as she wept.

Leaving Joanie and Paul together we took their tiny 20 week old baby into the clean sluice area.  Its skin was so thin that we had to take care not to tear it as we peeled the towel away so we could place it on the scales naked. The tiny genitals hinted at the gender that the amniocentesis had detected. Paul and Joanie’s baby was a boy and perfect to look at in every respect except that the top of his skull was missing, his brain covered by a reddish looking membrane instead of smooth bone and skin.

‘The most important thing we can do now is encourage Joanie and Paul to see how beautiful their son is. We need to find all of his best features and make sure they have photographs and other keepsakes of these in their memory box. Let’s get it done before the chaplain comes up for the blessing.’ Peggy said, handling the baby as you might a butterfly, so as not to disturb the fragile dust on its wings.

I helped Peggy take ink prints of his hands and feet, gently placing each precious stamp onto a card which then went into the memory box along with photos of him dressed in a baby gown, his head covered in a tiny knitted cap. We took him back into the room and passed him gently to Joanie who bent forward and kissed him softly.

I moved to close the window as we left the room to give the grieving couple time with their son but before I could do so, Peggy reached for my arm and guided me from the room.

Once outside I turned to her, confused.

‘It’s probably just an old midwives’ tale,’ she said, ‘but I was told when I was a student that the soul of a dead baby turns into a butterfly and that a window should be open so they can fly away.’

I looked back into the room. Outside there were patches of blue breaking through the cloud and old midwives’ tale or not, I was glad I had left that window open.

Want to read more? You can buy Special Deliveries: Life Changing Moments here: http://viewBook.at/SpecialDeliveries