Dear William

Part Two: Chapter Nine: Mummy

I had always been anxious about the prospect of my waters breaking. I was terrified they would suddenly gush out in the middle of the frozen aisle in Tesco, or when I was walking in the middle of the busy high street.

As it happened I was at home in the comfort of our own bedroom.

Saturday 24th July, 1999. One of the hottest days of the year.

It was 4am and I had woken to go to the bathroom. It was a week before my due date. The moment I got out of bed I was engulfed by a sudden woosh of gushing water. It was as though someone had pulled out the plug. I thought it was never ending.

I immediately panicked and called the maternity unit.

"Have a warm bath and a healthy snack," the Midwife on the other end of the phone advised, "You don't need to come into hospital until the contractions are five minutes apart."

We lived a good half hour drive from the hospital.

I tried to relax. I was terrified at the thought of the impending birth. It was fear of the unknown. I had been waiting for this moment for nine months. I couldn't believe I was finally going to meet this precious little bundle of love.

I hoped Baby would already recognise my voice. During the last few weeks I had spent hours sitting, stroking my bump and talking soothingly. I had even read some of the stories I had bought. I did this while Simon was out at work. I was convinced he would think I had lost the plot if he caught me reading "The Tiger Who Came To Tea" to my unborn baby.

By 11am the contractions were coming five minutes apart and Simon was driving me to the hospital.

I remember the song playing on the car radio was a Diana Ross song, "Do You Know Where You're Going To?"

I didn't have a clue where I was going to. I was scared. I had never felt pain like it.

"I'm so glad you're here."

Simon doesn't look as though he wants to be here, but I am thankful for his presence.

He is as white as a sheet. Pacing up and down awkwardly, not knowing where to look.

I have been in labour for seventeen hours. It is now 9pm.

I'm exhausted. The contractions are coming every minute. I'm pushing like mad but not getting anywhere. I am managing on only gas and air.

"Here, you need to drink this," the midwife hands me a glass containing  a sickly sweet glucose drink, "Your blood sugars are very low. Your energy levels are flagging."

I drink the revolting concoction. I feel myself drifting off between contractions.

"Jenny?", the midwife is concerned, "You need to stay awake sweetheart, you have to push this baby out."

Suddenly I am overcome by a powerful contraction. As the pain rips through me and the room is filled with my penetrating screams, a consultant enters.

She speaks with a firm Irish accent. Her manner is cold and abrupt.

"Stop that screaming!", she tells me in harsh tones, "We need to get this baby out!"

"I'm trying!", I sob through the intense pain.

"I have a venthouse," she is telling me now as she waves the offending instrument in the air.

"I need to do an episiotomy," the midwife is now busying herself down below.

"The venthouse is now on baby's head," the consultant tells me, "I need you to push as hard as you can with the next contraction."