Today we’re very happy to share the next of our Dispatches from New Motherhood pieces. In DELIVERY: IN THREE ACTS Lisa Griffiths offers us a fascinating peep behind the curtain as she tells us of her work in maternity units, and how her relationship with her role changed as she became pregnant and, later, returned to work.
‘My job is such a big part of who I am,’ says Lisa, ‘and I found being pregnant and working on Delivery Suite to be an emotional and physical rollercoaster at times. One moment I would be crying happy tears delivering a baby to a delighted family, the next I would be shaking in a cupboard, convinced something awful would happen to my own. I wanted to try to reflect those feelings in this piece, and it was interesting to think about how those days have moulded me now, as an obstetrician and a mother.’
The result is a clever, moving and compassionate piece about the ‘before’, the ‘during’, and the ‘after’. We’re proud to share it here.
***
DELIVERY: IN THREE ACTS
Lisa Griffiths
‘You have to trust me,’ I say. ‘You will both be fine.’
She darts her eyes away, looks at her husband, and nods. I don’t think she believes me.
I go to wash my hands, prepping for my role in the scene that is about to unfold. Instead of greasepaint and spotlights, it’s iodine under fluorescent bulbs. I go over my lines, my cues, as the scalding water washes away the world outside. Wrapping myself in a voluminous blue gown, I step onto the stage.
The other players look to me to lead. I make eye contact here, throw a reassuring smile there, share my thoughts in an undertone with the scrub nurse and anaesthetist, my supporting actor and actress for the night. We’re well-rehearsed, have done this hundreds of times before.
There’s a moment’s silence, a deep breath, then we begin.
‘You will both be fine,’ I repeat, trying to convince her. ‘I’m popping forceps on now.’
Mum looks terrified, Dad clutches her hand.
‘Now, I need you to push. Well done, a bit more.’
‘I don’t think I’m doing it, I can’t feel anything.’
‘Yes you are.’
She’s not, but knowing that helps no one.
‘Now stop. Tiny push. Well done, we have a head.’
‘Is she OK?’
‘She’s fine. Next contraction and she’ll be here. Right now, big push, yes, look down. Happy birthday, baby girl!’
A thin wail, a slippery transfer and cord cut later and the three of them are lost in their own world, the rest of us merely scenery. I sit to stitch and return to myself. A flutter low in my tummy makes itself known.
***
Four months later and I’m being pushed into theatre. I don’t register the familiarity, the boards I’ve trodden so many times. I see harsh lights, smell the iodine. I clutch my husband’s hand, lost in a world I should recognise.
‘You have to trust me, you will both be fine.’
I’m scared and know that sometimes the scene doesn’t follow the script. I try to listen to the muffled beat of my baby’s heart on the machine in the corner.
‘I’m popping the forceps on now.’
I picture them round his head, hope the placement is correct.
‘Now I need you to push. Well done, great work.’
We both know I’m not pushing, but my pride appreciates the pretence.
‘Now stop. Tiny push. Right, his head is out.’
Then, in one moment my world is forever changed. A cheer, a red and purple slither and my boy is here. The scenery disappears and it’s just us. He’s wailing, he’s tiny and he’s perfect.
***
A year later, and I’m back on the stage. The players are the same, the lights, the gowns, the props unchanged, but it looks different now.
I look into Mum’s eyes.
‘You have to trust me. You’ll both be fine.’
She clutches her partner’s hand, then looks back at me and nods.
We each take a deep breath, and begin.
***
Delivery: in Three Acts by Lisa Griffiths appears in the Mothership Writers anthology Dispatches from New Motherhood. All 50 pieces from the book will be published here over the year to come, creating an online library of what it really means – right here, right now – to be a new mother.