through my womb; then just as I’m surrendering to the hopeless horror of it, it rolls me over, spits on me, walks off. I throw my face up and scream, unable to comprehend this awful, awesome thing.
I lie there in the aftermath, giddy with gratitude. And this time, while I still have the chance, I do it. There
is
someone who can help me with all this – and yes, Nursey, it is a man. I call Dad, praying and praying that he answers.
12
And he does. Dad answers, as he always does, with the same question delivered in the same way that’s been irking me since I was fifteen. A joyful, ‘
Rache
?’ Followed by a drop in tone, and a reflexive, concerned, ‘Are you okay?’
And this time I can indulge him. I’m
not
okay. He can take over, please, be a dad to me. I tell him, without melodrama, that I am about to give birth any moment.
‘Darling? Listen carefully. I’m on my way. Okay?’
He said I, not We. He definitely said I.
‘I’m coming right now. But listen to me, angel, right. Get yourself comfortable. Yeah? And keep the phone right there. I’m going to call you an ambulance and then I’m going to get in my car and I’ll call right back and we’ll stay on the line right the way through. Okay? Now, stay calm, honey. We can
do
this.’
We
? Who does he mean by ‘we’? Me and him, or him and her? Oh please, please,
please
don’t let Dad bring Jan! He phones back as the next contraction is striking. Before I can even say ‘hello’ I have to fling the receiver across the room, frenzied from the needle-hot stabbing in my anus. The contraction ends almost as swiftly as it burst through, and in the silence that follows I hear my Dad’s voice through the perforations of the phone. I crawl towards it, grab it.
‘Daaaaaaaaad!’
‘The ambulance is on its way. I’m going to get in my car now. Okay? That’s what I’m going to do . . . Rachel?’
But he’s no longer calm, he’s no longer sure. There’s panic in his voice.
‘No! Don’t leave me!’
‘Rachel. Oh, darling – listen to me. What position are you in?’ I can hear her in the background feeding him his lines. ‘Are you sat down or lying down?’
‘Noooooooo! Please, noooooooo! It’s coming.
Help
!’
And now here she is.
‘Rachel, listen.’
No
! Not now. Please put Dad back on.
‘Are you able to remove your pants? Take them off, take everything off.’
Her voice is so assured, so cemented with authority that it’s all I can do to cling to its commands as it booms through the pain. ‘Rachel. Lie down and remove your pants.’
I don’t speak, just obey. I lie down in front of the full-length mirror, tug off my tracksuit bottoms and my knickers come with them. My contractions are murdering me now, one scorching into another, no space between them. I can no longer fight the urge to push. I prop myself up on my elbows, and the mirror is already steaming up from the heat of me. Another blast of pressure.
‘Fuuuuuuuuuck!’
‘Pant, Rachel! Breathe! Pant. Don’t push – not just yet!’
‘Arrgggggggggh! No, no,
no
! It’s too much . . . I can’t fight it any more. I. Can. Not.
Bear
it.’
‘Rachel. Hold on. Your dad will be there any second.’
‘Help! Help me!’
The pain balloons up inside me, bloats me right out to splitting point, slices me in two. Sweat slides down my face, cools the scorching heat of my cheeks. My chest aches horribly, collapsing in on itself – all of me is melting, going under, giving in. My organs are turning to liquid, as though they’re being trampled on. I’m shutting down here, slowly snuffing myself out. I struggle to catch my breath. I try to scream as the next shaft of pain strikes, but nothing comes out.
My limbs fall heavily, my elbows quickly giving way, my neck and shoulders slapping the ground, my body too tired now, too heavy. I’m hot and cold and wearyand I want to just slip under, and I’m frightened for my baby but I’m grateful for the reprieve. I pass out.
A fresh
I lie there in the aftermath, giddy with gratitude. And this time, while I still have the chance, I do it. There
is
someone who can help me with all this – and yes, Nursey, it is a man. I call Dad, praying and praying that he answers.
12
And he does. Dad answers, as he always does, with the same question delivered in the same way that’s been irking me since I was fifteen. A joyful, ‘
Rache
?’ Followed by a drop in tone, and a reflexive, concerned, ‘Are you okay?’
And this time I can indulge him. I’m
not
okay. He can take over, please, be a dad to me. I tell him, without melodrama, that I am about to give birth any moment.
‘Darling? Listen carefully. I’m on my way. Okay?’
He said I, not We. He definitely said I.
‘I’m coming right now. But listen to me, angel, right. Get yourself comfortable. Yeah? And keep the phone right there. I’m going to call you an ambulance and then I’m going to get in my car and I’ll call right back and we’ll stay on the line right the way through. Okay? Now, stay calm, honey. We can
do
this.’
We
? Who does he mean by ‘we’? Me and him, or him and her? Oh please, please,
please
don’t let Dad bring Jan! He phones back as the next contraction is striking. Before I can even say ‘hello’ I have to fling the receiver across the room, frenzied from the needle-hot stabbing in my anus. The contraction ends almost as swiftly as it burst through, and in the silence that follows I hear my Dad’s voice through the perforations of the phone. I crawl towards it, grab it.
‘Daaaaaaaaad!’
‘The ambulance is on its way. I’m going to get in my car now. Okay? That’s what I’m going to do . . . Rachel?’
But he’s no longer calm, he’s no longer sure. There’s panic in his voice.
‘No! Don’t leave me!’
‘Rachel. Oh, darling – listen to me. What position are you in?’ I can hear her in the background feeding him his lines. ‘Are you sat down or lying down?’
‘Noooooooo! Please, noooooooo! It’s coming.
Help
!’
And now here she is.
‘Rachel, listen.’
No
! Not now. Please put Dad back on.
‘Are you able to remove your pants? Take them off, take everything off.’
Her voice is so assured, so cemented with authority that it’s all I can do to cling to its commands as it booms through the pain. ‘Rachel. Lie down and remove your pants.’
I don’t speak, just obey. I lie down in front of the full-length mirror, tug off my tracksuit bottoms and my knickers come with them. My contractions are murdering me now, one scorching into another, no space between them. I can no longer fight the urge to push. I prop myself up on my elbows, and the mirror is already steaming up from the heat of me. Another blast of pressure.
‘Fuuuuuuuuuck!’
‘Pant, Rachel! Breathe! Pant. Don’t push – not just yet!’
‘Arrgggggggggh! No, no,
no
! It’s too much . . . I can’t fight it any more. I. Can. Not.
Bear
it.’
‘Rachel. Hold on. Your dad will be there any second.’
‘Help! Help me!’
The pain balloons up inside me, bloats me right out to splitting point, slices me in two. Sweat slides down my face, cools the scorching heat of my cheeks. My chest aches horribly, collapsing in on itself – all of me is melting, going under, giving in. My organs are turning to liquid, as though they’re being trampled on. I’m shutting down here, slowly snuffing myself out. I struggle to catch my breath. I try to scream as the next shaft of pain strikes, but nothing comes out.
My limbs fall heavily, my elbows quickly giving way, my neck and shoulders slapping the ground, my body too tired now, too heavy. I’m hot and cold and wearyand I want to just slip under, and I’m frightened for my baby but I’m grateful for the reprieve. I pass out.
A fresh
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