The Other Side of the World

I woke up the morning after my last exam (a brutal 19 page thriller that had me in near hysterics as all good lastest/hardest exams do) a trifle surprised to be conscious. But there you have it, I am (all hopeful pass marks considering) half a midwife now. Mid-midwife? Some sort of strange crossover mark has been reached somewhere between wringing the cramps out of my writing hand and gently slipping the umbilical cord around the body of exam-time baby number seven (born at home in what I can only describe as the most normal of family evenings complete with matching striped pyjamas, prime time television - Medium was on, if you must know - and mama on the lazy boy calmly having a baby in 30 minutes flat).

And so, when you cross over, I suspect it is a human reflex to look back over your shoulder. Perhaps assessing the terrain from a new and hard fought perspective.
Last night, my classmates and I went out dancing until the hours when we’d normally be measuring newborn head circumferences - I arrived home just before torrential rains descended at 3am. The stress and struggle flittering away with each bump of our hips and arms. But below that desperate need for pseudo-reckless diversion we held tightly to the things we now know:

If you go to bed with dirty hair, you will get called out in the middle of the night and you will feel skungy and unkempt the entire time even when up to your elbows in everyone else’s body fluids.

The minute you are on call, you will receive repeated, aggravating phone calls from people you don’t want to talk to at all hours of the night, however, you will be forced to pick up the phone each time they ring anyway - just in case.

You do not actually need sleep, caffeine, or sanity to function.

Coming home to a warm bed at 5am is far more important than who is actually in the bed making it so.

You will only be asked to find the item the hospital store room has run out of when it’s 3am.

One day you will be really thrilled that you just did your first vaginal exam. And then you will be slightly mollified that it was thrilling.

Popcorn will fix anything.

Human flesh does not feel like lamb hearts from the grocery store when you are sticking a needle & thread through it. Try not to look so surprised when you realize this. Someone’s husband may be watching you and wondering why you are making that face in that particular situation.

The minute the midwife leaves the room, the woman in labour will start to push the baby out (note: this is actually ok!).

Listen. When a woman says “I’m having this baby on Thursday” she probably is, and you waking up every 16 seconds on Wednesday night will be fruitless, not to mention make you very tired on Thursday when she is actually having the baby.

Sometimes “I feel like pushing” means the baby will shoot out like a bullet 3 seconds later. Sometimes it means that you will not be going home for the next 6 hours. Sometimes it means both. Don’t even try to guess which.

Somewhere, someone will think that you are Normal, and will gasp in relief that they have found you amongst a sea of bizarre freaks. Be sure to revel in the moment.

Don’t be surprised if, at the end of your semester you have forgotten what looking human is like and you stare in awe in the mirror for 20 minutes after the application of eye-liner.

Birth is the everday miracle

And when you leave your stunningly ordinary few hours spent amongst the striped pjs, cups of tea, bad American tv, a newborn baby and lots of questions from the resident seven year old, what will actually ring in your ears well into the next morning is -

“hey, thanks for being such chill midwives”

Hey, thanks for getting me here.

really, Thanks.

* as in years/weeks - me

the week before exams finally ends with a total of 6 births. First exam in the morning. I’m overwhelmed and strangely calm. people talk about being ‘called’ to midwifery - perhaps the same bruising directive force will thrust my brain into the direction of concise and intelligent exam reponses.

or perhaps my week of breath-holdingly clutching at suture-needle-clamps, swinging lusty newborn bundles under fish scale hooks and feeling the pull intensify just a fraction stronger with each nose slipping from the last fold of flesh. . . perhaps that’s enough motivation to keep going long after sense would dictate.

it may be reckless, but I think the end is in sight.

This evening I found myself running somewhat inelegantly through the dark, eerie and fairly maze-like hallways of the psychiatry wards at the local hospital.

but let me backtrack -

Thurs morning I leapt out of bed at 7:30 am, raced to the hospital (noticing my car was on empty) and barely had time to snap on some gloves (certainly the midwife didn’t) before my hands (and as later examination of vernix-smeared black shirt showed, my arms and shoulders as well) were fulll of squirming fat baby girl.

Once they were all settled in and the interminable hospital paperwork dealt with, I raced home to study for exams.

Fri morning I ran around trying to finangle a passport (the only highlight of which was a nice home-sickness inducing rendition of the french/english answering service at the Canadian High Comission in Wellington). I studied (briefly) for my clinical skills exam. I raced off to the university (Jane driving) to sit the exam & pay my incredibly overdue tuition (apparently otherwise you can’t sit your exams. well-timed, that).

As soon as the exam was passed, the phone went off again - a nice long juicy (read: complicated) labour waiting for me. Actually, the message from the midwife read something like “are you coming to keep me company?”. Raced from the university to home to get my car (still on empty) and then rushed off to the hospital (stopping to throw hummus in another classmate’s fridge - see, if you give me your house keys, I will creepily leave homeade hummus in your fridge on dark rainy nights).

Arrived at the hospital at 6pm. Baby sliced into the bright lights of the operating theatre at 6am. Home in bed by 8:30am.

Woke up, studied, ate, ran bath. Took off one sock. The phone goes off again. I think I swore very loudly. Pulled plug on very deep, very hot bath. Wept inwardly.
Raced up to the hospital yet again (car still running like a menorah). Arrived at 8pm, baby was imminent. Sent to get something from the midwife’s car. Took wrong staircase. Ended up in random pitch black, well shrubbed courtyard. Found a door. Entered. Ensuing gallop through mental wards. Ended up on the street on the far side of the hospital. Ran all the way back around, grabbed item out of car. Bounded back up the stairs, cursing decreased lung capacity. Baby slid happily (and sunny side up) into my hands a short while later. The father handed me chocolate while I was carting the placenta out the door, which led to the fascinating experience of tasting chocolate, smelling blood & feeling warm, raw flesh all at once.

As my midwife says. . .who would be a midwife?!

clearly, it’s the people running through the mental wards on a Saturday night.