Things rarely turn out as you expect them to. The birth of my daughter was a good example of being swept along by events, watching gormlessly as your tiny world bumps into a hospital full of others, none of them taking any notice of you. We arrived at St. Mary’s in Manchester at 08:45 on Tuesday 20th of May, loaded up like sherpas and weary from a train journey amongst rat-racers who had no idea my svelte, non-showing partner was about to have a baby on demand. The waiting room was full of expectant mothers, some with partners whose main concern was their phones.
The plan was to have one more check on Maria’s heart condition, and then to take her upstairs and have her induced. Could we take our bags up now, to save any undue stress and keep us as relaxed as possible before an uncomfortable first-time experience? No. Stay outside, sitting on bags, Dad. Read an effing book that you can’t concentrate on while Mancunians of all creeds and colours Gallagher-walk past you, complaining about each other. I wasn’t this unreasonable at the time, I must add. I was happily bobbing along with the undertow.
Upstairs on the induction ward, we sat in the day room while the bed was prepared. Smoking mothers in labour passed frequently on their way to the wind-blasted front entrance. Another started on a massive kebab, with extra onions. In one of six bays in an empty room Maria received An Examination, followed by The Gel. I shifted in my seat so much I created a commode. The die was cast and we were having this baby. I wish I’d remembered to have a lie-in every day of my life leading up to that point.
Two of the other bays were occupied a few hours after we arrived. One was Kebab Woman, the other was Low Pain Threshold Woman. The latter was in disbelief at Maria’s tolerance for pain and discomfort, and green with envy that we had the telly working. I didn’t see much of Kebab Woman before I had to go. It was Lockdown on the induction ward, and Lamb Samosa time for me. I went to my room in a Lenny Henry-free chain hotel and watched some Eastenders, and then a Philip Roth documentary. I’d just started to nod off when my phone rang. It was 23:45 and I was to come in immediately because a baby was determined to stop us from sleeping.
Walking through a hospital at that time is strange, like I imagine a tour of Alcatraz might be. I arrived on the delivery ward and found Maria in her own room. The sherpas had sorted the bags out, and new people were sorting her out. Two anaesthetists arrived to put us at ease, talk about football and maybe numb my partner all over.
Those two people (a warm, friendly and caring Scotswoman and an avuncular, teasing Man Citeh fan) were incredibly important for us, considering that by now Maria needed a heavily monitored emergency c-section. Imagine if they’d been utter knobs. But they weren’t, and that helped when Maria’s veins and arteries were being incredibly uncooperative and painful. Shortly after this mini bloodbath we were sent to the operating theatre. Maria went in to get her epidural, which went as well as the previous attempts on her wrist. I went to a side room to put on some scrubs and a hairnet. I also put someone else’s crocs on by mistake. I took them off, leaving a sweaty foot imprint. During this time I should have been thinking about impending fatherhood. Breakfast occupied me for the moment. So many possibilities. Occasionally Uncle Citeh walked past and teased me about Liverpool’s faltering title challenge. I grinned like an idiot.
It was time to go. I was led in like a man coming to see a car. There she was, lying on her back, ready to have the bonnet opened and her little puce engine pulled out, silently. Maria gave a weak little smile which broke my heart a little bit. She was worried and scared. I wasn’t, because I had a cast-iron inner confidence I haven’t had before or since that everything would be okay. The anaesthetists were testing her limbs for numbness while I was looking around the room, wondering why it wasn’t all brushed aluminium and dim lighting. It was bright and white, like the inside of a square egg. Optimum Numbness was achieved and the tide ripped us away for the next fifteen or so minutes.
The sheet went up (thank God for the man, woman or child who came up with that), and the professionals got to work. It was breathtaking to see other human beings simultaneously so nonchalant and so focused on something which was so out of the ordinary to us. With one big slice and a lot of hard tugging and pulling, they were in the process of hoisting my daughter into the world, and Manchester. During this completely normal procedure Maria’s blood pressure dropped dangerously low. She vomited. I thought of breakfast again. Lovely Caledonian Anaesthetist Lady calmed and reassured Maria. So did I, with a hand squeeze and some words. I remember telling her to stay awake, which would drive me mad.
‘Have a quick look!’ said the midwife, unexpectedly. She was holding a white, floppy, quiet Nicholas Witchell lookalike. This was Raffles, and she already had her completely unimpressed face on. ‘What was that?! Was that her?’ See? You don’t expect to meet your daughter like that, and utter those words when you do. It’s never how you expect.
Little Raffles was quiet. Completely. Maria asked why she wasn’t making noise. Was she okay? What’s going on? I didn’t know. Will she be alright? Yes. That I knew. She definitely would be okay. On cue, a massive lung-busting cry not much quieter than her current oeuvre. Would Dad like to see her before Mum does? Yes, I did all the work. I felt guilty, and still do sometimes, that I saw her properly first. She’s a mummy’s girl, and I’m daddy.
I looked down at her on that weighing scale, all puce and hot under lights that could keep a thousand awful meals warm, and I wanted to pick her up and cuddle her. But I’m quiet and shy, so I stood there like a lemon while the paediatrician and the midwife tended to her. I went back to Maria. She looked like she’d just had an emergency c-section. And then Raffles was brought through. The pain and worry vanished from Maria’s face. Raffles blinked slowly and started her career as chief cutie. I looked around and noticed how many people had been in the room with us. The ones not cleaning up were smiling at us arms folded, heads slightly tilted.
Our big happiness whale was thoroughly harpooned soon after. We were all split up. Maria went to the cardiac ward, Raffles to the maternity ward and I to the sans Lenny Henry ward down the road. It was surreal walking around Manchester at 05:30 in the morning, ringing my parents while my daughter was in a cot surrounded by strangers. The sheer speed of events meant my breakfast-deprived brain couldn’t process it all, so I decided to act ‘normally’. I flopped onto my stale marshmallow of a bed and slept for about two hours. I got up and showered and went down for my breakfast. Read on . . .
‘Can I order the continental breakfast, please?’ Three brown-all-over, cigar-like sausages; two shiny, cold fried eggs with peach coloured yolks; a triangle of hard grease with a bit of hash brown in it; some tepid, rubbery toast; a soft, damp croissant and two glasses of ‘fresh’ orange juice, with no bits. Things are never as you expect.
I walked to the hospital immediately after this repast, feeling pregnant myself, with a baby made from stodgy food. It was finally dawning on me what I now had. A wonderfully brave and strong partner with a cracking bust, and a strong little madam with a massive cry, big blue eyes and strawberry ginger hair. I’m luckier than I ever thought I could be. And I have good breakfasts.
Philip Taylor
About the author: Philip is a recent first-time father who likes breakfast, Liverpool FC and busking with a tambourine. He hates kidney beans and all hot drinks.
Not Your Average Baby 