Letter to Louis Page 3

  The church is actually a cathedral and stately in size. Why does Glasgow have more than one cathedral? Is that something to do with his hat? We walk slowly down the aisle past empty wooden pews and magnificent arching columns that reach up towards stained-glass windows set into the carved stone walls. The curving roof above my head seems to be rising higher and higher and in the distance I can see an elaborately embroidered cloth draping the altar and the vicar standing beside it in his white cassock and sash. His gaze rises up to the ceiling and then lowers to face us, his benign smile encouraging us forwards. We are halfway down the aisle and I can feel the presence of my family all around, as if they are there in the pews. I can sense them nodding and smiling, willing me on. I am shaking, my heart is lifting and my lips are trembling. The enormous wooden door behind us creaks, and then silence booms. I don’t look back. But then I hear a sound, a high-pitched whistle, a tune. That’s Jamie! Music echoes through the building, swirls around us as we walk.

  ‘Here comes the bride.’

  Tonight I pour my milk for you down the sink. We celebrated our wedding with a meal and some alcohol – I can’t let that be given to you. I stare out of the bathroom window and watch snowflakes falling. They had started falling earlier as we crossed George Square and flagged a taxi, came up to see you at midnight before going to bed. I took it as a good sign, this beautiful flurry of flakes on our wedding night. Now it is three in the morning. Outside is a muffled stillness, there’s no sound of traffic over our rooftop from the Great Western Road. I look up and the sky is dense white, the flakes are falling with such frequency that they are barely separated as they pass the bathroom window. I look down and watch them covering our communal back garden. All has become white: the walls, lawn, hedges, bins, the flowerbeds are hiding under their bed sheets in the depths of this night.

  A few nights later I wake in a panic and come to see you in the middle of the night. It’s quiet up here at this time. They dim the lights at night-time and bubble wrap lies over you to keep you warm, but the bleeps still sound. There’s a different type of nurse on duty: older, sadder, quieter. There is one who is cruel. She makes nasty little comments directed at the sleeping babies. We try to make sure we are with you when her shift is on.

  *

  There are all kinds of personalities among the nurses: kind ones, friendly ones, chatty ones, forgetful ones, bored or unhappy ones, intelligent and gentle ones, some doing far more work than others.

  Some of the nurses open up to me as I sit by your incubator.

  ‘Oh, I could never have a baby myself. What would you want one of those for?’ a nurse called Karen says, laughing; she says it with a funny shrug but she clearly means it. She always chatters as she works, letting me into her world.

  ‘You see, hen, all you parents are different. Some of you mothers, like you for instance, sit by your weans day in day out, but others, well, they won’t even come into the room. There was this one woman …’

  Karen pauses; she’s just changed your sheet and she’s put the dirty one down on a table and has turned towards me.

  ‘She had her wee one in intensive care but she never came in. She would stand outside over there, watching us through the glass of the wall but never saying a word, and she always turned away when I came out of the room. I thought she was a right stuck-up cow. But then one day as I came out of the door she spoke to me. Her voice was shaking and she asked me, “How’s my baby?” And I told her, “He’s doing well.” Well, she had started to shake. She told me she was too scared to come into the room. So I sat her down and told her not to worry, that it would be good for her and good for the baby. She told me she was scared to love him in case he died and I told her it was far better if she let him know she was there and that she loved him whatever happened. So she came with me into the room and I helped her to hold her baby. She came every day after that, until it died that is, poor thing. I learnt something then: you can never tell what you parents are thinking and feeling inside. And just to think I’d thought she was a stuck-up cow at first.’

  Karen picks up your sheet and is moving away.

  Take deep breaths, deep breaths.

  It is Monday morning, you are seven weeks old and I am rushing down the corridor; I can hear the cries of the babies as I pass each of the rooms. They call it ‘the torture hour’ and they say this gleefully. I want to get to you in time, to be there to gently wake you, but I’m too late. I reach the end of the ward and turn into your own personal room. You’ve got an infection; you’re in isolation right now. I can hear you screaming and I see her, the cruel nurse, holding the heel of your foot. She has come and stabbed the needle into your heel, not even bothering to wake you first. She’s squeezing the blood and it’s dropping into a test tube that’s nearly half full. She drops your leg.

  ‘Isn’t there a kinder way of you doing this? Can’t you numb my son first?’

  ‘No time for that, hen, we’ve got a whole ward to collect from. Anyway, he’s fine, I’ve finished now.’ She writes your hospital number onto the tube.

  ‘See you next week,’ she grins.

  *

  I slip my hand through the incubator armhole.

  ‘I’m here, Louis, I’m here,’ I whisper and your tiny cry settles. I stroke your forehead ever so gently with the tips of my fingers and then lightly run my hand over the knitted wee hat that you’re wearing, cradle your head in my palm. Your eyes are tightly shut but I see the tension in your brows lessen. I wait a while until I’m sure your sleep is relaxed then I move my hand and reposition the cotton sheet that’s lying crumpled over your middle. I pull it out and down to go over your nappy and legs, cover the splints and intravenous wires still attached. Your tiny feet, deep pink, poke out at the end. Both of your miniature ankles are ringed with a plastic bracelet, one with your name on and the other with your hospital number. I know your number off by heart; I write it every day on the bottles of milk I’m expressing. It’s an easy number to remember, you are number 77077 – I like the fact you have a lot of lucky sevens in there.

  The handsome Portuguese doctor enters the lift. He has long eyelashes, warm brown eyes and a toned body beneath those blue operating gowns. I’ve heard wistful sighs about him from the nurses on the ward; ‘Ooo he’s so gorgeous,’ ‘He’s a good dancer at the staff party, I’ll have you know.’ The doctor smiles at us and I smile back and then look away. I’m feeling embarrassed. The last time I saw this doctor he was inspecting me internally. I had passed a large clot of blood after being sent home and it had scared me, it had looked like a brain.

  ‘You fancy him,’ Greg says as we step out of the lift.

  ‘What?’

  I know he’s teasing.

  ‘Come on, who wouldn’t? But this is not really the place for that.’

  Greg’s pulling faces, trying to look like the doctor.

  ‘Stop it.’ I’m laughing.

  We’re heading towards the remote-controlled doors at the entrance of the hospital when a woman with her head down rushes through the doors from outside and nearly bumps into us, stopping abruptly. The woman looks up and shock registers across her face.

  ‘Jessie,’ I say in surprise.

  ‘Oh goodness, Alison. I can’t believe it, what’s happened to you. Who would have thought something like this could possibly happen to someone like you?’

  We’re all silent as Jessie pauses. ‘How’s your baby?’ she continues in a concerned voice.

  ‘He’s doing okay, we hope. He’s called Louis. He’s moved from intensive care to special care now.’

  ‘Oh, intensive care. I’ve worked there but it didn’t suit me. I couldn’t bear hearing a baby cry. I’d go rushing to it. I was always forgetting to wash my hands.’

  We’re all awkwardly silent. She’s trying to smile but her eyes are cast sideways.

  ‘Well, I hope it continues to go well.’

  I move aside to let her past.

  The last time I’d seen Jessie was on the day you
were born. She’d been summoned by Dr O’Hara to come and explain what was happening. Jessie had looked serious when she came into the small counselling room where I’d been taken and left.

  ‘Oh dear, Alison. You’re going to be admitted immediately.’

  I was crying in shock.

  ‘Would you like me to call Greg for you?’

  ‘Greg’s down in the Borders, he’s doing a site survey, there’s no way to contact him.’

  ‘Look, I’ve got your number,’ she said kindly, ‘I’ll leave a message on your answerphone at home. I’ll let Greg know where to find you in the ward. Have you got your pregnancy care plan on you?’

  I had lifted my handbag onto my lap and pulled the blue booklet out and passed it to her.

  ‘Now let’s take you over to the ward.’

  Jessie was my ‘main’ midwife on the community midwifery Domino scheme. I’d wanted a home birth originally, but because it was my first time they had advised against it. On the Domino scheme I was to be able to go into labour at home, head over to the hospital for delivery and then home again within six hours if all went well. It had seemed like the perfect option.

  I’d been enjoying your pregnancy, feeling you growing and kicking inside. People would say, ‘Enjoy your last moments of freedom, your life will never be the same again,’ and Greg and I would laugh, feel excitement at the thought.

  I’d waited all of that previous week to see Jessie before you were born. She had not turned up on Tuesday afternoon as had been arranged so I’d rung her number at the end of the day and left a message on the answerphone. She was apologetic when she called the next morning.

  ‘I’m sorry, Alison, I was waylaid by a delivery.’

  ‘Oh. Jessie, I would like to see you. I’m not feeling so well and I want to check things with you.’

  ‘Now don’t you worry; I’m rushing right now but I’ll be over tomorrow in the morning. I’ll be with you by lunchtime, okay?’

  She called again on Thursday lunchtime.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been delayed again, I’m afraid. It shouldn’t take much longer; I’ll be with you by the end of the day. In the very unlikely event that I’m not, I’ll definitely see you tomorrow.’

  She never came.

  On Saturday morning I was wondering what to do about being seen. Jessie had told me at our first meeting, ‘Alison, for the scheme to work you must follow the Domino rules. We only take on low-risk patients, first pregnancies are not usually allowed, but I’ve decided you’re so healthy you can qualify. The scheme has limited funding so I must stress to you I’m your first point of contact.’

  ‘So I must call you if I have any concerns?’

  ‘Yes, unless it’s an emergency. There’s no point to the scheme if you keep using the hospital service.’

  Jessie had pulled out a pen and ringed her telephone number on the care plan adding her name ‘Jessie’ beneath.

  *

  It was Saturday morning and we were sitting at the kitchen table eating toast.

  ‘What do you think I should do? Do community midwives work at weekends too? Should I try calling again?’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  Greg had left his toast and gone through the hall to the front door. I could hear laughter as I walked towards it, the daylight spilling down the wooden boards of the floor. Over Greg’s shoulder I saw Jessie and someone else, dark haired and slighter, behind her. My heart lifted. She’s come, now I can check.

  ‘This is my boring case,’ Jessie said to the woman with her and then laughed, smiling brightly at me. I’d quietly smiled back as Greg ushered them into the hall. Jessie leaned towards my ear as we walked into the living room.

  ‘I’m sorry to have taken so long in coming and not letting you know. You wouldn’t believe the week that I’ve had.’

  They both sat down near the window; Greg offered them a drink.

  ‘No thanks, we want to make this quick. We’ve been up all night up the road and we’re heading home to our beds. I realised you lived here so I thought I’d knock on the off-chance and introduce you to Catriona, too, kill two birds with one stone.’

  She turned her head to the left. ‘Catriona is one of your six allocated midwives too.’

  I was sitting facing them both waiting for Jessie to pause.

  ‘Actually, Jessie, I’m pleased you’ve come, I’m not feeling too well. I’ve been wanting to ask you what you think.’

  ‘Okay. Is there something bothering you in particular?’

  Catriona said something I didn’t catch and Jessie’s face broke into a broad grin, her body shaking. I was feeling flushed, my head throbbing at the temples.

  ‘Yes, well, there’s a few things. I’ve not been feeling myself all week. I’ve got a headache that keeps coming and going and I don’t usually get headaches at all.’

  ‘Have you taken any paracetamol?’

  ‘Well, no, I didn’t think I could because I’m pregnant?’

  ‘It’s okay to take a couple.’

  ‘I had to leave a friend’s funeral yesterday and come home to lie down, I felt so tired and fluey. I’ve been trying to rest but my face still feels puffy and my vision seems to be blurred around the edges of my eyes.’

  I lifted my hands up to my face, pressing softly at my temples.

  ‘Oh, that’s nothing to worry about. That can happen in pregnancy – your eyesight can change and then it reverts back to normal after.’

  ‘Oh, right. I’ve been feeling anxious too. The baby doesn’t seem to be moving as much as before and my stomach doesn’t seem to have grown since I was last checked. I’ve been looking in my pregnancy book, it says the baby is meant to double in size from twenty-eight to thirty-two weeks and I just don’t feel like I’ve changed at all.’

  ‘Has someone been saying you look small?’

  Jessie’s voice had hardened.

  ‘Well, yes, actually. I bumped into my friend’s mother at the swimming pool on Sunday. I didn’t feel well enough to go in, that’s not like me either. She said how small I looked.’

  ‘Well, next time someone says something like that to you, I suggest you look them straight in the eye and say, “Oh dear! Do you think something is wrong?”’

  My face flushed hot and I felt my eyes welling with tears.

  ‘But I think I’m small too.’

  I could hear my voice wavering, my head was beginning to throb again, tears were running down my face.

  Jessie had looked across at Catriona again; she glanced back at me and her face turned suddenly serious.

  ‘Let’s go into the bedroom and check, eh? I’m sure everything’s fine.’

  I’d brushed the tears off my cheeks.

  I led the way to the bedroom, slipped off my shoes and lay down on the bed. I lifted my blue top and lowered my elasticated trousers to display my rounded belly.

  ‘Let’s have a check of that baby.’

  Jessie’s hands felt my stomach. Catriona bent down, lifting a funnel out of her bag and passed it to Jessie.

  ‘There, that’s the head – it’s in position already, that’s good. Now that means the heart will be around here.’

  She pressed her fingers into my side and lifted the funnel-shaped object, placed it beside her fingers and put her ear down to listen.

  We were all silent.

  I could feel my own heartbeat throbbing in my ears.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.

  ‘There, I heard it; it’s fine, absolutely fine.’

  Jessie passed the funnel back to Catriona. My face had broken into a smile.

  ‘That’s good,’ I said from my prone position, ‘but what about the movements? They’re reduced and they don’t feel like movements or kicks any more but just flutters and only down low like a tickling sensation.’

  ‘Oh, movements change all the time in pregnancy. Are you feeling twelve in a day?’

  ‘Well, yes, just,
if a flutter counts?’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine then.’

  ‘Ah, we are meant to have taken your blood by now as you’re rhesus negative. We’d better do that quickly too.’

  I’d not moved. I was still flat on my back and starting to feel uncomfortable.

  ‘Can you put your arm out to your side, Alison? We’ll get this blood taken.’

  The needle went into my arm but Catriona was talking. She was looking over her shoulder and speaking to Jessie, the needle still in my arm, the syringe half full with blood. Catriona looked back and removed the needle, asked me to put pressure on the puncture.

  ‘There you go. You’re fine, we’ll be off.’

  ‘See you in two weeks’ time.’

  Jessie smiled at me lying there as she walked out the bedroom door.

  Greg left too. I could hear them all walking through the hall, still laughing, and out of the front door. I heard Greg thanking them, saying he hoped they got some sleep as I struggled to sit up. It felt better being upright; it wasn’t comfortable being flat like that. I put my legs over the side of the bed and sat on the edge. I moved along the side and leaned over to pick up my care plan and turned to the back of the booklet. When are they coming back? What had they meant by two weeks? Were we back to my usual Tuesday? The return appointments column was blank. What about my symptoms? Has she put anything about those? I flicked the book open; that column was blank too. And the blood pressure column, but that wasn’t taken, but what’s it for? I didn’t have a clue. Greg interrupted my train of thought as he entered the bedroom with a wide grin.

  ‘Well, that’s a relief then, isn’t it; you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I still don’t feel too great, though, a headache’s started again.’

  ‘Look, you’re obviously upset about John’s death. Why don’t you lie down? I’ll pop to the shops and get something nice for lunch.’