Birth

From the crumpled depths of a hospital bed, a mother is contemplating rose petals and razor blades. “Jesus God!”, she screams announcing another contraction. Under different circumstances she might be praising or thanking the almighty but now she begs for mercy. “You are in labour”, the midwife informs her as if it were a revelation. The mother wrenches her fists against the bed as her concave abdomen flops to one side, relieving her vena cava of burden. The CTG machine whooshes with fervour, monitoring the foetal heart from a harness of straps and probes embracing the mother’s stomach. “Jesus God!” she implores again. The divine reply comes in the form of squelching bed sheets that signal that her ‘water has broken’. The first of many euphemisms. The midwife reaches into the mother and declares that she is 7 cm dilated and ready to be moved to the delivery room. “Jesus God!”, the mother thanks the midwife for her analysis.

In the delivery room 3 midwives monitor the perineum for signs of life while shouting “Push!” in Zulu, Xhosa and Portuguese. The mother is encouraged to bear down as if ‘going to toilet’ - which happens anyway. She holds her breath and squeezes down through her open legs releasing the air in a weary moan. “Jesus God!” she applauds herself for effort. Finally the baby’s head breaks through the mothers legs negotiating its entry with a series of safe dial turns. In a matter of seconds the midwife delivers the shoulder, body and feet with a final celebratory splash of meconium onto the linen saver. The pink wet blur fidgets hysterically redeeming its humanity with a gurgling cry. “Its a girl” says the midwife for the 8^th time on her shift. The mother is jubilant but depleted, feeling the maternal tickle of pethidine for the first time. The baby is suctioned, cleaned, cord clamped and cut. The placenta is extracted onto the bed where it glistens with alien impropriety. “3.4kg”, announces the midwife, referring to the new being in the room. Another miracle of life in cubicle 5.