30th December

17:56

A new consultant brings new news. Although on reflection news is new by definition. Better news. Excellent news. A young man, enthusiastic about his trade (still an odd one in my book), and willing to try new things and aim for the best possible outcome is the bearer, and brings with him a wave of optimism.

The best possible outcome it is. Having employed the services of a heart-rate monitor which attaches to a thin layer of skin on baby’s scalp, and satisfied that although dropping with contractions, the heart rate is nevertheless stable and otherwise healthy, Mr Newnews suggests the wife ‘give a little push’ to see if the remaining cervix can be brushed aside like an inconvenient street researcher. Although not completely out of the picture, the cervix is yielding, and Mr Newnews declares that “you can push that out in an hour, by yourself”. This is excellent news. I sense we are climbing the steep hill on the roller-coaster, and we may just be able to get off at the top.

I am a little unnerved as he, and the midwife, leave the room, announcing they will return to check on proceedings in half an hour. Even more unnerved am I when the wife declares she can feel the head moving down, and can I please check? As excited as I am by the prospect of a fast approaching infant, I am nevertheless cautious about looking down there. I glance fleetingly and report no movement, before being chastised and giving the whole nether region a thorough examination. No noticeable movement.

The procession of medical professionals return, and I now feel sufficiently expert to report that the heart rate is steady, only dipping to coincide with contractions. All of this information is garnered from a small black screen with a slightly 80’s looking display. Why do hospitals have to make do with old kit? Said professionals announce that it is indeed time. While a new consultant suggests wheeling wife, bed and assorted equipment to a larger room in case an assisted delivery is needed, the midwife agrees and then overrides the decision as soon as he is out of ear shot. “You’re going to do this” she informs the wife. “You don’t need any help”.

And so it is. The wife is instructed to clutch her hamstrings and push hard during each contraction. This she does, with gusto, spurred by the recent upturn of events. The midwife is gushing with encouragement, each push being ‘amazing’, and her voice is now louder than I feel is slightly necessary, but nevertheless I am also encouraged.

There it is! The head! Due to the clip-on heart rate monitor, his or her hair will no doubt see better days as it is slicked down by all manner of liquids, mostly dark red. The final push projects our baby forwards, so that the face (much larger than I anticipated judging by the top of the head) is fully visible, and immediately followed by the rest of the body. The cause of the dropping heart rate is evident, the chord wrapped twice around baby’s neck, like Jonny Rambo and his bullet belts. Baby appears to be suspended in a yellowy sack, but the ‘baby moisturiser’ vernix is towelled off and baby is plonked on Mum’s chest. Reassuring cry is followed by a contented cuddle.

The midwife was right. It is amazing.

“It’s a boy” shouts Mum, a relief given the dearth of ‘seeming right’ girl’s names which we have battled from day one. After all those months. He’s here. The final stage goes so fast.

Ups-and-downs is not an adequate description. The walls were crumbling around us, and within the space of two hours they were not only rebuilt, but made into something far better.

He is Solomon. Complete. Joined up. Content. At peace.