Happy Birth Day...

It started like any other as we plodded up to Mount Meru hospital, but today I was going to the Obstetrics  and gynaecology department and my first day on the labour ward. As Lizzie and I arrived we were made blatantly aware that the cleaners were on the ward – and they were a whole lot tougher than the ones in surgical, as we were met by a glare and a threatening shove of their mops as we attempted to step onto the ward. So instead we turned on our heals and headed for the western toilets to get changed down at the admin block.

Returning in our fresh clean scrubs, some of the fear-faced doctors were braving the ward, so we took this as our invitation and plonked our bags in the cupboard. Venturing onto the labour ward, we were met by a very curtain-less, sheet-less, generally dignity-less sight.  Apparently we were just in time for two births happening side by side. Literally. There is no curtain between the mothers, but their modesty was nearly spared by a curtain at the foot of each bed which could also double as a baby catching device. (NB. I discovered today (tues 21^st) that these are in fact shower curtains and are indeed for protecting against the impromptu splashes, not sure how often they get cleaned yet...)

Within 7 minutes of our shift beginning, two little heads were crowning. Choosing to focus on just one, the young girl in front of me, who was putting in a brave and solo effort. It is pretty apparent here that no dads-to-be present are present at the births, in fact there are no males here at all, and with only the female nurses offering assistance, the song # sisters are doing it for themselves # inappropriately cropped into my head. Aaargh!

I was beginning to question how on earth a small anything was going to pop out when my thoughts turned to the many happy times spent down in the lambing tunnels at Culbae and suddenly it was all so natural. I must admit however, I don’t quite have the same vivid recollection of the episiotomy, which is carried out here without local anaesthetic. To be honest, the whole birthing process so far had progressed on sheer determination, without so much as a glance from simple analgesia. A few modest wimpers and a look of sheer exhaustion and the final push was really rather magical. A beautiful baby boy, who took one look at the world and exclaimed with all his might that he had arrived. As mother and baby met in person for the first time and the final stage of labour passed, my attention spun to the lady beside, as I realised that another wee fellow was about to make his entrance.

 I never thought silence could be a more terrifying sound. There was just no sound at all. The little bundle was scooped up in a Kanga and rushed to the little table outside the ward labelled “resuscitation table” where a small plastic tube carrying low flow oxygen was poked up his tiny perfect nostril and there he was left, dazed and confused as the nurse returned to see to mummy. It was all instinct as we approached the table to the lifeless bundle and gently shook the tiny shoulders. A junior medic stepped in then and rubbed the tiny sternum and two blue eyes appeared. Still no audible breath. A heartbeat was pronounced, and the willing rub continued, urging the baby to take a breath. Taking a step back, I realised there is no urgency in further intervention from the staff here. No one appeared alarmed, or perturbed, and deep down I began to wonder if this was survival of the fittest – something which I have seen so many times here. If he was supposed to make it, he would? A wee wimper signalled that we shouldn’t wait any longer, so we suggested that we could take the baby to the neo natal unit, for fear of hypothermia and the nurses agreed, pleased to have a task off their hands. We rushed him over the court yard and into the building which serves as neo natal care, where simple wall heaters ensure temperatures sore to over 30 degrees and tiny babies fight for their lives every day. Our wee friend was received by a young, unassuming nurse and she gave him a swing by his bag legs and plopped him onto a cot under a hot lamp, the similarities to the lambing were almost amusing. With that, his eyes were wide open and an almighty wail came out of his toes, as he realised his trance had been broken. Back on the ward we were able to tell mummy that baby had taken a great cry and the relief in her eyes said it all.

Often here we have been writing the names of patients in notes and wondered how anyone could come to be called such things, but today made me realise, that sometimes there is nothing more apt than calling your baby Lucky.