The place of birth on your passport follows you about for a lifetime. I should know, as my place of birth was Swindon and J never misses an opportunity to give me a little dig about it - that delightful conurbation west of London. The hospital I was born in has since been flattened, but the place of birth lives on in my over-stamped travel document nearly 40 years on.
Since Bunny Floppy Ears, the name the dwarfs chose for our baby due in August, will hopefully make an appearance in the so-called Holy Land, we're being forced to think about where, exactly. B.F.Ears' future could be decided within an inch of a green line on the map. It's complicated and political. So what's new?
Having Jerusalem as a place of birth on any passport could mean it's impossible to get a visa to visit countries in the Arab region. Jerusalem is considered as occupied by Israel by most Arab states - even for its second most holy city status in Islam. Some friends whose baby had Jerusalem as a place of birth struggled to get to Lebanon recently. We could very well end up moving to another Arab country sometime and it would be a disaster if we couldn't get a visa for the smallest family member.
So we thought we'd decided on a hospital in Bethlehem, which is still inside the West Bank, despite being encroached by settlements and all the other delightful trimmings of occupation. Although there's a check point to enter Bethlehem, I've heard many positive birth stories from there. Not only the obvious one...
So last week we visited a Palestinian gynaecologist in Jerusalem who I'd presumed would give us encouragement about the Bethlehem idea, which isn't something we could discuss with our charming Israeli gynaecologist because she would probably not have much information about hospitals in the West Bank.
J and I turned up for our appointment at 6.30pm, both already feeling quite hungry after busy days. By 8.15pm we were shown into his room, after trying to correct my name on my paperwork, which had 'Andre' inserted between my first and last names, presumably because they always need a patriarchal mention on the Palestinian side, but on the Israeli side it's a matriarchal one. This means that proofs of birth are problematic both sides, because the baby is called after the mother's name in Israel, whereas the maternal grandfather gets a mention in Palestine. So even if B.F.Ears gets a passport with any place of birth on it between Tel Aviv, Gaza City and Ramallah, it will almost certainly have a weird name, possibly even weirder than the one it has already - and potentially a surname different from its siblings. Fabulous.
By this stage J and I were properly hungry and getting a little tetchy. Whereas our Israeli gynaecologist made me feel like a unique human being about to deliver one more being of unique status on the planet, I felt like another over sized piece of human matter with swollen ankles in this particular room. It didn't help that the gynae's tummy also touched the desk, straining from inside his green scrubs forcing the buttons to do that gaping thing. And as a result he seemed loath to heave himself from his seat. And also, that he spent the first half hour warning us that at my age a 2000 Dollar Downs Syndrome test was recommended on top of the normal blood test. And at 24-26 weeks it was the 'last window' that we could decide to get rid of the baby should there be a sign of Downs. At this point I received a sharp internal kick as if to remind me that someone else was listening to all this. Then he explained that Bethlehem was a good place to deliver if everything went smoothly, but you didn't have the same facilities there as in Jerusalem if something went wrong. And already I felt like there were Dollar signs involved in this strategy too, so I couldn't consider it impartial advice.
Then he talked us through the glucose challenge and I thought for one horrible moment we were going to have to do it there and then - having had no dinner and both at an even lower ebb. We were given a tour of the sparkling new ward, but for all the shiny white equipment and clean metal lines, all I could wish for was the comfortable contours of a birthing pool which is where the dwarfs began life on the planet. Oh NHS we miss you so, I thought to myself, as I watched the mouth of the very lovely Arab midwife opening and closing as she showed us around their facilities.
Back home, at 9.30pm over a hastily prepared dinner consisting of dwarf leftovers and a much needed glass of wine, J said: 'Let's book a birthing pool for hire now before they all get taken by other pregnant Israeli ladies'. There is one birthing pool supplier in Jerusalem on the Israeli side.
The pastel coloured website announced in curling letters, miraculously all in English because my Hebrew has a long way to go:
'Birthing pool for hire in Israel'
'may your births be sweet powerful'
'may you always know how vital
mamas are in this world'
And lists of all the hoses, pumps and other accessories that come with it. We booked one for a month over the time of the due date thinking to ourselves that at least we could have B.F.Ears at home.
But the next hurdle with this, is that if you arrange some Israeli midwives to come and help out, some of them might have an issue with coming to Arab East Jerusalem, particularly at the dead of night, which is when dwarfs normally make an appearance, in my experience. And as J was reading out his bank card details for me to book this enormous inflatable object, I had visions of him wrangling with the foot pump and trying to decipher the Hebrew instructions of the birthing pool while giving directions to our house to a confused and terrified Israeli midwife. There are not the same services on the Palestinian side, and it did cross my mind that this could be due to the scarcity and cost of water in the West Bank.
After this day I lay awake for most of the night, my mind swimming in thoughts-soup. I'm sure it's when you're lying down that your thoughts turn into a stagnant pond. Better to get up, pace around, mix them up. My worries meandered from Rashimi's little perma-tanned feet whose toenails look like they might be ingrowing, to where I could buy good quality childrens' sandals in this town or perhaps I should order on line, but then how would we measure them properly? To the Lozenge's school work which he says is boring, and his reluctance to continue piano lessons because all he wants to do is 'real play' not 'piano play'. And then back to birthing pools and whether we might be able to bring our own one to the hospital in Bethlehem. And then to my own work and how I was going to finish all that while simultaneously coaching the Lozenge through his letters as the teacher seems incapable of that without huge parental input. And by 3am I suddenly remembered I'd invited 6 lovely girlfriends for lunch the following day, so decided to get out of bed and flick through some recipe books, going back to bed by the time the call to prayer began at 4.30am and snuck in a quick hour or so before the school day starter gun at 6.
I should have realised then, that 6 ladies for lunch the following day was the recipe in itself. The sun shone and the minute they all walked in the door I felt like all was well. Although there was no Pinot Grigio involved at this particular lunch because we're all in various stages of the reproduction relay, the Ottolenghi aubergine cheese cake and salad was the ticket, and I felt so lucky to have met such a great clutch of women in this city. They all brought flowers and cakes, and smiling faces. Not a jabbering dwarf in sight since they were all at school, with the only small fry being the newborn variety who stayed extremely quiet for over two hours, meaning we could cover some serious conversational ground from Israeli midwives to Hamas. Who needs gin when you can have this kind of a tonic?
B.F.Ears' Place of birth remains undecided. But we're sure an answer will bubble up from some holy spring as the research continues.
Since Bunny Floppy Ears, the name the dwarfs chose for our baby due in August, will hopefully make an appearance in the so-called Holy Land, we're being forced to think about where, exactly. B.F.Ears' future could be decided within an inch of a green line on the map. It's complicated and political. So what's new?
Having Jerusalem as a place of birth on any passport could mean it's impossible to get a visa to visit countries in the Arab region. Jerusalem is considered as occupied by Israel by most Arab states - even for its second most holy city status in Islam. Some friends whose baby had Jerusalem as a place of birth struggled to get to Lebanon recently. We could very well end up moving to another Arab country sometime and it would be a disaster if we couldn't get a visa for the smallest family member.
So we thought we'd decided on a hospital in Bethlehem, which is still inside the West Bank, despite being encroached by settlements and all the other delightful trimmings of occupation. Although there's a check point to enter Bethlehem, I've heard many positive birth stories from there. Not only the obvious one...
So last week we visited a Palestinian gynaecologist in Jerusalem who I'd presumed would give us encouragement about the Bethlehem idea, which isn't something we could discuss with our charming Israeli gynaecologist because she would probably not have much information about hospitals in the West Bank.
J and I turned up for our appointment at 6.30pm, both already feeling quite hungry after busy days. By 8.15pm we were shown into his room, after trying to correct my name on my paperwork, which had 'Andre' inserted between my first and last names, presumably because they always need a patriarchal mention on the Palestinian side, but on the Israeli side it's a matriarchal one. This means that proofs of birth are problematic both sides, because the baby is called after the mother's name in Israel, whereas the maternal grandfather gets a mention in Palestine. So even if B.F.Ears gets a passport with any place of birth on it between Tel Aviv, Gaza City and Ramallah, it will almost certainly have a weird name, possibly even weirder than the one it has already - and potentially a surname different from its siblings. Fabulous.
By this stage J and I were properly hungry and getting a little tetchy. Whereas our Israeli gynaecologist made me feel like a unique human being about to deliver one more being of unique status on the planet, I felt like another over sized piece of human matter with swollen ankles in this particular room. It didn't help that the gynae's tummy also touched the desk, straining from inside his green scrubs forcing the buttons to do that gaping thing. And as a result he seemed loath to heave himself from his seat. And also, that he spent the first half hour warning us that at my age a 2000 Dollar Downs Syndrome test was recommended on top of the normal blood test. And at 24-26 weeks it was the 'last window' that we could decide to get rid of the baby should there be a sign of Downs. At this point I received a sharp internal kick as if to remind me that someone else was listening to all this. Then he explained that Bethlehem was a good place to deliver if everything went smoothly, but you didn't have the same facilities there as in Jerusalem if something went wrong. And already I felt like there were Dollar signs involved in this strategy too, so I couldn't consider it impartial advice.
Then he talked us through the glucose challenge and I thought for one horrible moment we were going to have to do it there and then - having had no dinner and both at an even lower ebb. We were given a tour of the sparkling new ward, but for all the shiny white equipment and clean metal lines, all I could wish for was the comfortable contours of a birthing pool which is where the dwarfs began life on the planet. Oh NHS we miss you so, I thought to myself, as I watched the mouth of the very lovely Arab midwife opening and closing as she showed us around their facilities.
Back home, at 9.30pm over a hastily prepared dinner consisting of dwarf leftovers and a much needed glass of wine, J said: 'Let's book a birthing pool for hire now before they all get taken by other pregnant Israeli ladies'. There is one birthing pool supplier in Jerusalem on the Israeli side.
The pastel coloured website announced in curling letters, miraculously all in English because my Hebrew has a long way to go:
'Birthing pool for hire in Israel'
'may your births be sweet powerful'
'may you always know how vital
mamas are in this world'
And lists of all the hoses, pumps and other accessories that come with it. We booked one for a month over the time of the due date thinking to ourselves that at least we could have B.F.Ears at home.
But the next hurdle with this, is that if you arrange some Israeli midwives to come and help out, some of them might have an issue with coming to Arab East Jerusalem, particularly at the dead of night, which is when dwarfs normally make an appearance, in my experience. And as J was reading out his bank card details for me to book this enormous inflatable object, I had visions of him wrangling with the foot pump and trying to decipher the Hebrew instructions of the birthing pool while giving directions to our house to a confused and terrified Israeli midwife. There are not the same services on the Palestinian side, and it did cross my mind that this could be due to the scarcity and cost of water in the West Bank.
After this day I lay awake for most of the night, my mind swimming in thoughts-soup. I'm sure it's when you're lying down that your thoughts turn into a stagnant pond. Better to get up, pace around, mix them up. My worries meandered from Rashimi's little perma-tanned feet whose toenails look like they might be ingrowing, to where I could buy good quality childrens' sandals in this town or perhaps I should order on line, but then how would we measure them properly? To the Lozenge's school work which he says is boring, and his reluctance to continue piano lessons because all he wants to do is 'real play' not 'piano play'. And then back to birthing pools and whether we might be able to bring our own one to the hospital in Bethlehem. And then to my own work and how I was going to finish all that while simultaneously coaching the Lozenge through his letters as the teacher seems incapable of that without huge parental input. And by 3am I suddenly remembered I'd invited 6 lovely girlfriends for lunch the following day, so decided to get out of bed and flick through some recipe books, going back to bed by the time the call to prayer began at 4.30am and snuck in a quick hour or so before the school day starter gun at 6.
I should have realised then, that 6 ladies for lunch the following day was the recipe in itself. The sun shone and the minute they all walked in the door I felt like all was well. Although there was no Pinot Grigio involved at this particular lunch because we're all in various stages of the reproduction relay, the Ottolenghi aubergine cheese cake and salad was the ticket, and I felt so lucky to have met such a great clutch of women in this city. They all brought flowers and cakes, and smiling faces. Not a jabbering dwarf in sight since they were all at school, with the only small fry being the newborn variety who stayed extremely quiet for over two hours, meaning we could cover some serious conversational ground from Israeli midwives to Hamas. Who needs gin when you can have this kind of a tonic?
B.F.Ears' Place of birth remains undecided. But we're sure an answer will bubble up from some holy spring as the research continues.
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