Perhaps in every couple there's one train fever type, and one who prefers to board the moving train, having made full use of every minute before its metal bulk draws out of the station.
Unfortunately for J, it's the wife with the relaxed approach to timings which in the case of the arrival of a child can be uncomfortable.
The sky was blue, the sun was beating down on the grim, grey graffitti-covered wall separating West Bankers from Jerusalemites - dividing families and tribes; splicing off chunks of valuable land from Palestinian farmers; barricading believers from their holy sites; and often forcing pregnant women to give birth at the barrier, in worst cases causing infant deaths.
But for us, what could go wrong? 9 days beyond the due date and I'd been graced with Palestinian virtues from somewhere: sabr: patience; and sumud: resistance. The charming obstetrician from Beit Sahour in Bethlehem said to me: 'I've never met a woman as patient as you. Really, you know we can give you an induction - there's nothing to fear.' But I had to resist, because twice before my body has managed alone without being pushed into labour - so why not a third time? He rolled his eyes, seemingly a little familiar with female obstinacy as a father to four daughters.
So after our consultation on a sunny Monday afternoon, I was itching to get back home and prepare - tying up those final loose ends before our lives were rearranged once again by a tiny creature. The metaphorical train could wait for me just a bit longer. J asked nervously: 'Are you sure you don't want to stay here? The doctor said it wouldn't be long, and I really don't want to get caught at a checkpoint or in traffic on our way back here.'
But who could argue with a woman this pregnant?!
We cruised back to Jerusalem, popped into Gap where J bought some new trousers - a few funny looks in the shopping centre at my low slung belly. I wondered if we'd get a lifetime's supply of free chinos if the baby popped out in the store.
Then passing Notre Dame, the early 19th C building opposite the new gate to the Old City, we remembered the restaurant rooftop and decided to have some dinner up there.
Back home around 9.30pm, I advised J to get some sleep because if Bunny Floppy Ears was to make an arrival, he'd be running on empty without the natural adrenalin I was going to get. I updated my blog, cruised about the house packing the hospital bag, humming to myself when I realised that the lower back pain I'd been feeling in the rooftop resto must have been the beginnings of things afterall. The contraction I felt that minute meant I had to stop and hold on to the door frame.
I woke J, then I waddled into Grace's room to wake her up while J hurried about finding his keys and his bag. Grace had been staring at me thinking I was about to give birth for over a month. Now was the moment and she leapt from her bed shouting: 'YES!' bosoms flying, and suddenly realised J standing behind me, clasped her hands in front of her chest. 'Sorry Sir!' she giggled. She hugged us so tight. I looked at the car dashboard as J started the car.10.45pm.
We hadn't counted the sets of traffic lights from our house to Bethlehem. But all I remember is that each one turned red as we approached. All I could feel was my own clammy hand holding the handle above the car door and the most regular and intense waves of a baby very much wanting to arrive, as J quietly and determinedly DROVE. No trouble at the checkpoint, and barely any traffic. But those red lights gleaming in the darkness…they will be my eternal memory. 'Go through this one if you can, there's nothing coming,' I hissed. (Apart from a baby of course). By 11.15 J was hooting the horn to get the guards to open the electric gate to the hospital car park. 'Come ON.' The gate c r e ak ed open. I moved myself out of the front seat, feeling no different from one of Dad's cows in labour in nocturnal field in central Scotland. I had to stop every two or three minutes to breathe, gripping J's arm. We'd called the obstetrician and he was on his way, but his cousin, a midwife was there when we staggered in. 'We don't have long' I giggled between contractions, then having to stop again by a cool stone hospital wall and lean my head against it.
By the time we got to the ward, and Dr Salameh's cousin was hurriedly arranging her things and washing her hands I had to wee, so I sat on the loo. 'Habibti (dear) do NOT sit on the toilet! Don't PUSH! You're pushing!'
'No I'm not I'm doing a wee'.
'Habibti, get off the toilet and onto the bed - the baby is going to come in the toilet!' she shrieked, struggling with some latex gloves.
'But I don't want to wee on the bed,' I said.
I made a move to change my clothes on the way to the bed.
'There's no time!' she shouted. But I insisted and she tossed me a bright pink gown
'Lie on the bed!' she said
'No'. I replied. I couldn't think of anything less comfortable at that point.
And before I'd really had time to argue any more with the well meaning midwife with the brusque bedside manner, I was staring through my own legs at a complete surprise.
I stared, and stared. But where was the willy? I had presumed all along that our baby would be a boy, and there, writhing about on the paper sheet, was quite clearly a purple, mottled baby girl - already crying loudly and taking in gulps of air. Very much alive.
'Binit!' (Girl!) cried the midwives as J cut the cord and they passed her to me to hold.
11.45pm.
I looked at J as he kissed me, remembering what he'd said on our way to the hospital that afternoon. 'You know Luce, that if it's a girl, one day she might have a husband. It's a really scary thought.'
'Now you know what I've felt about our boys and potential women', I laughed.
The obstetrician came screeching in to see us all there on the bed and aplogised for missing it. 'Mabrook! (congratluations) I wish all my clients were like you, ' he laughed as he hugged me, 'I'd have no job!'
'What will you call her?' asked the midwife. We were friends again after the little storm that had produced our baby girl without any intervention.
Petra. We sounded it out for the first time. A name we both loved as much. Meaning rock. The feminine of Peter. And of course that wonderful place.
As J.W. Burgon wrote in 1845
'…match me such marvel save in Eastern clime, a rose-red city half as old as time.'
And we stayed in that little room on the hot summer night, not wanting to burst the bubble, as Petra snuffled and spluttered through her first minutes, staring and marvelling at the perfection of the ordinary miracle. Older than the rose-red city; as old as time itself.
Unfortunately for J, it's the wife with the relaxed approach to timings which in the case of the arrival of a child can be uncomfortable.
The sky was blue, the sun was beating down on the grim, grey graffitti-covered wall separating West Bankers from Jerusalemites - dividing families and tribes; splicing off chunks of valuable land from Palestinian farmers; barricading believers from their holy sites; and often forcing pregnant women to give birth at the barrier, in worst cases causing infant deaths.
But for us, what could go wrong? 9 days beyond the due date and I'd been graced with Palestinian virtues from somewhere: sabr: patience; and sumud: resistance. The charming obstetrician from Beit Sahour in Bethlehem said to me: 'I've never met a woman as patient as you. Really, you know we can give you an induction - there's nothing to fear.' But I had to resist, because twice before my body has managed alone without being pushed into labour - so why not a third time? He rolled his eyes, seemingly a little familiar with female obstinacy as a father to four daughters.
So after our consultation on a sunny Monday afternoon, I was itching to get back home and prepare - tying up those final loose ends before our lives were rearranged once again by a tiny creature. The metaphorical train could wait for me just a bit longer. J asked nervously: 'Are you sure you don't want to stay here? The doctor said it wouldn't be long, and I really don't want to get caught at a checkpoint or in traffic on our way back here.'
But who could argue with a woman this pregnant?!
We cruised back to Jerusalem, popped into Gap where J bought some new trousers - a few funny looks in the shopping centre at my low slung belly. I wondered if we'd get a lifetime's supply of free chinos if the baby popped out in the store.
Then passing Notre Dame, the early 19th C building opposite the new gate to the Old City, we remembered the restaurant rooftop and decided to have some dinner up there.
Back home around 9.30pm, I advised J to get some sleep because if Bunny Floppy Ears was to make an arrival, he'd be running on empty without the natural adrenalin I was going to get. I updated my blog, cruised about the house packing the hospital bag, humming to myself when I realised that the lower back pain I'd been feeling in the rooftop resto must have been the beginnings of things afterall. The contraction I felt that minute meant I had to stop and hold on to the door frame.
I woke J, then I waddled into Grace's room to wake her up while J hurried about finding his keys and his bag. Grace had been staring at me thinking I was about to give birth for over a month. Now was the moment and she leapt from her bed shouting: 'YES!' bosoms flying, and suddenly realised J standing behind me, clasped her hands in front of her chest. 'Sorry Sir!' she giggled. She hugged us so tight. I looked at the car dashboard as J started the car.10.45pm.
We hadn't counted the sets of traffic lights from our house to Bethlehem. But all I remember is that each one turned red as we approached. All I could feel was my own clammy hand holding the handle above the car door and the most regular and intense waves of a baby very much wanting to arrive, as J quietly and determinedly DROVE. No trouble at the checkpoint, and barely any traffic. But those red lights gleaming in the darkness…they will be my eternal memory. 'Go through this one if you can, there's nothing coming,' I hissed. (Apart from a baby of course). By 11.15 J was hooting the horn to get the guards to open the electric gate to the hospital car park. 'Come ON.' The gate c r e ak ed open. I moved myself out of the front seat, feeling no different from one of Dad's cows in labour in nocturnal field in central Scotland. I had to stop every two or three minutes to breathe, gripping J's arm. We'd called the obstetrician and he was on his way, but his cousin, a midwife was there when we staggered in. 'We don't have long' I giggled between contractions, then having to stop again by a cool stone hospital wall and lean my head against it.
By the time we got to the ward, and Dr Salameh's cousin was hurriedly arranging her things and washing her hands I had to wee, so I sat on the loo. 'Habibti (dear) do NOT sit on the toilet! Don't PUSH! You're pushing!'
'No I'm not I'm doing a wee'.
'Habibti, get off the toilet and onto the bed - the baby is going to come in the toilet!' she shrieked, struggling with some latex gloves.
'But I don't want to wee on the bed,' I said.
I made a move to change my clothes on the way to the bed.
'There's no time!' she shouted. But I insisted and she tossed me a bright pink gown
'Lie on the bed!' she said
'No'. I replied. I couldn't think of anything less comfortable at that point.
And before I'd really had time to argue any more with the well meaning midwife with the brusque bedside manner, I was staring through my own legs at a complete surprise.
I stared, and stared. But where was the willy? I had presumed all along that our baby would be a boy, and there, writhing about on the paper sheet, was quite clearly a purple, mottled baby girl - already crying loudly and taking in gulps of air. Very much alive.
'Binit!' (Girl!) cried the midwives as J cut the cord and they passed her to me to hold.
11.45pm.
I looked at J as he kissed me, remembering what he'd said on our way to the hospital that afternoon. 'You know Luce, that if it's a girl, one day she might have a husband. It's a really scary thought.'
'Now you know what I've felt about our boys and potential women', I laughed.
The obstetrician came screeching in to see us all there on the bed and aplogised for missing it. 'Mabrook! (congratluations) I wish all my clients were like you, ' he laughed as he hugged me, 'I'd have no job!'
'What will you call her?' asked the midwife. We were friends again after the little storm that had produced our baby girl without any intervention.
Petra. We sounded it out for the first time. A name we both loved as much. Meaning rock. The feminine of Peter. And of course that wonderful place.
As J.W. Burgon wrote in 1845
'…match me such marvel save in Eastern clime, a rose-red city half as old as time.'
And we stayed in that little room on the hot summer night, not wanting to burst the bubble, as Petra snuffled and spluttered through her first minutes, staring and marvelling at the perfection of the ordinary miracle. Older than the rose-red city; as old as time itself.
No comments:
Post a Comment