Pack Up the Moon (35 page)

“Can’t he do anything to improve it?” I said shocked.

“And you say that we don’t tell you anything,” Clo uttered before really thinking.

I gave her a dirty look while Anne just sat there. “Sorry, that was a stupid thing to say,” Clo noted apologetically.

“No, you’re right. I’m really sorry I’m just really disappointed and I can’t really vent to Richard because he feels bad enough as it is. It’s making me a little insane.” Her tears had ceased, although the pain etching itself into her face was giving me a cramp.

“I’m so sorry, Anne,” I said, crossing my arms in a pathetic attempt to cover my pregnant belly.

“You can’t have everything,” she said, attempting a smile, which really didn’t work out for her.

“Of course you can,” Clo said unrealistically.

Anne and I eyed her, awaiting the reveal.

“You’re rich. There are plenty of kids out there that need parents. Fill out a few forms and, you know, pick up a kid.”

She smiled at us. Anne looked at me and I nodded, silently agreeing that Clo had a tendency to oversimplify.

“What?” she said, eying us eying each other.

Anne admitted that, although she had said that she would adopt a child if she couldn’t have her own, deep down inside she had believed that she could and would. She so desperately wanted to carry her own child, to give birth to it, to rear it, for it to be her own. I understood where she was coming from. Even though pregnancy was far from a bed of roses I wouldn’t have traded my condition

for anything in the world. The first scan, the first kick, the feeling of another human being nestled close to my heart. I understood. Clo did too. She had remembered the empty feeling as a result of her own lost child. We sat together on the sofa, Anne in the middle and Clo and I either side, our arms around her, and Anne cried until she had no tears left.

*

It had been a month since Sean’s trip to New York and

Noel had still not made contact. I was eight and a half months pregnant and exhausted. My previous check-up had revealed that I was dangerously anaemic and, although the words “dangerously” and “anaemic” had been quite

shocking, a large part of me felt vindicated. The doctor didn’t seem overly concerned. He recommended a soluble iron drink that tasted like a rugby player’s foot and handed

me a list of iron-rich foods. It had been two weeks since my visit and despite a seriously unattractive flatulence problem,

I was really a good deal better.

It was eight thirty and I needed to be in school. “Sean!” I shouted up the stairs.

I could hear him scurry from the bathroom.

“I need to be gone,” I reminded him.

My condition made driving impossible, so I was relying on Sean to get me where I needed to go, the knock-on effect being that I was late for everything.

“Get down these stairs before I kill you with my bare

hands!” I shouted, much like my mother had done throughout my teenage years.

“Right,” he said coming down the stairs. “No problem, Fatso.”

I threatened to kick him. He noted I was too fat to raise my leg and we headed to the car. I was cranky, suffering from sleep deprivation, chronic peeing and pains in places I had previously been unaware of.

“Braxton Hicks,” Doreen had said the day before over tea in my place with my mother and me.

My mother agreed. “Definitely Braxton Hicks.”

“It’s just the body getting ready to give birth,” Doreen added.

My mother agreed and went on. “Don’t worry, love. You’ll probably go over. I went two weeks over on both you and Noel.” She winced and turned to Doreen. “I had to be induced both times.”

Doreen shook her head sadly. “I had to be induced on my Damian. A bloody nightmare,” she said.

My mother shook her head in agreement. “Why do you think I only had the two?”

Doreen nodded and drank her tea.

I wish they’d both fuck off:

They both remained silent for a blissful moment

until Doreen remembered something that she wanted to

share.

“The epidural didn’t work on my last,” she said. “All it managed to do was delay the bloody labour. Nineteen hours I spent trying to get that child out. He was ten pounds eight ounces and, you know something, thirty-five years later he’s fifteen stone and lazy to this day.”

My mother laughed, although I really couldn’t see the humour. “Emma was breech,” she informed Dor. “No epidural, twenty-one hours, a forceps delivery. I sat on a rubber ring for a month.” She smiled for some reason only known to herself

“And they say you forget!” Doreen laughed.

I had had enough. “Right, it’s time for you people to go home:’

They both looked at their half-drunk cups of tea and

half-eaten slices of apple tart.

“What’s wrong?” my mother asked, genuinely confused.

“I don’t want to hear your shitty stories. OK? I don’t want to hear about people shoving their hands up my

fanny. I don’t want to hear about it splitting in two. I don’t want to hear about epidurals that don’t work, rubber rings, ten-stone babies and what a nightmare inducing is. I would rather not know.”

They smiled at one another knowingly and Doreen

was the first to speak.

“Sweetheart, in our day no one ever told us anything. The first time we made love was more like an experiment

than actual sex. The second time most of us got pregnant and when we went into that delivery room it was terrifying. Ignorance isn’t always bliss.”

Neither is knowledge.

My mother of course agreed with Doreen and added

how lucky my generation was and I halfheartedly agreed

that we were really lucky and, as they finished their tea and tarts, I grieved for my poor fanny.

*

We were in the car and I was unusually quiet.

“Ooohh,” I moaned.

“What?” Sean asked, slowing the car.

“It’s nothing. Just Braxton Hicks,” I said, rubbing my side.

“Braxton what?” he asked.

“It’s just the body getting ready to deliver,” I advised knowledgeably.

“Right,” he said unsure.

“Ahhh!” I called out.

“Jesus! Are you sure you’re OK?” he asked fearfully. His concern should have seemed sweet and yet I was

having difficulty fighting the urge to hurt him.

“Emma, are you OK?” He was clicking his fingers in my face for sonic unknown reason.

“Aside from being a fatty with swollen ankles, fat

hands, a pain in my back and a bladder the size of a pea, I’m fine. Couldn’t be better.”

He laughed. “There’s my girl!”

I smiled despite myself. Sexy bastard.

*

It was my first class after lunch. The morning had been a blur. The Braxton Hicks pains were coming closer and closer together, also a little more painful each time. I was beginning to think I might have been misinformed.

“Take out Silas Marner, page one hundred and fifteen,” I announced to general moaning. I needed to sit.

“OK, last night I asked you all to read chapter seventeen. I need someone to stand up and tell me about it, story content, your thoughts …” I was feeling pain, real pain that burned like fire. “Oohhh!” was all I could manage.

Declan stood up at the back of the class. “Are you alright, Miss?” he asked.

“Fine, Declan. Ooohh!” I doubled over.

I suddenly needed to stand. Declan was on his feet and at the top of the class before I could manage to haul

myself up off the chair. He helped me stand.

“I’m fine.” I tried to smile but then a wave of pain came upon me, my face twisted up and I swore. “Holy fuck!” I cried out.

The class laughed. Declan told them to shut their faces and then he ordered Mary Murphy to call the principal

and an ambulance. I wanted to walk but was finding it difficult. Declan held my weight with each pain and he started to rub the base of my back. I was in agony yet surprisingly still aware enough to be mortified that a

student was rubbing the top of my arse, but oddly it was helping. The rest of the class were standing around me; the girls were looking a little green and the boys a little

greener. Some students had to sit down.

Then it happened as Declan tried to guide me out of

the classroom. My waters broke. I felt a gush, then I heard a gush and finally I looked down and saw the gush fall to

the floor like a mini-torrent. Patrick Hogan fainted.

The principal entered flustered and followed by an

overexcited Mary Murphy.

“I’m in labour,” I confirmed, before succumbing to another wave of shocking pain.

Declan took over. “Sir, her waters just broke. She’s haying contractions about five minutes apart. I think she’s going to go.”

I was recovering sufficiently to take his words in.

Oh Jesus Christ, I’m going to go.

“Yes, thank you, Declan,” the principal answered quite snottily. “I think I can take it from here,” he added dismissively.

Another pain.

“Oh my God!” I cried as the principal tried to help me out.

“You have to rub her back, sir!” Declan called out. “Yes, right,” the principal said and then he banged my back like he was burping a baby.

No way, I was not putting myself in his hands. I stopped and he continued in his attempt to drag me.

“Declan!” I called. Then I turned to the principal and told him to go away. He eyed me uncertainly. “I want Declan. He has a clue. You don’t.”

It was a bit strong, but then there was a child trying to

tunnel its way out of my body, so I felt strongly that it wasn’t the time for pussyfooting.

The ambulance arrived and it was Declan who got in

with me. I handed the principal my list of people to call and advised him that I was entrusting him with a very

important job. And so while Declan helped me with my breathing, my boss set about the task of calling Sean, Anne, Clo, my parents, Sean’s parents, Doreen and to be fair to him he even managed to track down Noel and I

wasn’t even that sure where he was.

In the delivery room the pains were coming sharp and

fast. Gas and air wasn’t cutting it. I called for an epidural, but I was progressing too quickly. Declan held my hand. I was crying, afraid Sean was going to miss it.

Declan tried to comfort me. “He won’t miss it,” he said. “He’s late for everything!” I wailed.

Declan ignored me, looked up and smiled. I followed his eyes to see Sean, bedraggled and eager.

“Not everything,” he said, gowned up and ready to aid delivery

I felt like I was unwittingly appearing in a bad sitcom

or maybe it was just that I’d inhaled way too much gas

and air. Declan said he’d leave it to us, but asked if he could take a quiet look before he left.

“No!” Sean and I both said together.

He smiled. “All the best.”

And then he was gone and nobody yelled, “Cut!” Oh Sweet Jesus, I’m having a baby.

*

An hour later, the midwife pushed on my stomach and the obstetrician yelled, “Push!” He really didn’t need to because, as the bloody anaesthesiologist still hadn’t showed up with my epidural, instinct was ensuring I pushed for dear life.

“I can see the head, Emma!” the doctor called out. “Oh God!” I called out.

Sean was mesmerised. “Jesus Christ!” he said over and over. “I can see the head. I can see the head, Em!”

He was laughing. I wanted to scream until my head nearly fell off, like they do in the movies, but I found that I had neither the will nor the energy.

“Now one more big push. Come on, Emma!” I heard from between my legs.

“Oh God!” I roared.

And suddenly there you were laying on my belly, covered in goo stuck to lots of hair, seven pounds eight — five little fingers and five little toes. You were crying and a kind of purple like the sun in my dreams. Sean was crying and pressing Send on a text announcing your arrival. The doctor was smiling at the midwife who was smiling

at you and I can’t describe the feeling inside. They took you away to be checked and washed and I ached.

I adore you.

And it felt like the credits should roll: Happily Ever After.

Sean followed you out of the room so that the doctor

could finish up and I just lay there in shock thinking, Wow! over and over but then the oddest thing happened. My legs felt wet and I sensed the gush within seconds, then some spots appeared in front of my eyes. I blinked and they got

bigger. My hearing became fuzzy, like I’d just been submerged. My doctor shouted at a nurse. I thought I heard the word tear. There was a lot of movement and noise and although now in a bubble I could feel the room

fill. A nurse behind me adjusted the bed. My head was dropped, my legs rose, my blood flowed and my heart slowed.

What’s happening?

After that those around me became more and more

distant until eventually everything faded to black. It turned out the placenta had torn, the blood loss was significant and this was further complicated by my

anaemia — easy for the doctor to diagnose but difficult to control.

Sean was holding you in his arms when a nurse told

him. He nearly dropped you right then. She took you and he followed her back to where he’d left me minutes

previously. The room looked different: machines had invaded in his absence, and I was now plugged in and tube-ridden. Monitors bee-beeped to the tune of my slowing organs. He was stoic, disbelieving, shaking his head from side to side as though to suggest to the universe

that, no way, this was not happening.

My parents arrived having left the house the second

they’d received his “it’s a girl,” text. They had managed to make the journey in a record-breaking twenty minutes

and my father was chasing my mother down the hall. A nurse stopped them and suddenly the balloon my mother

was holding rose to the ceiling unfettered as her legs gave

way.

It was odd. The room faded away and yet I could see