Page 103 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

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Alex was struggling to think straight. Having spent the past few hours mixing obstetric duties with emergency medicine, he was now proceeding automatically. Pregnant women continued to arrive, many covered in grey-green dust and with broken limbs and gashes – including head wounds. Two women had died of internal injuries, their bodies placed respectfully under sheets in the side rooms on the baby clinic corridor.

‘Next!’

‘Over here, Doctor!’ He followed the nurse’s voice to the corner of the antenatal clinic where the latest batch of arrivals had been placed. They had cleared some space in here by the simple but inspired notion of allowing the mothers of the nursery babies to go to the baby clinic to help care for their own children. In turn, that had freed up a nurse to help with the assessment process here. That meant their assessment team now consisted of two nurses, a midwife, and a single doctor; himself.

The woman in front of him was clearly in labour. She was rocking rhythmically on the chair, and her eyes were closed, her face screwed up. A quick glance didn’t reveal any obvious injuries. She looked familiar, though. Had he seen her at an antenatal clinic, perhaps?

‘This is Mrs O’Keeffe,’ the nurse reported. ‘Age twenty-four. First pregnancy. Labouring on and off for two days, but it’s advanced in the last couple of hours.’

He nodded. ‘Hello, Mrs O’Keeffe. I’m Dr Lowe. Do you have any injuries?’

She opened her eyes – eyes that were entirely familiar to him. ‘Moya!’ he declared, feeling decidedly stupid that he hadn’t recognised Maisie’s sister immediately. He knew Moya well by now – knew all the Canavans well. God, his head was away tonight.

‘Alex! Thank God you’re here!’ She gripped his hands. ‘My John-Joe!’ His heart sank at the shock and grief in her eyes. ‘He’s dead, Alex!’ She was so distraught it was hard to even understand what she was saying. But her emotions made it clear regardless. ‘A big piece of stone c-crushed him!’ She burst into tears, and he put his arms around her, his heart sore for her.

‘God, no! I’m so sorry, Moya.’ Grief pierced him. While he hadn’t known John-Joe for very long – less than a year – he had liked him. And now John-Joe would never meet his child. Bloody feckin’ Nazis!

Too soon, he pulled back from poor Moya, directing the nurse to bring her to A Ward – now the holding area for women in established labour. ‘When she gets to second stage,’ he added, ‘try and get Maisie Canavan allocated to look after her.’

‘Yes, Doctor.’ Having heard the conversation, the nurse’s eyes were full of compassion. ‘Let’s get you upstairs, Mrs O’Keeffe.’

Three more women were just arriving, accompanied by friends or relatives, and Alex was forced to turn his attention away from Moya and onto them instead. There was no time for him even to go and tell Maisie about John-Joe. He washed his hands at the sink, noting that the water was little better than a trickle now. He didn’t even want to think about the fact this water probably came from the reservoir near his home.

He swallowed, then said loudly, ‘Next, please!’

* * *

‘I think it’s easing.’ Maisie had said goodbye to yet another mother and baby – the woman proud and relieved as well as fearful – and Sister had beckoned her to the desk.

Maisie listened for a second. While there were still the sounds of explosions, they were much more intermittent.

‘Thank God for that!’ she said fervently. ‘Right! Have I anybody new in Room 6?’

‘You have.’ Sister looked strange. ‘First time mother, finally progressing well. Her husband died tonight.’

‘Ah, no. Poor woman!’ Sister still looked odd, and now a sick feeling had appeared in Maisie’s stomach. ‘Who is it?’

‘Mrs Moya O’Keeffe.’ Sister’s eyes were sad. ‘I’m so sorry, Maisie.’

Grief and shock rippled through her and she gasped, finding that she had brought a hand to her chest. John-Joe, dead? God, how can this be happening? Somehow, she managed to contain her emotions, straightening and saying, ‘Our poor Moya. Is she injured?’

‘No. But she needs you. Can you do this?’

‘Of course.’ She had to. This was why she had trained. This was why she was a midwife. Supporting the women, no matter what.

Lifting her chin, she knocked on the door. ‘Moya, can I come in?’

‘Maisie!’ Even from outside the door she heard the anguish in her sister’s voice. Going inside, she rushed towards her, and the two of them clung to one another in a tight hug, Maisie kneeling in front of the padded hospital armchair Moya was sitting in.

Moya’s body then decided to take over. Her arms still around her, Maisie felt her sister’s womb tighten, heard her make the low, guttural sounds of pushing. Moya dropped her arms to grip the chair, and Maisie found the usual soothing words coming out of her mouth.

‘That’s great, Moya. It’s totally normal. You’re pushing your baby out.’ Once the contraction had ended, she added, ‘The baby will be here soon. Can I check?’

Moya nodded, and Maisie bent. After helping her sister remove her underwear, Maisie saw the head was already showing a little. ‘Ah brilliant, Moya. The head’s right there.’

The time that followed stayed with Maisie, became a sacred memory. Two sisters, together. A room filled with love, and work, and pain. The grief and trauma, bombs and noise and fear – all of it melted away as they both focused on bringing Moya’s baby safely into the world. As silence finally fell outside, the baby took his first breath and cried, his mother’s arms around him, protecting him. His mother cried too, and his aunt – tears of joy, relief, and sorrow all mingling together. Maisie could almost sense the link between them, a link that joined them to generations of women, their ancestors. How many of them had birthed amid strife – war and oppression, famine and disease? Yet, somehow, they had prevailed, and all of them had brought Moya to this moment, Maisie by her side.