Page 16 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

‘I reckon the younger sister is a milly,’ Father had declared, his tone dripping disdain. ‘Or will be. Did you see the cut of the shoes on her?’

‘Most likely,’ Mother agreed. ‘And yes, they both had cheap shoes. Cheap coat on the older one too. What do the Royal pay the midwives?’

‘I have no idea,’ Alex had replied frankly, through gritted teeth, ‘but I have to say I’m interested in people’s character, not their salary.’

Father had laughed aloud at this. ‘Character counts for very little in life, Alexander. By all means, do your doctoring, but never forget that money is what counts. Money, and connections.’ He had turned to send Alex a piercing look. ‘The likes of her will never amount to anything. You stick with your own kind.’

Alex had tried to push back on this. ‘What is that supposed to mean? My own kind?’

‘You know exactly what I mean!’ his father had retorted. ‘Now, I’ll hear no more about this.’

Outraged, Alex had been tempted to keep the row going, then abruptly, all the anger had left him. There was no point in arguing with Father. Granda had silently patted his hand and rolled his eyes, and Alex had let it go.

Recalling it now, outrage flooded through him all over again. How dare his parents judge Maisie so? Yes, and her wee sister too! In their (admittedly brief) exchange, young Molly had struck him as being well-mannered and well-spoken. He hadn’t even noticed the girl’s shoes. And as for Maisie – well, suffice to say when he was speaking to her he had little thought for anything else, never mind what shoes she and her sister were wearing. Stick with your own kind. Code for both class and religion. Maisie and Molly were clearly Catholic, and the family was obviously not well off.

He and Dr Wilson had now reached the nursery, having been sent to assist Sister with any babies who needed assessment or treatment. Afterwards they were to present themselves to A Ward. It was exciting to finally be part of the clinical team, with the freedom to move through the hospital and go where they were needed. This afternoon Alex was posted to delivery suite, which he was looking forward to. For this morning, though, he and Dr Wilson were covering in-patient care – looking after the mothers and babies who needed to stay in the hospital at present.

On arrival they were immediately dispatched by Sister Young to assess two different babies. After listening carefully to the summary, Alex gave his full attention to his tiny patient. Baby Watson – a wee boy – was three days old, and had been sent to the nursery for observation. His mother had unfortunately undergone a caesarean delivery, and Baby Watson’s breathing had been rattly on day one. Mrs Watson’s milk was now coming in, and she was apparently anxious to know when she and her son would be reunited.

Carefully, Alex checked the baby over, handling his delicate wee body with care. Good colour. Respirations even, well-paced, and clear sounding. Pulse . . . he paused to check. Yes, fairly normal. Finally he turned to the midwife who had been standing silently while he completed his observations. ‘Any temperature spikes?’

‘No, Doctor.’

Carefully, he weighed the decision as he straightened up the child’s soft cotton gown. Some of his medical colleagues typically leaned towards caution – believing that any baby who required a stay in the nursery should remain there as long as possible. Alex – influenced by an inspiring Professor at Edinburgh – wanted to balance that admirable approach with the knowledge that babies generally did better if they were with their mothers.

‘Let’s get him back to his mother,’ he decreed, ‘but she needs to tell us of any worries or if he becomes unwell.’

‘Understood, Doctor. I’ll bring him down once the girls are back from their meeting with Matron.’

‘Is that what was going on? I saw a crowd of midwives coming out of the baby clinic as I was coming up.’

‘Oh, so it must be over then.’

‘Aye. Right, I’ll go and let Mrs Watson know the craic. She’s in A Ward, isn’t she?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thanks.’ By the time he arrived in A Ward, Midwife Canavan and Midwife Gildea had returned from their meeting and both greeted him. A Ward was directly below the nursery, but it might have been a hundred miles away as far as Mrs Watson was concerned, according to Peggy, who explained to Alex that the woman had been terribly distressed about her baby being taken away.

‘Ah,’ he replied. ‘Well, I have good news for her.’

Making his way further down the ward, he reflected on the figures that had been shared with them during their orientation: around eighty out of every thousand babies died – either through stillbirth or as newborns. Infection was the biggest killer, which was why they were trying to be careful with any sign of infection in mothers or babies.

‘Mrs Watson?’ The woman in the bed looked tired and wan, and had clearly been weeping.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m Dr Lowe. I’ve just been checking on your baby.’

‘Oh! How is he? Is he all right? Nobody’ll tell me nahin!’ She clasped her hands together as if praying. ‘Is he gonna die, Doctor? Just tell me!’

‘He’s doing much better, actually.’

‘He is?’ A hesitant smile crossed her face. ‘You’re not just sayin’ that?’

‘No, definitely not. I’ve just assessed him. His colour is good, he’s breathing well, and I couldn’t see any signs of infection, so I’ve recommended he be brought back to you.’

‘That’s wonderful!’ Overcome, she wiped the corner of her eye with a knuckle. ‘I’ve been thinking the worst, so I have!’