1984 part four
While Laurence was in the special care baby unit they didn’t seem to know what to do with me, so returned me to the ante-natal ward rather than the post-natal ward, to the little side ward with the banging door – but at least now I was allowed to get out of bed to shut it.
“You need to express some milk for baby. Go and collect the breast pump.”
Where was the breast pump? On the post-natal ward, down the long corridor and past all the women with their huge, plump, full-term healthy babies.
I was very weak, because I had lost a lot of blood at the birth, because “it was all so sudden” – well, that’s how it seemed to them. Not to me, because I had been claiming I was in labour for hours. Nobody ever mentioned this, though any kind of apology would have been at least a start.
Twice a day, I walked the Green Mile through the post-natal ward and collected the breast pump. I never produced any milk. Apparently that can be the case with premature babies, but I think it’s also to do with the fact that you need to be relaxed, and reasonably healthy, and I wasn’t either of these. They looked at me with disappointment.
Late one night the door opened and a woman came in, wearing either civilian clothes or a uniform that I didn’t recognise. She didn’t introduce herself, but then nobody ever did.
“Now then. Your baby is very small and very ill. Would you like him to be christened?”
“No, thank you.” I hoped that this would make her go away.
“I don’t think you understand. He’s very premature, and quite likely to die.”
“Yes, I know that.” (And I’m so pleased you’re going on about it at half-past eleven at night).
“So would you like him to be christened, then?”
“No.”
When they admitted me to hospital I had written, next to Religion, the word “None”. Strangely, this was always taken to mean “Church of England”, which I consider to be rather an insult to the Church of England.
“Because if you don’t, he might die without being christened.”
“Yes, I know.”
“And wouldn’t that bother you?”
Okay, here we go then.
“So you’re saying that if I don’t have my innocent new-born baby christened then he’ll go straight to Hell if he dies?”
“A lot of people believe that, yes, so perhaps you should consider it.”
“Can you go away now, please?”
“Pardon?”
“If you had read my notes at all you would know that I am not religious. Now go away.”
“Sorry?”
“GO AWAY. GET OUT OF MY ROOM AND NEVER COME BACK, EVER. IS THAT CLEAR? I DON’T KNOW WHO YOU ARE BUT I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
I think I woke every patient on the ward. She went. In the morning I complained about her. Who on earth was she?
She was Matron, that’s who she was, setting the tone for the whole tactless, thoughtless, uncaring pile of shit that was that ward in the autumn of 1984.
“You need to express some milk for baby. Go and collect the breast pump.”
Where was the breast pump? On the post-natal ward, down the long corridor and past all the women with their huge, plump, full-term healthy babies.
I was very weak, because I had lost a lot of blood at the birth, because “it was all so sudden” – well, that’s how it seemed to them. Not to me, because I had been claiming I was in labour for hours. Nobody ever mentioned this, though any kind of apology would have been at least a start.
Twice a day, I walked the Green Mile through the post-natal ward and collected the breast pump. I never produced any milk. Apparently that can be the case with premature babies, but I think it’s also to do with the fact that you need to be relaxed, and reasonably healthy, and I wasn’t either of these. They looked at me with disappointment.
Late one night the door opened and a woman came in, wearing either civilian clothes or a uniform that I didn’t recognise. She didn’t introduce herself, but then nobody ever did.
“Now then. Your baby is very small and very ill. Would you like him to be christened?”
“No, thank you.” I hoped that this would make her go away.
“I don’t think you understand. He’s very premature, and quite likely to die.”
“Yes, I know that.” (And I’m so pleased you’re going on about it at half-past eleven at night).
“So would you like him to be christened, then?”
“No.”
When they admitted me to hospital I had written, next to Religion, the word “None”. Strangely, this was always taken to mean “Church of England”, which I consider to be rather an insult to the Church of England.
“Because if you don’t, he might die without being christened.”
“Yes, I know.”
“And wouldn’t that bother you?”
Okay, here we go then.
“So you’re saying that if I don’t have my innocent new-born baby christened then he’ll go straight to Hell if he dies?”
“A lot of people believe that, yes, so perhaps you should consider it.”
“Can you go away now, please?”
“Pardon?”
“If you had read my notes at all you would know that I am not religious. Now go away.”
“Sorry?”
“GO AWAY. GET OUT OF MY ROOM AND NEVER COME BACK, EVER. IS THAT CLEAR? I DON’T KNOW WHO YOU ARE BUT I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
I think I woke every patient on the ward. She went. In the morning I complained about her. Who on earth was she?
She was Matron, that’s who she was, setting the tone for the whole tactless, thoughtless, uncaring pile of shit that was that ward in the autumn of 1984.
posted by Daphne at 9:41 pm
2 Comments:
sounds more like 1884 than 1984.
*Applause*
Well done YOU for shouting at her. Oh, well DONE. I'm almost in tears now - none of the rest of this made me cry, but you standing up to that [I can't think of anything sufficiently strong] is just about going to.
WELL DONE.
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