Bundles of Joy: Two Thousand Miracles. One Unstoppable Manchester Midwife. Linda Fairley

It was true. Nothing could have been better. I was in a good phase of my life, in every sense.

      One lunchtime around this time, a beautiful young Asian woman arrived on the labour ward. There was a very small Asian population in Ashton in those days, and the few Asian women we did see at the hospital spoke hardly any English. There was usually another cultural barrier to overcome, too, as the Asian ladies we encountered were usually extremely modest and did not like to remove their clothing or have any men in the room during examinations or deliveries, consultants included. If there were any potential complications, sometimes the midwives tried to get a female doctor on standby, as there were no female consultants back then.

      This particular lady, who according to her notes was happy to be addressed by her first name, Sangheeta, arrived with a slightly older woman who I assumed to be her sister, as they looked very much alike.

      ‘I would like to examine you,’ I said, showing Sangheeta onto a bed in an admissions room. ‘Is it possible to lift your clothing?’ I raised the bottom of my apron to demonstrate what I meant.

      Sangheeta lowered her eyes and batted her long eyelashes bashfully while her sister shook her head. ‘You feel,’ the sister instructed, gesturing for me to put my hands on Sangheeta’s abdomen, on top of her clothing.

      I didn’t want to offend the sisters in any way at this very early stage. Only a few weeks earlier, we’d had an awkward incident on the ward with one of our long-serving midwives, Erica, who was Nigerian. A patient had given her a box of Black Magic chocolates as a thank-you gift, which Erica had taken as a dig, although it was meant as nothing of the sort.

      ‘Take those away!’ she had shouted. ‘Does she think this is funny? Get them out of my sight!’

      Her reaction had shocked me as well as several colleagues who also witnessed Erica’s outburst. The vast majority of the midwives were white, but we were most certainly not racist in any way. Erica was being unnecessarily paranoid, even though, looking back, I can see how it might have been a bit tough for her to be in such a very small minority.

      I didn’t want to create any unnecessary tension with Sangheeta and so I assessed her face to see how she was coping, as facial expressions are often a good indicator of how a patient is managing the pain. She was not grimacing and appeared to be at ease – serene, even – as I got her to lie back on the bed so I could put my hand over her clothing to feel the strength of the contractions.

      Her abdomen felt tight but the contractions were not strong at all, and were very few and far between. According to her notes this was her first baby, which meant it was not likely to come quickly. I decided it was perfectly safe to leave her under the watchful eye of her sister for a little while, as I had several other jobs to do.

      ‘Can you deal with Mrs Cox?’ Sister Penman asked urgently a few minutes later. I had hoped to grab a quick word with a lady I’d delivered earlier that day but, by the sound of it, Mrs Cox would have to come first.

      ‘She’s in the first-stage room, giving her husband a terribly hard time, I’m afraid. I’ve only got a pupil midwife free otherwise, and I’d rather you took this one.’

      ‘No problem,’ I said. ‘I’ll be right there.’

      Before I entered the first-stage room, I poked my head quickly back round the door of the admissions room and was pleased to see Sangheeta lying back as serenely as before, a sheet now pulled up protectively over her clothes.

      ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ I said, to which Sangheeta and her sister smiled politely, if blankly.

      Crossing the corridor, I heard Mrs Cox before I saw her and I stopped in my tracks.

      ‘Effing hell,’ she shrieked loudly. ‘Christ Almighty! Get your effing hands off me you effing lunatic!’

      I was used to hearing women swearing and shouting during labour – or effing and jeffing, as I call it – but Mrs Cox sounded more hysterical and aggressive than any women I had ever encountered. I took a deep breath and entered the room.

      I was shocked to see that Mrs Cox was lashing out at her husband, kicking and hitting and scratching him quite violently as he tried to hold her down on the bed. Her eyes were wild with anxiety.

      ‘Don’t you effing dare! Eff off! You effing, effing – bastard!!’

      Mr Cox looked pale and visibly shaken as he struggled to restrain his wife.

      ‘Thank God you’re here, Nurse,’ he said in a trembling voice. ‘I don’t know what to do. She kicked off on the ambulancemen, too, they had a job getting her in here. It’s so unlike her. I’ve never seen her like this before!’

      I actually recognised Mrs Cox, though I didn’t know her. She worked behind the counter of one of the shops on the parade near our house, and she was usually the most polite and mild-mannered woman you could wish to meet.

      ‘Sometimes this can happen,’ I explained to Mr Cox. ‘Women cope with the pains of labour in so many different ways, and sometimes a woman’s personality changes completely when she’s in labour.’

      ‘What do you effing know about it you effing BITCH!’ Mrs Cox hollered. ‘Effing midwives think they effing know it all!’

      Mr Cox looked absolutely mortified and apologised profusely.

      ‘I see you’re pregnant yourself, Nurse,’ he said. ‘I’m terribly sorry about this. How many have you got?’

      When I told him this was my first baby, Mrs Cox let rip again, pointing at me accusingly and telling me I didn’t have an ‘effing clue’ what I was talking about. It was clear that soothing words from me were not going to calm Mrs Cox; she was far too distressed for that.

      ‘Mrs Cox!’ I said, raising my voice sternly. ‘I am very offended by your language and I don’t want any more of it, do you hear me? Please stop swearing right now!’

      She grunted rudely at me, but thankfully my words shook her into silence long enough for me to administer some pain relief while Mr Cox held her down as steady as he could for me. I gave her an injection of Pethidine and, much to my relief, when the drug took hold Mrs Cox stopped thrashing and kicking and lay very still between her mild contractions, albeit with eyes still blazing and with a terrible scowl carved on her face.

      ‘I truly can’t apologise enough,’ Mr Cox said, shaking his head from side to side.

      ‘Honestly, don’t worry,’ I replied. ‘Just please stay right with her. Even though she is calmer now, I don’t want you to leave the bedside in case she starts up again. I need to slip out for a moment, but I’ll be right back.’

      I dashed across the corridor to check on Sangheeta, figuring I would get the pupil midwife to take over her care as soon as it was necessary. It was not uncommon for me to be looking after two ladies at the same time, particularly when they were both in the early stages of labour, as both Sangheeta and Mrs Cox were, but on this occasion I wanted to focus fully on Mrs Cox.