Moments later I guided one small shoulder out, then the next. The atmosphere suddenly felt incredibly calm as the baby girl arrived very gracefully, slowly emerging into my hands. There was a brief moment of perfect silence in the room, and then the little girl let out a piercing cry. It was an absolutely beautiful delivery.
‘There’s nothing wrong with her lungs!’ Robin gasped with relief.
‘You can say that again. And she’s not crying because I have cold hands,’ I smiled. ‘I’ve warmed up a bit now!’
Sarah burst into tears when she took hold of her baby daughter. ‘Aren’t you just perfect?’ she told her. ‘You’re gorgeous!’
The new mum was propped up against the side of the bath by now, and someone had fetched a pillow for her to lean back on, but from the ecstatic expression on Sarah’s face, any thoughts of being uncomfortable on the bathroom floor were not important right now. I could see snow falling outside the bathroom window, and the scene before me of mother and daughter sharing their first precious moments warmed my heart. This really was what life is all about.
Later, Sarah, baby Kate and proud new dad Robin invited me to sit with them around a roaring fire they had going in the lounge, which was decked out with a beautiful Christmas tree that filled the room with the smell of fresh pine needles. Robin made me a steaming mug of hot chocolate and we sat there chatting while I dried my clothes out. At about 2.30 a.m., when I was satisfied Sarah and Kate were both well, Robin drove me back down the lane in his Range Rover and made sure I could drive away safely, which, thankfully, I could. I had been told that the second midwife dispatched to the address had not made it through the snow and had had to turn back, so I was very grateful for Robin’s help.
‘Don’t thank me,’ he said. ‘It’s Sarah and I who are very grateful to you. I don’t know what we would have done without you.’
I don’t remember the cold or the bleakness all around me on my slow journey home. I was just thrilled to have played a part in Kate’s safe arrival, and the adrenaline was still flowing through my body, all the way back to Mottram.
A decade on, I still have a very clear image in my mind of that brand new little family huddled together in front of the flickering fire. They looked a picture of happiness. Sarah’s cheeks were flushed pink and she had a wonderful glow about her. Robin was beaming so brightly he practically had sparks of pride bouncing off him, and little Kate looked blissfully content, wrapped in a beautiful white fleece blanket as she slept soundly in her mother’s arms.
It is one of the many births I will never forget in my forty-two years as a midwife. I have delivered more than 2,200 babies and I still have my heart in my mouth each and every time I report for duty. I never know what might take my breath away next, and that is why I continue to do the job I love.
‘I’d love to hear some good news’
‘Is there anything I can do to help, Nurse?
Mrs Sheridan’s well-fed son Simon was fast asleep in the plastic cot beside her bed, and she could see that I was run off my feet on the busy new postnatal ward.
‘Actually, yes, that’s very kind of you,’ I replied gratefully. ‘Would you mind wheeling Tina in her pram?’
Baby Tina was a fragile little girl who had been born small for dates and was always hungry, which made her unsettled.
‘It would be my pleasure,’ Mrs Sheridan beamed. ‘Poor little mite, I don’t mind one bit.’
Baby Tina’s mother was a seventeen-year-old girl who had decided to put her daughter up for adoption as soon as she was born. The young mother had discharged herself a few days earlier, leaving Tina in our care until the authorities were able to place her with a foster parent.
All the new mothers on this ward understood the situation, and a few had pitched in over the last day or two to give Tina a cuddle or a ride in her pram, whenever their own babies were sleeping soundly in their cots.
I directed Mrs Sheridan to the nursery, where Tina lay.
‘Call one of the other midwives if Simon wakes up and you need to leave Tina, if she is not settled.’
‘Don’t worry, Nurse,’ she smiled. ‘I can manage, no bother.’
It was Thursday 3 February 1972, and local dignitaries were gathered downstairs, in the entrance to Ashton General Hospital’s Maternity Unit, for the official opening ceremony. I had been told to try to attend the event, and so I slipped away, leaving the staff nurse in charge of the ward.
I quickly took the lift down to the ground floor, hoping to catch a glimpse of the historic moment when Sir John Peel, President of the International Federation of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists, would unveil a plaque on the wall, declaring the unit officially open.
I was a junior sister now and, as I stood at the back of the foyer that day, I allowed myself a moment of reflection and self-congratulation. My husband Graham, proud as ever, had bought me an antique silver buckle to attach to my red belt. I now wore a navy blue dress instead of a pale blue one and I had the ‘frillies’ on the cuffs of my short sleeves.
In becoming a sister in January 1972, one year after qualifying as a staff midwife, I had reached another milestone in my career. I felt a great sense of achievement as I watched the brass plaque being unveiled and listened to a succession of local dignitaries applauding our new 142-bed, £2 million maternity unit.
Sir John spoke of the tremendous advances in obstetrics, and of how modern techniques had combated the once high mortality rate amongst newborns. The Department of Health had achieved its national target of ensuring 70 per cent of births took place in hospital, he said, and in the Manchester Hospital Region the figure exceeded 80 per cent. This meant that our new unit was much needed.
I smiled warmly as a beaming Mrs Randle, the mother of the first baby to be born in the new unit in December 1971, was presented with a silver cup while her son Jarrod slept in her arms, oblivious to his starring role in the proceedings. Lord Wright, Chairman of the Ashton and Hyde Hospital Management Committee, declared triumphantly: ‘We are proud of this unit and we should take pride in seeing the happy, smiling faces of the mothers in the unit!’ The local press turned out to cover the event and, as photographs were taken for posterity, I thought it was a day I would not forget.
Afterwards I returned to the postnatal ward with a real spring in my step. We had this whole five-storey unit all to ourselves, and I loved working in it. Gone were the days when the maternity unit was housed inside the old Ashton General Hospital. We still shared the same grounds, but now our new facility stood alone, a state-of-the-art 1970s steel-framed block, clad with contemporary concrete panels.
I’d excitedly watched the building work progress throughout 1970. I remembered peeping inside as the unit slowly began to take shape, excitedly imagining what it would be like to have ultra-modern plastic cots instead of old-fashioned cloth cribs, shiny store cupboards stocked with luxuries like disposable syringes and razors, and even paper caps and plastic aprons to replace our starched cotton ones. Now, I was actually working here – and as a junior ward sister, no less!
Stepping back inside the ward, I went straight over to Mrs Sheridan, who was rocking a very satisfied-looking Tina tenderly in her arms while her son Simon continued to sleep soundly in his cot. If Lord Wright were to walk in here now, I thought, he’d be delighted to see how well these new wards were working out, and he would indeed see the ‘happy, smiling faces’ he had talked so animatedly about. The atmosphere here was friendly, just as it was on the big open-plan Nightingale wards at the old maternity unit, yet there was a more intimate and peaceful feel to these smaller wards, too, as they were divided into rooms with four beds in each. I liked them very much.
‘Good.