In the Realm of Hysteria V

So it seems, I've almost made it to the end of ten weeks. And grown a new skin in tolerating blood and gore. "You haven't seen bleeding until you've seen obstetric bleeding" a young aspiring O&G doc shares her insight after being in the thick of it for almost a year.

Nowadays, I automatically tackfully step out of the way of the spray of amniotic fluid and blood at Caesarean sections and don my glasses at work, just for a bit of protection (though not particularly evidence-based).

I stand behind the sterile-gowned midwife, and wait with abated breath until the baby emerges, head first, then one arm after the other, then in one big fell swoop the rest of the body and thick cord, out of a gaping red hole in the abdomen. I wait for the first cry to pierce the cold theatre atmosphere, lying there between the mother's numb and sterile draped legs, waiting for the cord to be clamped and cut.

We bring the baby to the prepared resusitator, and relax into the calm of expectant space whilst wiping off the slippery stickiness of amionic fluid and waxy white curds of vernix from the newborn's skin, under the warmth of its heat lamp. I silently greet and welcome this little one into this imperfect world. I think with a light sigh, now that you're here, may you be well and happy.

We go through the motions of counting heart rate, deciding on Apgar scores (initial assessment of baby's general wellbeing), giving vitamin k injections, and wrap baby tightly in layers of cloth and towels into a well padded parcel for mum and dad to hold and behold until the surgery is complete. By this point, the new creature often tries to open his or her eyes in the bright new unpleasant environment, and gazing into its rheumy depth, I realise I am the first person to be seen in the life of this new little person.

The midwife and I examine the placenta, its heavy heady smell of blood, a meaty plate of solid tissue, not unlike the surface of a cauliflower, the thin translucent membranes, and the calamari-like finger-thick umbilical cord that once sustained the baby's not unparasitic existence inside the mother's body.

I go on to helping the midwife weigh and record the baby's length and head circumference and putting on a nappy for good measure. Having observed the baby for fifteen to twenty minutes by then, I am satisfied and take leave to return to the chores of the ward.

Occasionally I am taken aback, surprised by the strength of the baby's grasp on my forearm, fighting my efforts to dry and wrap him. I find myself having thoughts I read in the Red Tent, like a midwife from a time and land faraway, acknowledging his strength and vigor, and foretelling a life to be lived on the salt of the earth.

I think about the pure joy I saw emanating from a week-old infant, over the shoulder of the passerby mother. An infectious feeling, you can't help but smile back in response. I think about Thich Nhat Hanh's description of a pureland, a place where you can't help but be joyful, because every being there beams it, and you are struck by brilliant beams of light everywhere, until you, too, are full of light.