We met only fleetingly but there hasn’t been a Christmas Day since that I haven’t thought about you both and wondered what you are doing. We met on Christmas Day many years ago when I was a student nurse part way through my eight-week maternity placement at a hospital in a naval town. I had been lumbered with the unpopular late shift – 12.30pm to 8pm – on the labour ward. As a student nurse, I was deemed even less useful than a student midwife, but that was no good reason to give me Christmas Day off.
There were four of us on duty, two staff midwives – one not much older than me, but alarmingly efficient, and an older, less scary, woman. The fourth was an ancient auxiliary who, thinking back, was probably younger than I am now.
The handover from Sister was brief – the “Christmas baby” (the first to be delivered on Christmas Day and whose Perspex crib was garlanded in tinsel in celebration) had already been safely delivered and moved to postnatal and that left us with three women in labour. The box of Quality Street was being handed round when Sister finished her spiel with the customary: “And that’s your family.” But then added: “Oh, room six – forgot to say, baby’s going for adoption. When delivered, mother is not to be given the baby.”
The midwives nodded and I didn’t question it. I made myself useful through the afternoon – mostly cleaning, I seem to remember – and found out no more than that you were young and single.
You were the last to deliver of the four and it was late afternoon and dark when I was told to wheel your bed into the delivery room. You were about the same age as me and very calm. The older midwife was there and I remember another woman, who I think was from naval welfare, holding your hand during the last part. As you pushed, the midwife was kind and encouraging and explained to me the need to avoid an episiotomy if possible to speed your recovery. Your baby was born and you asked what it was.
A girl. The cord was cut and the baby wrapped up and you looked over to see her. “Can I hold her?” The midwife hesitated for a second, then brought her over and placed her in your arms. You held her close and gazed at her, and said: “My Christmas Carol.”
You went home later that evening and when I went into work on the day after Boxing Day, the social worker was collecting Carol to take to her foster carers. The auxiliary cooed and said: “The ones for adoption are always the most beautiful.” My experience of babies was limited, so who was I to argue? But I can still picture your soft red-gold hair.
It is a long time since I have worked a Christmas Day but I have never forgotten that shift. I hope the kindness of the midwife helped you, the mum, to get through one of life’s hardest days.
And I hope the brief cuddle given to you, Carol, was felt by you, so you knew how much your mother loved you.
Ann
