Exactly What Are You Saying?

They told me I had to enroll in college before I discovered life. Austin said it as I passed through the door; he called after me as he stood in his sock feet, scarf draped around his neck. Years later, ZiZi said it again. "How could you ever expect to live life without that invaluable social experience? You're so sheltered."

I tried to explain. I told them about the invitation to the UK, to work among Travellers; the place in South Africa, in Mauritania; the China teaching post. I mentioned the classics, my pen, the people racing at breakneck speed through a sleepy town; Japanese, the breath of the wind on my face and freedom from obligation to a pointless expense. Memories rose at my bidding; they gathered about in a great rustling and flurry. I spoke of the Canadaian researcher, the television producer and her husband. There were the doctors there. Babies. A vast group of smiles. People I loved.

"You should have college ambition."

The words wink out behind me. I am kneeling on the floor, Doppler in one gloved hand as I wait for the mother's contraction to subside. It does not. She is speaking of pushing - no, she is pushing. Acadmic social life is the farthest from my mind at the moment.

The baby's head is coming down through the birth canal, smooth and swift. I can feel it there with my one finger, but it is not yet visible. Soon, I tell her, even though she already knows. She rocks back and forth on her hands and knees and grunts, breathing heavily in between pushes.

His crowning is beautiful. His mother breathes him out, bearing down gently and bringing his head out into the air of the room. Since she is on her hands and knees beside the bed, the baby is facing up towards her tailbone. I look down at his chubby cheeks and scrunched eyes and watch the liquid pour from his mouth and nose as his lungs are squeezed dry in preparation for his first breath. His face is blue. Very blue.

The blueness does not worry me. A baby pushed quickly through the pelvis in minutes often looks bluer than a baby with twenty minutes of pushing; though I don't understand the physiological reason for this, I've seen it happen often. Sliding one finger in beside his neck, I check for any loop of umbilical cord that might have tangled around his throat. I feel no cord, but my fingertip touches his tiny, wiggling hand, pressed up close to his shoulder.

Even though his colour isn't a reason to fear, I would rather have him out than in, free to fill his lungs with oxygen and turn a happy shade of pink. "Go ahead and push," I tell the mother. She bears down, effort bringing forth a sound Ooomph, but there is no gentle swish of shoulders following the head from the vagina. I check again with a finger, this time for a shoulder that might have gotten hooked up on her pelvic bone. His shoulders are not stuck, at least not much. He refuses to budge.

It happens that this birth I am attending with one assistant from the office. I've acted as primary midwife many a time, but there was always an older and wiser woman to stand beside me and assume responsibility if anything went wrong. Now, there is no older and wiser woman to guide me. I am the midwife. I am responsible for what happens here. And the baby is not coming.

I glance at my watch, call out a time, and let time go. I am aware of nothing but the baby, and my own breathing. I wiggle him from side to side. If this does not work, mother is going to have to flip over onto her back to jostle the baby free. If that fails...

If that fails, then it's time to worry.

There. Apparently responding to my jiggling, the baby's shoulders give way and he slides into my hands. I don't see the cord at first, tangled around his shoulder and looped once around his neck. Then I see it there, and spin him around to free him from it. He lays in my hands, limp. I rub him over with a blanket, talking to him and the parents at once. "Good job, Annie. Come on, baby; time to join us." Every few seconds he gives a short wheezing gasp.

His delayed start to breathing isn't a problem, even though I keep a close eye on his colour and muscle tone. The umbilical cord, still atached to his placenta, is supplying him with oxygen. I keep rubbing him down, wiping his face and tickling his feet and spine. He grimaces - his reflexes are quite intact. Slowly, he picks up and begins breathing normally.

We get mother back up in bed and lay him on her bare tummy. "Talk to your baby, stimulate him. He's doing great." We whisk the soaking pads into the garbage and clear the floor space, all the while keeping a close eye on his colour. By the time five minutes has passed, a pink tinge is creeping over his torso. His head is still blue, and his hands and feet, but it is no cause for concern.

Later, after mother and baby are tucked into bed and the room tidied, she looks up at me. "This isn't the type of job most girls your age have. What do your friends think?" Before I have a chance to reply, her eyes widen. "Do you even have any friends?"

I laugh. "A few."

Mom has come with her bags, so we can finish the newborn exam. She smiles. "Some of her cousins keep trying to tell her she needs to go to college so she gets a real taste of life -"

Annie interrupts - "Yeah. How are you going to meet any boys like this? And even if you did meet a boy..." She pauses, trying to collect her thoughts. "They're going to say, 'She's a /midwife/.'"

"In that case, I think I'll stick with midwifery," I inform her.

The feel of the baby limp in my hands stays with me as I pack our bags and clear the room. I am grateful he required no resuscitation, and that whatever dystocia occurred was mild. We bid each other good night and leave, heading for home with two hours left until clinic. An hour of sleep is better than none at all, right?

Curled in the passenger seat of the car, I recall ZiZi's earnest plea. "Go to college, Donny. Get a life." My eyelids are drooping. I'm tired. Through the fog of exhaustion, I wonder where she's at now, and if she's sleeping.

So they want me in college so I can get a life.

Princess will be waiting for me when I get home, face scrubbed shiny clean and mouth making kissy sounds as I dive into the sofa for an hour of sleep. Then clinic - ten hours of counseling and caring for women in all walks of life, each possessing their own problems and concerns. There will be discussions, arguments, humour, and friendly banter. And fangirling, because when it comes to Downton Abbey, even ladies in their fifties will squee. In the evening there will be Bacon and I shall do some squeeing of my own.

Yes indeed, silly people. Life.