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A letter to my ex

Dear Ex,
It’s been seven years since we last had contact, and today I heard that an acquaintance is living in the house we shared.  I wondered what it would be like to walk  back into that house, I wondered whether there was any sign of what happened between us in there. I doubt it, but I know I could never step over that threshold ever again.

Do you remember it the way I do? Do you remember how we excitedly followed the letting agent from room to room knowing that this was the house for us, the place to start our story? Well. what a story that became. I suppose it started when we first met, when you couldn’t take your eyes off me, despite your wife being present, when you got my number from a mutual friend and contacted me to thank me for being a breath of fresh air in your terrible life, despite your wife and children being under the same roof, despite your promise to be faithful to her.  Do you remember how I tried to dissuade you? How I told you that I didn’t want to cause a mess, but you pursued me, and you left your wife.

Before long we were together, I mean it was a matter of weeks.  Do you remember the first night we spent together? You wouldn’t let me sleep, I’d dose off, but you weren’t tired, so you would jolt me awake every few minutes. I’d never known anyone to behave like that before.  I thought it was strange, a little childish, but you told me that your wife was so dull and boring that you were just excited to finally have someone to talk to who was as amazing as me. I made you promise to let me sleep next time. I didn’t realise that you were going to start controlling my sleep pattern in only a few short months. It had never occurred to me that a grown man would do that.

Do you remember how happy I made you? You told me all of the time. You told me I was perfect, I was the best, the most beautiful, the most intelligent, the funniest, the sexiest woman you had ever met. We laughed a lot. You couldn’t keep away from me.  You told me that you thought my family relied on me too much. I’d never  noticed before, but you made sure to point it out. The lifts in the car, the babysitting, and just generally being there at the drop of a hat. That’s just how my family works, but you sowed a seed, and suddenly I wasn’t sure if it was okay or not.  A distance grew between us, my family and me, and a resentment too. You were clever, I was oblivious.

Then you told me about my friends, how they told you I embarrassed them.  I felt hurt that my friends would say that, but you and I both know that they hadn’t. You were just so insecure that you were jealous of my friends, so you lied to make me doubt them.  It felt like you were the only one who really had my best interests at heart. My world was shrinking.

So we walked from room to room, behind the letting agent. We talked about the cosy nights we’d have by the fire. The barbecues in the garden. We sealed the deal. I was excited, but I should have been afraid.

On the first night you picked a fight. We’d drank a bottle of champagne, I said something you didn’t like, the details are hazy.  You picked up a chair and threw it. It smashed. I should have been scared, but I was angry. Why were you blaming me for your mood? I shouted at you. I didn’t realise that you were just waiting for me to lose my temper. You shouted back, you called me the most disgusting names. Suddenly  I was the worst woman in the world. Now I was ugly, stupid, boring and frigid.  I was stinking, selfish, vile and a pig. I’d never known anything like it. Then you called me a cunt. I slapped you round the face. Do you remember? You laughed! It was almost as though it was exactly what you had been waiting for. Self defence you called it, but we both know that was just an excuse. No fists – just slaps, pushes, and hair pulling.  The punches and kicks would come another time.  You were saving them, you wanted to know how much I would take and still come back to you. This was just a test of the waters.  You held my arms by my side and whispered into my ear how much you despised me, then when I was a sobbing wreck, you held me, you kissed me, you were so sorry. You soothed away the hurt you’d caused. A perfect cycle.

So if those walls could talk, they would tell a tale of abuse, of gaslighting, of lies told.  They would whisper of denials, of stories changed and they would shout of blame shifting, of the rainbow of bruises, fresh and red, sore and blue, fading and green and the faint yellow tint of finger marks around arms that were ever present.  But they would also talk of the brevity of it all. Less than a year, not even a full rental term. They would talk of a lucky escape, where the stars aligned, and one lucky woman had the fortune of understanding what was happening and went running back into the arms of her family and friends. Do you remember it as I do?  Or have you changed the facts?  Shifted the blame?  Did you tell your new partner how I’d wronged you? I don’t really think I need to ask, do you?

I’m still cross about this…

It Still Hurts!

I recently wrote a blogpost about Adam Kay’s This is Going to Hurt, criticising the way the wellbeing of the pregnant population has been sacrificed in order to hammer home the message that the NHS is shit, Adam Kay had a hard time and junior doctors in general are flogged to the brink of suicide.

You can read the post here: That was painful – One Foot in Front of the Other (wordpress.com)

Since writing the post, I have read with interest the opinion posts, reviews and general consensus of this show.  And I am saddened. 

There is an outpouring of women who are saying they couldn’t bear to watch it as it retraumatised them.  There are others who call out his misogyny.  Lots of doctors saying that they too couldn’t watch it as it is too close to their life experiences.  Particularly the character of Shruti, who is the most realistic part of the show. (I may be wrong, but I think that Shruti is an entirely fictional character)

There is a general argument regarding whose story the show is about.  Those defending it believe that this is Kay’s story and therefore the appalling treatment and representation of the women is not an issue, it’s his story, not theirs.

There are others who say that Kay is highlighting a failing system, that he couldn’t stay in medicine because of how terribly he and the other doctors are treated. There are others, who say that dehumanising patients is an acceptable coping mechanism and that the nasty, dark humour is necessary to preserve one’s own mental wellbeing. This is wrong. If you forget that a person you have power over is a human with feelings, then you are a very dangerous health care professional.

I have been told on social media that I am angry about the wrong thing.  The treatment of women in this show is nothing to be angry about. The underfunding of the NHS and the treatment of doctors is what I should be angry about.   The women suffer because the system is rotten. And brave Adam Kay is showing us all how it really is. 

Only he isn’t.  I have already pointed out in my last post the terrible inaccuracies depicted in the show, regarding midwives, emergencies and the handling of umbilical cords. But now I want to talk about the attitude that seems pervasive with the critics and the public. 

First of all, it is not a real account of Obs and Gynae. It is a highly dramatised, one dimensional, hazy, embellished memory, told through the lens of a bitter, entitled, misogynistic toff who didn’t make it in medicine because he didn’t have what it takes.  And what it takes to work in that environment, in the chaos, the unpredictability, the relentless hard work, anxiety and the huge responsibility of it all, is to actually give a damn about the people that you are caring for.  That you don’t look upon them with scorn and disgust, that you don’t mock their choices, their bodies, their fears, their intelligence. That you ask yourself how you would feel in their shoes, that you see them for what they are, humans with feelings and rights.  That you understand that when they walk into your workplace, they are vulnerable and you are powerful.  That just by needing you, their position is one of vulnerability and it is your responsibility to level that with compassion and humility. Because if you don’t care, and you don’t find your reward in making a difference to that person, then it really must be completely thankless and I’m not surprised it’s intolerable.

 

I personally think that a show depicting a chaotic, understaffed, unsafe maternity environment with an extraordinary number of emergencies that progress all the way to the extreme (perimortem caesarean, eclampsia, abruption, shoulder dystocia with symphysiotomy, cord prolapse) is irresponsible. It wasn’t a documentary, but the general belief, it seems, is that it is true to life because a doctor wrote it.  Those emergencies do happen, but you would have to be an extremely unlucky clinician to experience them in the time frame shown. Childbearing women who watch this are going to be shitting themselves. 

Then there are others who say that it’s just a show, don’t watch it if you don’t like it.  But what if you’ve already watched it, seen the first awful emergency in the first few minutes of the very first episode? 

Kay obviously has a very quick wit.  And the defence of the way he portrays his world is that his dark humour is necessary.  And I do get that, there is a lot of weird humour in healthcare, and yes it is probably used as a coping mechanism.  But not so publicly.  Not on primetime TV, or in a million bestseller book and a live theatre show. 

I am not a doctor, I could not be a doctor, I don’t have the brain, the focus or the guts.  I would never have been able to study for so long, push myself through the system, work those hours.  I am not a doctor and I am not speaking for doctors, lots of them have come out in praise of this show. I am a frontline worker in the NHS maternity services though.  And when I see Kay as the poster boy of Obs and Gynae it really upsets me.  The doctors that I work with are nothing like him.  Adam Kay doesn’t represent my maternity services, he doesn’t represent my doctor colleagues, they have way more respect for their patients.  

And the BBC should hang their heads in shame for promoting the person who wrote, performed and recorded the following two songs.  This is not satire. Mocking disability, poverty, obesity and writing overt misogyny  is not okay. 

 

Your Baby, by Adam Kay and Suman Biswas

Can you see, that’s baby’s heart beating there on the monitor.
And look there are it’s little arms and it’s little legs.
Um, I’m not quite sure what that bit is, no.

Your baby’s got a flattened nose
A widened gap between its toes
It’s smaller than it’s supposed to be
The scan shows your baby’s got an imperforate rectum
And there’s a big hole in his atrial septum
He’s got signs of Left Heart Failure
And quite abnormal genitalia
I’ll print out the scan so you can see
There’s something quite wrong with your baby
Your baby’s got Trisomy

He’ll have abnormal motor function
That’s to meiotic non-dysjunction
You shouldn’t have kids at 53
He’ll have severe mental retardation
How would you feel about a termination
I doubt he’ll live past 10 years old
Check out his epicanthic folds and his single palmar crease
A bit of a mong your baby
Your baby’s got trisom, it’s what he will die from,
Your baby’s got trisomy.

Northern Birds by Adam Kay and Suman Biswas

This is a national service announcement for all men
If you go to Bolton
If you go to Manchester
Or crewe
Newcastle, or Scarborough
York, or Scunthorp, Bradford, Barnsley too
Or Grimsby
Listen up to what we have to say

Northern birds are lazy ugly whores who smell of burgers
So don’t have too much to drink
Or you might fuck one
And end up getting aids

There’s nothing fun
To be found off the M1
Northern birds are lower class
Slags who take it up the arse

They’re in the sack
After one cider and black
But they’re fucking awful rides
and your dick won’t touch the sides
Da-da-da-da-da-da
Da-da-da-da

Northern Birds

If you really have to
Go up north then follow our advice
Fight away the women
Or you’ll find yourself with Pubic lice
And herpes
Your much better staying in the South
Northern Birds
Are desperate ugly hippos dressed in Burberry
With a peanut for a brain
And an accent that makes you want to die

Now you’ve been warned
They’re all physically deformed
Northern birds
Are all obese
And they’re riddled with disease

Try to escape
Northern sex is worse than rape
Stay down south and mark my words
Steer well clear of northern birds

Northern birds

Northern birds

That was painful

It really did hurt!  And someone needs to say something….

 

I have just finished binge watching BBC’s This is Going to Hurt, a seven-part adaptation of Adam Kay’s book of the same name. 
For those who don’t know, Adam was once a doctor. His speciality was OBS and GYNAE.  He was a junior registrar and he is no longer practicing. 

I read the book, which was based on his diaries from his time in the NHS, and I found it amusing, tragic and, perhaps I was extra sensitive to this, rather derogatory towards midwives. I also found it misogynistic. None the less, I read it, and I laughed out loud in places, cringed in others, and came to the conclusion that I probably would not have enjoyed a warm working relationship with the author. 

Fast forward a few years, and the BBC have teamed up with Kay to create a realistic look at life for NHS doctors working in O&G.

Except it isn’t.

It’s a terrifying portrayal of an egotistical toff who has a complete disdain for women, their bodies, their life experiences, anyone more junior than himself, and of course the midwives -who let’s not lie about this- are pretty fucking important in a maternity unit. 

 

I’m going to start with some positives, just to add a bit of balance.  There are some positives in there. 

This series captures the relentlessness of working in maternity.  The never-ending juggle, the constant phones, the sounds of the labour ward, the way that when you don’t have your support staff (HCA’s, housekeepers, ward clerks) the whole place descends into chaos.   And it also showed how a lot of the time, staff goodwill is essential to keeping it going. I do not know one member of our team, doctor or midwife who has never stayed late, missed a break, drank nothing all day, not a single one.

The blood looked real. Most of the deliveries involved cords and placentas.

Everyone was exhausted. 

The clientele was diverse. 

The computer on wheels was referred to as a laptop glued to a zimmer frame (that was my favourite line)

I asked one of my colleagues what she thought and she felt that it did accurately represent a lot of aspects of being a doctor in the NHS.  I am not one, so I can only draw conclusion from what I see, and what I hear my doctor colleagues tell me. At present, I see a lot of tired doctors, who probably need a break. And it’s the same for midwives.  The pandemic has hurt us all. 

 

Now for the reason I wrote this post.  The absolute shocking disregard for the wellbeing of the pregnant population!

If I was pregnant, or about to become pregnant and I watched this show, I would be afraid, and here is why:

Doctors don’t wash their hands (Newsflash: they do, and if they forget, we remind them. Infection control is a thing, in my workplace at least.)

If a doctor doesn’t agree with you, if you have extreme views, they will disfigure you.  If Adam Kay really did suture a wound to deliberately ruin a tattoo then he is criminal. It’s not a healthcare professional’s job or place to deal justice. This is disgusting behaviour. If you want to deal justice, work in law enforcement, or become a lawyer. 

Midwives stand around worrying about their patients and that’s about it. 
This is a huge fucking lie.  If you watched this show, and you didn’t know better, you would believe that midwives just compile a list of patients for the doctor to come and fix. This is bullshit. 
Midwives are highly trained, highly skilled professionals, and we certainly wouldn’t just be standing there rubbing someone’s shoulder waiting for a doctor while there is a huge obstetric emergency. 
Without revealing too much of the plot line, I will give the most disgusting example of this that was shown.

Our hero Kay has an emergency bleep to attend a shoulder dystocia. This is where a baby’s head is delivered, but its shoulders are stuck behind the mum’s pubic bone.  It is a serious emergency, one that all midwives and obstetricians are trained to deal with. 
Kay turns to the camera and informs the viewer that he has 5 minutes to deliver the baby, or it will die. 
This is not true. There are many factors that will influence when a baby will die and these include the size of the baby, the length of the labour, and whether or not the baby was already becoming distressed.  But Kay and the BBC go with an exact time of five minutes, presumably for dramatic effect.

Kay bursts into the delivery room, where the woman has her legs in stirrups, with the delivery suite coordinator rubbing her leg. No one appears to be carrying out any of the manoeuvres that they are most definitely trained to do. Tracey, the coordinator, starts to reel off the time, dramatically getting closer to five minutes, when of course the baby will drop dead. (I wish I could put an eye roll emoji here) Kay performs a symphysiotomy, brutally separating the mum’s pelvis and saves the baby.

JUST NO!

Women must be absolutely terrified now. Most shoulder dystocias are released with the first manoeuvre and almost all of the rest are released with the next manoeuvre.  But this is not dramatic enough, so, in the name of entertainment, and showing what an absolute hero Kay is, they have terrified anyone who is having a baby any time soon. Or any time ever.  This is so irresponsible and it’s cruel, to frighten women just to get this gritty real point across of how fucking hard Adam Kay had it. 

I am not denying that doctors are thrown in the deep end.  I am not speaking for doctors, as I am not one, and can’t.  But as a midwife, as someone who has delivered lots and lots of babies, attended forceps, ventous and caesarean births, as someone who is there to support, advocate and listen to everyone in my care, I am really angry that this was allowed to happen. 
Adam Kay does not speak for my maternity service. The doctors that I work with are not practicing like him.  And the midwives that I know would not stand back and let them if they were. 

I think that Kay was trying to highlight a broken system.  And although it isn’t perfect now, far from it, there has been a change in the way junior doctors work.  Again, I am not going to speak for doctors, but I do believe there has been an improvement. This program was set in 2006. 

The final things that I would like to highlight, and these are important, are Kay’s outdated and inaccurate advice regarding reduced fetal movements. 

If your baby is not moving, CALL YOUR MATERNITY UNIT.  Kay advises his friend’s wife to drink a pint of iced water to wake the baby up.  Yes, that’s probably going to do it, but it might not.  And if the placenta is failing and the baby is dying, then drinking water will do fuck all.  If your baby isn’t moving, call your maternity unit.  There is really no other advice. 

He gifts someone a handheld doppler to reassure them at the end of their pregnancy.  
Again, just no, never do this!  If you are worried about your baby, CALL YOUR MATERNITY UNIT. if your baby is dying, it will have a heartbeat until it doesn’t.  Hearing a heartbeat means your baby is alive, and that’s it.  If your baby isn’t moving, you need to be assessed. 

And finally, in the last scene, and this is not too much of a spoiler, a woman is delivering in the carpark.  Kay expertly pushes the dad to one side and catches the baby in his bare hands, then he demands a shoelace to tie the cord, and slices the cord with a window scraper.  

Adam Kay, if you ever did this then you are a fucking moron. And if you didn’t, but you have allowed the BBC to show this, then you are still a fucking moron. Why would you want to give the baby sepsis you twat?

For anyone who ever encounters a surprise birth. The baby will probably come without you touching it. If it’s coming so fast that the woman can’t get to the labour ward, then most important thing that you can do, is call for help and find something clean and dry to cover the baby with. Put the baby on the mum’s skin, keep it warm and close to her and LEAVE THE CORD ALONE!!

Obs and Gynae or Brats and Twats, great name, as long as you are referring to the protagonist of this story.

Duty



We have a duty,
A duty of care,
If you ever need us,
We’ll always be there.

Perhaps we don’t like you,
You might have done wrong,
Maybe you aren’t thankful,
For what we have done?

We might give you advice,
Evidence based,
You may tell us no,
Straight to our face.

Maybe you’re not
My cup of tea,
Perhaps you are sat there,
shouting at me.

But it doesn’t matter,
Although it’s not nice,
Our duty’s to care,
despite our dislike.

To treat you as humans,
Always your choice,
Our job is to listen,
Hard to your voice.

Maybe you choose,
To listen to nonsense,
Make choices that bear,
unthinkable consequence.

Perhaps you don’t trust,
A word that we say,
Maybe you’re hurt,
And it must go your way.

We still have duty,
Despite what we feel,
Choices are yours,
It’s always the deal.

If we know your choice,
Will lead to your death,
Or cause you to suffer,
It leaves us bereft.

Cos despite how we feel,
And despite what you know,
As long as we’ve told you
How it’s likely to go,
As long as we’re sure,
You understand,
You’re not being forced
By some other’s hand.

And if we know
You’re of sound mind,
Your autonomy
Not mine.


We have a duty to allow you to choose,
Respect your wishes and still care for you.

So that is my duty,
Under UK law,
As a registered midwife,
We never force,
Others to do what we would like,
It’s not our choice,
It’s just not right.

And did I mention,
It is a crime,
To take your voice,
And replace with mine?

So that is my duty,
Among many others,
As part of my job,
Caring for mothers.

There’s so many layers
To what we all do,
Plenty of duties,
When caring for you.

What we can wear,
What we can say,
What we must know,
From day to day.

Vast reams of knowledge,
And interesting skills,
Relentless development,
Emergency drills.

Mountains of evidence
We must understand,
Guidelines that change
At the wave of a hand.

It’s always been like this,
As long as I’ve known,
But in March 2020,
A curve ball was thrown.

Now there’s a virus,
A deadly pandemic,
What’s round the corner,
I remember the panic.

And while you stayed,
Safe in your homes,
We still went to work,
Despite the unknown.

We had no protection,
To wear day to day,
Just a precious supply,
That we had to save.

For those we were sure,
Or strongly suspected,
But we still had to care for
Although they were infected.

This was our duty,
To turn up to work.
So we did it daily,
And some got hurt.

By the virulent virus,
Lurking wherever,
Making us sick,
But we were in this together.

The grateful public
Clapping duly,
Feeding us up,
As we did our duty.

Our lives on the line,
The list grew longer,
Of staff who had died,
The outpour grew stronger.

Heart breaking stories of parents
Who had left,
Devastated children,
Alone and bereft

Nurses and doctors,
And a few midwives,
While doing their duty,
Had lost their lives.

As time carried on,
Restrictions were changed,
Masks once were stared at,
Now commonplace,

The claps had stopped now,
An anger had started,
Covid’s not real,
Loud voices shouted.

Now we were fighting among ourselves,
Anti maskers, covid deniers,
Lock down protesters,
Ill informed fliers.

Then came a vaccine,
At last we’d be free,
Relief those most vulnerable,
Protected, finally.

Almost at once,
Erupted a frenzy,
With claims about microchips,
Bill Gates and dead babies.

Now some of the public,
Were calling us liars,
Covid’s not real!
Yelled the deniers.
Now it’s a case of them and us,
They call us sheep, make a fuss,
Gratitude over,
The meals gone,
But still covid carries on.

Corridors filmed,
Empty and clear,
See! They scream,
No covid here.
Now I am pulled into Facebook lies,
Rowing with those,
Whom once I had ties.
They seem weird and paranoid,
Strangers, from now on I’ll always avoid.
Denying my truth, causing a scene,
Shouting of new law and forced vaccine.

You can’t be forced, 
I scream back at them. 
Now we are fighting,
And no longer friends.

At least there is hope, 
This brilliant cure,
My mum has had hers, 
Protected I’m sure. 

But I don’t want mine yet, 
I’ve already had, 
Covid for real, 
It was pretty bad. 

I caught my dose, 
While I was on task, 
Doing my duty, 
Before we had masks. 

I wait and see, 
Nervous to take,
A brand new jab,
A decision to make. 

At least it’s my choice though,
UK Law,
I can’t be forced, 
As I said before.

I decide on the vaccine, 
Now for me, 
I’m nervous, but take it, 
My will remains free. 

I feel a bit hot, 
Achey and sore, 
I’ve certainly felt 
Much worse before.

Most of my colleagues, 
They’ve had it too, 
No one got sick, 
It was choice, not a rule. 

But some remain nervous, 
Scared and unsure, 
Others don’t want it, 
No reason, just no.

And then comes the bombshell, 
The deniers were right, 
Our right to a choice 
Removed over-night. 

I cannot believe what I now know,
Even for Tories, this is too low.
Lies and hypocrisy spews from your mouths, 
You disgust me, you’re vile, 
Yet you still shout:

“Take the vaccine,
Or lose your income, 
Forget your expertise and dedication, 
To hell with your knowledge and all of your skills, 
We’ve made a new law and taken free will. 

And while we are turning the screws on your choice, 
We’ll seek to silence the huge angry voice, 
Cos we made the rules while you were at risk, 
Stay home everyone, but we took the piss. 

We partied, we mocked you,
We lied then denied it. 
And now you can’t protest, 
Cos we have outlawed it. 

We laughed and took videos 
Of how we could lie, 
While you were run ragged, 
And scared you might die. 
Doing your duty, 
Broken and scared, 
We had cheese and wine,
And pretended we cared.”

Fuck you Boris, Sajid and your lot,
You lie, deny, scheme and mock, 
How dare you ever say to me,
Take this drug by force, 
It’s your duty. 

You wouldn’t know,
What a duty was,
You self-serving hypocrite, 
Elite, selfish cock. 

You let hundreds of thousands of people die, 
You’ve blood on your hands, 
You can’t deny. 
You Line the pockets of your super rich pals, 
You bluster, and bluff, you stupid clown.

This country is broken, 
Your duty to fix it, 
Get your head out your arse,
And serve the electorate.

I do my duty at work every day, 
The vaccine, not working, 
No one is safe, 
It protects those who have it from serious disease, 
But it won’t stop me catching, or spreading so please.

Do your own duty, 
Let me do mine, 
It’s my choice not yours,
What goes in my body,
How dare you lie and cite patient safety?
How is it safe to cut away staff?
People will die,
Is it all a good laugh?

Do the right thing and heed our voice,
You do not have the right to sanction our choice.

What’s it like to be a midwife?

What’s it like to be a midwife?

I wanted to be a midwife for a long time before it happened. I didn’t have a clue what it would really be like. Not at all. I imagined caring for women who popped out their babies after a few hours of labour. I imagined giving antenatal care to smiling women who were happy to be pregnant, and postnatal care, where I helped with the feeding issues and the tearful hormonal days, with patience and kindness. And those things do happen, they happen a lot. I just didn’t imagine the rest of it. The reality, the bit that makes me stop and wonder why anyone would willingly put themselves in this situation over and over again. Being a midwife is a little bit like being a mother.

Before my children came along, I, like most childless people, had a fair idea of how it was going to go. I was going to eat the most amazing healthy diet during pregnancy, then when the baby had been born (I blanked that bit out) and it was in my arms, I would feel an amazing rush of love and my baby and I would take to breastfeeding like a duck to water. Then after a few months, when my baby was in its routine (sleeping through the night) I would prepare a freezer full of amazing organic food that my clever little baby would love to eat. As my little one grew and developed, I would cherish every moment, playing for hours, taking them to the park, reading to them, being patient and wonderful. I was definitely not going to shout, or lose my shit at all, because my baby was going to behave. It would not be filled with e numbers and junk food and I of course would have tended to its every need and taught it well.

What actually happened was I found out about the baby after a particularly heavy weekend of drinking. I hoped that it would be okay, and started to eat healthily. This lasted for a week, then the sickness came and my amazing healthy baby building diet became dry cream crackers, dry melba toast, muffins and salad cream and the occasional rich tea.

It was okay though; the baby grew and after twenty weeks of pregnancy I could eat almost normally again as long as I had a bottle of Gaviscon to swig from. Then came the birth. I had not thought much about this bit because it was so scary, but it went well, it was quick, it was normal and I was high on pethidine. When I looked at my baby I felt mild fondness, not the overwhelming rush that I had been expecting. I thought maybe there was something wrong with me. I put her to my breast and she fed well. At least I could do that bit. After three days my nipples were in tatters, my milk had come in, I was a hormonal sobbing wreck, I was shattered and sore. I wondered what the hell I had done, would I ever sleep again? I looked at my crying baby, her little face bright red and her hands balled up into angry fists and she stuck out her bottom lip. She looked sad and vulnerable, and then, there it was, the huge rush of love that I’d been waiting for. Like a tsunami washing away everything I had ever known, powerful maternal love swelled through my every fibre. This was it. The meaning of life. My purpose.

I have since had a two more babies and each one has brought with it a huge heart full of love. Currently I have a crazy three year old boy who is seemingly sustained by a diet of Oreos, waffles and Weetabix (so much for the healthy organic diet). I watch in despair as he wrecks every piece of furniture I own, leaps, climbs and breaks his toys -he likes taking things apart, he also likes throwing things- I wonder whether I’ll ever have five minutes to myself ever again, but then he looks into my eyes, puts his little arms around me and squeezes me tight and I just know that it is all worth it. And this is how motherhood is like midwifery.

When I started out as a student midwife I was naïve, but now I feel that nothing would shock me. Some shifts are harrowing, I have had my eyes opened to poverty, abuse, mental illness, drug addiction, tragedy, disease and everything inbetween. I have felt the weight of the overworked NHS. I have done the work of two people shift after shift. I’ve been pushed to the brink by the system. I’ve been shouted and sworn at by visitors who think they should be able to access our wards. I’ve had people sob in my arms, thank me, praise me and tell me that they’ll never forget me. I’ve seen people have their babies taken from them by the authorities, I’ve played social worker, referee, friend, advocate. I’ve broken bad news. I’ve stayed late to do my paperwork, I’ve worked on an empty stomach, missed school plays, parents evenings, nights out, sleep. I’ve watched brilliant midwives turn their backs and leave, done with it all. I’ve hugged my colleagues, given them pep talks, reminded them how important they are, and they’ve done the same for me.

And sometimes it seems absurd. That I’d do it all without a gun to my head, do a job that makes me cry, gives me migraines, makes my feet burn and ache, leaves me anxious about my decisions. That I go home and can’t switch off because I am thinking about someone that I looked after. But then a woman will walk in, and I’ll look after her, and I will support her, form a bond, fight her corner, be her voice. And then the most beautiful perfect thing will happen. The fetus whose heart beat I have been carefully listening to, whose head I touched when I examined its mother, will become visible. Just a tiny little bit of the top of its head will appear and the woman will push, and I will guide her, and encourage her, and reassure her, and be the most privileged person in the world as I lift her baby into her arms and witness the first seconds of a new family. There really is nothing like it. Except maybe motherhood!

Hope and Healing



I had done it, I had left my abusive partner. My friends were proud, my family was proud and everything was going to be okay, or so I was told.

I didn’t feel okay. I felt broken. I felt stupid and foolish. I felt guilty. My children had suffered – pulled from the home they loved, into a new bigger better house for a few months- only to be pulled from there just as soon as they had settled in. Now we were at my mum’s, all in one room.


To top it all off, I still loved my ex. Every night I dreamt that we were back together, only to wake with the crushing disappointment that we weren’t, because he was an abuser and the reality was, he was never going to change. It was horrible, especially as I only managed a few hours sleep a night, if that.

So I found us a cottage that I could barely afford and I started over. The letting agent must’ve thought I was crazy, walking behind him from room to room sobbing as I went.
‘Do you like it?’ he asked, awkwardly, trying not to look at me. ‘No, but I’ll take it,’ I replied.

I collected the keys on an uncharacteristically sunny day. My wonderful friend came with me and together we brought a few bags and boxes to start the process of moving. I remember choking back the tears. Swallowing hard. I didn’t want to move here, I wanted to rewind and find that my partner was who I had believed him to be at the start. I wanted the caring man who loved me, not the controlling monster who hurt me, but here I was, trapesing up my new path with my arms laden with boxes, swallowing the tears. Then, just as we were almost done, I stood on a loose thread that was hanging from the bottom of my jeans. I had been meaning to cut it off but hadn’t got around to it. I tumbled over the threshold of the cottage, a box in my arms, unable to put my hands out to break my fall and landed face first onto the collapsing box, its contents strewn across the floor. My friend rushed to help me, and we sat on the floor as she held me like a child. The floodgates had opened, and I was sobbing.
‘It’s going to be okay,’ she promised. ‘You are strong,’ she reminded me. ‘I will help you,’ she said. And then I noticed how beautiful and light the room was. The early spring sun shone brightly, and I just knew that my friend was right. I had done the right thing. Abuse is not love. Walking on eggshells is not love, name calling is not love, bruises are not love, but my friend helping me up from my knees and being there for me, rooting for me and listening to me, that is love. And that moment, sitting in the early spring sunshine, with my friend beside me, I knew that things really would get better. I felt the first feelings of hope and healing right there and then, and I knew that everything would be okay.

The birth of Anna



Packing my belongings into black bags and a plastic wash basket I worked my way around the freezing cold cottage. It was a bleak Sunday in February in one of the coldest winters I have ever known. I could see my breath as I worked, it came angrily with sobs of despair and hurt. Despite the low temperature I burned hot with humiliation. It wouldn’t take me long to pack, just some trinkets, my clothes and the children’s’ clothes and toys. That was it, that was all that was ours. The children were with their aunty, and I was going to have to break it to them that we were moving house again, and this time we had no furniture. I choked back angry tears. I’d go back to my mum’s two-bedroom house with my tail between my legs. Everyone would know I was back, I’d have to tell my story again and again. People would be sad and disappointed that it hadn’t worked out. I didn’t know if anyone would believe my side of the story. At least my (now) ex-partner had kept his word and stayed away to let me pack. Keeping his word wasn’t something that he was very good at.

I had almost finished when I heard the crunch of his car tyres on the gravel, my heart sank and sped up simultaneously, what would he do now? I looked up as he walked into the kitchen, his eyes red with tears and his face puffy, he smelt of alcohol and cigarettes, but he looked like a little lost child.
‘Please,’ he begged me, holding his arms out to me, ‘please forgive me, it will never happen again.’
I looked at him, this man child. He looked vulnerable, hurt, sad and lost. His breath came in sobs as mine did. My heart broke for him, but I knew I had to stay strong.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t believe you, you have made that promise before.’
I turned my back and continued packing. He followed me and appeared back in my line of vision.
‘I am begging you. Please.’
His voice cracked.
‘Please, I am nothing without you, I will die without you.’
He fell to his knees, flung his arms around my legs.
‘I am begging you, I can’t go on without you.’
‘Get off me please,’ I requested, as calmly as I could. I could sense that the whole thing was likely to escalate. My breathing picked up pace. He lay on the floor face down and sobbed like a two year old.
‘You are hurting me so much, please don’t leave.’
I snapped. Here he was playing the victim, yet fewer than twelve hours ago he had told me he wanted me dead, and not just that, that he wanted me dead through a blow from his fist.
‘You told me you wanted me to die.’ I shouted.
‘I’m sorry,’ he sobbed. I felt sad for him again, then I forced myself to remember.

Only a few hours previously he had toyed with me like a cat with a mouse, taunted me, called me vile names, hidden my clothes and let me shiver naked as he berated me. He had kicked me, held me down and told me that he wanted to punch every one of my teeth into my ugly mouth. And all the time he had been doing this I had been begging him to stop, telling him that I could not forgive him yet again, that this was going to be the end of it all. But instead of listening to my pleas, he eventually abandoned me and my children over 100 miles from home with no money to get back and no car. His parting words, ‘I hope you die.’

We were visiting friends and all this had gone on in their house and in the morning, when they woke to find him gone, I had told them everything. It was out in the open now, I had admitted that I was a victim of domestic abuse, and his dirty little secret was a secret no longer. I couldn’t afford to feel sorry for him, so I continued to pack my belongings, backing away from him up the staircase as he became more and more angry until I lost my footing and fell, and this was the moment that Anna was born. He rushed to me to help me and see if I was okay.
‘I’m fine,’ I seethed, ‘but if I wasn’t, you would have got the blame for it, because if I’d have knocked myself out and been unable speak, everyone would think it was your fault.’ And in that moment, the idea for Silencing Anna dropped into my mind, almost fully formed. I knew that I had to write Anna’s story. After a little while longer at the cottage he smashed up my things and eventually I managed to leave. As soon as my children were tucked up in bed in my mum’s house that night, I opened my laptop and wrote the first few paragraphs of Silencing Anna. They have remained unchanged since then.

Anna’s birth was messy and painful, but I am proud that the story has helped others recognise domestic abuse and has brought about some positive changes. There is so much to do though. Two women a week are murdered by their partner or ex-partner in England and Wales. These figures are devastating. I hope Silencing Anna will help to wake people from the apathy surrounding domestic abuse. It’s time to change.

Happy Birthday!

Most days on social media there is a post or two about someone’s child having a birthday and being another year older. No one can ever believe quite how many years have passed since they gave birth to their little one. Today it’s my turn. Today I am the proud mother of an actual adult human. Time flies. It’s scary!

The really frightening thing is that I don’t really feel like I’m an adult yet, never-mind the parent to one and I’m sure it was really only four or five minutes ago that I found out that I was pregnant with her, but she is an adult. It’s hard to get used to.

It doesn’t seem like very long ago that I had my own 18th birthday and I have been thinking about what I know now that I would like to have known then. The answer is rather a lot. But if someone had sat down with me and tried to advise me, I don’t think I’d have taken much notice. None the less, here is what I’d like my 18 year old daughter to know, the really big and important things.

Firstly, always note how people act. Even if they talk the most wonderful talk, if their words and actions don’t match up, then they are full of shit. Especially notice how people treat others when they think no one is looking. When there is no glory to be gained from a kind act, or just basic decency, are they still kind and decent?

Secondly, please yourself. Ask yourself, do I want to do this? Do I have to do this? If the answer is no, don’t do it! I apply this to lots of things, more so as I have got older. Being authentic makes you happier.

Thirdly, if your decisions are going to hurt others, that doesn’t mean that your decision is wrong, it just means it’s difficult. I mean, if you are deciding to run someone over, or nick their money, then that is wrong. But I mean personal decisions about what you want and need in your life. You can’t get through life without ever hurting anyone. It doesn’t make you bad, it just makes you human.

Finally, you will always look back and wish you had appreciated your hair, your figure, your freedom etc etc. Try and appreciate it at the time. Easier said than done!

So I’d like to thank you, daughter of mine. You were the one who made me a mother. Before you I was daft, a drifter, I was clueless. You woke me up, you grounded me, you changed me for the better. I learned responsibility, I learned what it was like to love someone so much that just the thought of them suffering anything caused me physical pain. You turned me into a light sleeper, jumpy and protective. You gave me the strength and purpose to grow.

I have loved watching you grow up. I am proud of who you are. From a sweet natured, smiling baby, to an inquisitive toddler. From the funny kind school girl who could read a book a day, to the beautiful, funny young woman who still prefers animals to humans, thank you for being you.

Happy birthday! X X X