In praise of the midwives

In the course of the last eight months I have had the privilege of meeting maybe as many as 30 midwives. From the lady with the kind eyes at North Tyneside hospital who took pity on a frazzled 43 year old who'd just found out she was pregnant, (who allowed me to join her class late and then assured me with wise sincerity that age shouldn't trouble me and that feeling awful meant everything was fine), to Kate who delivered Ruby Jacqueline with such clarity, reassurance and confidence in the middle of the night of the 21st April, every single one of them has impressed, moved and supported me. I don't remember ever having such considered, consistent care, and I want to remember what was so special about it and offer public thanks that they exist at all.

I work in the arts, and for those of you reading who don't, we devote quite a lot of energy to making the case for public funding, a case I firmly believe in but that's for elsewhere. In making that case, we frequently note how many people are employed by the arts, voluntarily or professionally and how almost all of them subsidise the 'real' cost of the arts, by working for less than their market value. We often go on to say that the value of the arts can't be counted in money, but must be seen in the light of all the benefits that flow to the human being of a rich and confident cultural life. In other words, against the tide of an economic culture which measures everything according to its price, we urge a different view, which values experience, mental health, curiosity - things which are very hard to measure.  I say this because I see a powerful parallel with my personal experience of midwifery; yes, I needed a midwife to scan my unborn child, another to test for abnormalities, another to deliver my baby, another to stitch me up. And without these critical interventions fewer babies and mothers would thrive and more would fail to survive. So their economic worth is clear, their value incontestable. But that isn't what I will remember.

In September 2012 when we discovered, happily, but unexpectedly, that I was pregnant, I was living in the North East and my partner was living in London. I had just agreed to take up a new role at the Royal Shakespeare Company in Stratford Upon Avon. I had a play to direct before I left, many friends and family to say goodbye to, a flat to let, a new home to find and I didn't want to tell anyone I was expecting until I'd had at least one good scan and had been able to tell my new boss. Add to that feeling sick and shattered all the time, and very frightened that our combined age would mean we would be unable to have a healthy child, and you might conclude that this was a stressful time. Every single midwife we met, in Tynemouth and at the Royal Victoria Infirmary, Newcastle treated us with a marvellous cocktail of thoughtful concern and robust common sense. "It is normal to feel anxious and afraid" they said to us in many different words, "but people have been having babies for a very long time, and some of them have been as old as you, and all the wisdom of all those ages has been carefully collected by us, and we will be with you all the way".

I remember especially a midwife who specialises in risks of abnormalities, explaining to me what the doctor hadn't thought to say; that my results were good. Just that. She didn't deny we had complicated decisions to make, and she talked straight about the implications of those decisions - I seem to remember her saying "you need to decide how you would feel if (an amnio) caused a miscarriage. That is the decision you have to make". These are very hard things to speak clearly about, and she did, and I understood, and was able to work out what I really thought. But she remembered to say that the results we were looking at were good, and that was what I most needed to hear.

When I moved, we registered with the midwives at the Whittington Hospital, and they deserve special mention here, because after all their efforts and care, Ruby decided not to be born in London, but more of that in a moment.

The thing which I will remember from all of my encounters with midwives, of different ages and backgrounds, from different bits of the country, is their intelligent humanity. Such skill in manipulating technology, calculating results, listening for a heartbeat, but always with a complete sense of the person they are talking to; a knowledge that you are scared, that bad news is as likely as good, that this is the biggest, strangest thing which has ever happened to you.

This magic combination was especially tested when I found myself standing in Warwick hospital, many miles from the Whittington, from my half-packed hospital bag and indeed from my partner who was bombing up the M1, because my waters had broken four weeks before my baby was due. I had intended to work for two more weeks and was therefore in Stratford for the celebrations of Shakespeare's birthday when Ruby decided to arrive. I know that no new mum is strictly ready, but I was nowhere near. We hadn't bought a pram, the only baby clothes we had would turn out to be twice Ruby's size, and I hadn't had that critical time when all I was thinking about was preparing for a new person to arrive in our lives. The day before she came, I was in meetings all day, at a dinner in the evening and absolutely focused on "getting everything done" at work before I went on leave. So I turned up at Warwick Hospital rather bewildered, clutching my paper notes and hoping that someone would help.

I walked out 8 days later with my partner, my baby, those same paper notes, much enlarged, and the wisdom, kindness and skill of the midwifery and medical team in our very bones. In that time they had guessed, in spite of appearances, that I was about to go into labour proper and moved me towards the delivery suite in the nick of time, they had persuaded me not to squander my energy on somewhat theatrical yelling when it could be better used pushing, they had indeed stitched me up (an extraordinarily intimate act, completed with more sensitivity than any dentist has ever shown me) brought me tea and toast minutes after Ruby arrived, the best tea I ever tasted, cajoled me into a bath when it seemed an impossible feat, taught me painstakingly, and without judgment, the roller coaster of breastfeeding, taken blood from my baby's feet and hands with such tenderness and understanding, always remembered to congratulate us and ask how we we were doing, no matter how many babies had been born that day, or night, and treated my tears and terrors with respect and care in spite of the ordinariness of a new mum's hormonal emotions. And not once, in eight days with a premature baby who was not feeding well and jaundiced and little, not once had they mentioned my age,

Since we left Warwick we have had thoughtful, thorough care which has triumphed over bureaucracy to move us seamlessly back to London. The midwives have continued to use old fashioned common sense and judgement in the face of charts and targets and their ongoing, patient interest in my well being and Ruby's health has got us through these tough first weeks. To my shame I had no idea just how brilliant, how essential, how wonderfully modern and simultaneously timeless, how unfashionably humane are midwives of all shapes, sizes, beliefs and experiences. They are the best of human beings. So to Emily, Kate, Harriet, Chris, Ruth, Claire, Holly, Didie, Katie, Laura, Joan, Emma and to all of you whose names I didn't know or have forgotten, I salute you. Thank you for bringing us Ruby.