“How was I born?”; never clicked a thought in mind all my imagination and interest was glued onto the “manufacturing process”, and hence the supply chain was neglected in my thought process, until the third year of my graduation in nursing
Nursing studies was a package of sweaty afternoon boring lectures and jam-packed, at times interesting, morning clinical sessions.
“Labour is the process of bringing out the foetus and the products of conception.” All of us had our mouths wide open during one such afternoon lecture on labour. The coloured picture of widespread legs, blood shed and high pitched screeches (like that in regional movies) ran through our minds. Many of us whispered deep in our mind, “mom you are great.” This is quite contradictory to what we usually said “I can’t believe it, my parents did that and I was born. Yuck!
All of us were quite excited as well as tensed when it was the time to break the ice for our midwifery postings. It was in a renowned government hospital in Karnataka. This place was the only hope of light for the economically poor class of the state, who usually never visited a hospital. Here you have the right to get labour service by paying Rs. 100 or 150. But the truth is painful to discuss.
There were night prayers said so that we wouldn’t be the first one to be tagged to the labour room. (Each one of us prayed hard)
All students a batch of fifty, ( forty one girls and nine boys), stood like convicts. We had our eyes bulged out, white uniforms drenched in perspiration, and faces turned pale like that of ghosts. The day of verdict was never supported by my dame luck. There was pin-drop silence in the hall when the tutor announced the names. I could feel my bladder getting filled with fear. I held my pelvic muscles tight, and controlled my urge to micturate. It was myself and Glory in the labour room!!! I felt like I am going to have a cardiac arrest when I heard my name. We looked at each other. Tension and fear in our eyes brought a smile of helplessness. I took a deep sigh.
The next day, myself and Glory met outside the labour room – hands crossed and prayed hard like how we used to do when there was an India-Pakistan match. Anybody who glanced at us might have thought we were praying for our labour.
The labour room promulgated signs of cry and pain deep in our tummies. It was a plain hall with eight tables, four on each side. Seperated by cheap curtains hung on a rope (the dirtiest I have ever seen in my entire life). Except for this setup, it reminded me of a dirty laundry room with blood soaked clothes everywhere.
The moment we entered the vision pathway of the nursing supervisor, we were called by her: “You two come forward. Start carbolizing the tables, footrest and walls.” We just looked around , tables were drenched in blood and amniotic fluid. It smelled like a butcher shop. Faeces and urine on some added more spice to the scene. I begged to my vomiting center medulla not to give a shower and controlled my urge to puke.
We looked at each other with dismay in our eyes. Recovering from this state, we requested for two sets of gloves. The senior staff looked at us like we demanded a huge dowry to get married to her daughter. Then came a janitor, like an angel sent from heaven, literally we saw a hallow around her head when she handed over two gloves to us. It was like a huge mercy she showed on us. All those who have undergone nursing studies must have experienced this either as a student, intern or a staff nurse. We asked for carbolizing solution; usually propanol or sodium hypochloride. It was Glory who asked, I stood behind her. The reply came as a thunder: “Use soap and water. Take the scrubber too.”
The tigress in me and Glory woke up, but we couldn’t reach much as we were students. It was more than umpteen times I have dreamt of coming to the front looking straight into the supervisor’s eyes and say “We are nurses; not servants”. Each time I see the dream I reach a safety level like how a heroine reacts after a perfect shot. I guess my dream leaked out of my brain like frothing beer or my two minutes of workless thoughts have done the magic. The supervisor screamed: “Out you both. Get lost!” as if the government hospital was her husband’s property. But deep inside, I was relieved to get out of this pigsty.
With our heads held high, we walked past the eight tables, like how Rajnikanth does a slow motion in his action movies. All eyes fixed on us. Mothers in labour, doctors, PG students, ANMs and all. When we were nearing the second table, we heard mother cry in pain. A nighty, dark brown in colour, folded above the hips. Legs bent to the stomach, separated wide apart. A touch in the abdomen gave a rigid vibration that we usually feel at a pub when the jockey slips the disc. A black line is visible in the vagina, pushing against the labial folds. A new life was trying to establish self.
I could hear my midwifery lectures playing in my ears. “Second stage of labour, explulsion of the foetus.. provide mother comfort, support.. apply liberal episotomy if needed. The cry became intense. Glory rushed to the supervisor and said, “Sister head is seen”. “They have not paid,” the reply came. “But she has the clearance,” Glory shot back. The supervisor got up from the seat and stared blank at us and walked off.
Glory rushed to a PG student and told her. She was cool and said with a smile, “I am attending this case now. Would you manage? I will tell you what to do.” She agreed with a firm nod, confidence in her mind was visible on her face. Love, compassion, and passion too..
“Diya wear a glove” she screamed.
I felt a shudder through my spine. I am usually bold at doing procedures. But this time I could feel butterflies in my stomach. But still I wore the glove in fraction of a second and supported the perineum of the mother, held baby’s head. Vagina expanded, the baby’s head was thrusting and it looked like it would tear off the vagina. “Apply an episotomy,” the PG student said. Glory took the surgical blade and with trembling hands cut through the sides. Flesh was seen, blood trickling down. Mother cried, but not for this pain. But the labour pain. I felt a pain down in my stomach too.
Mother pushed hard at regular intervals, trying to get the foetus out of her womb. The only thing in her mind at that time would be to get this little spark of life out of her. The little thing for whom she took great care for one year, ate extra, drank extra, prayed hard and longed so much. Now all she wants her is to get rid of it.
The baby’s head was out and in twisting motion like that in whirlpool we delivered the shoulders and then the legs. Clamped and cut the cord. The newborn was not as pretty as we expected. Covered with blood and fluids . The baby was slippery like a fish. Glory showed the baby to the mother. She looked at the child and said with a smile “Girl”. We do this so that later they won’t come back and bargain for a male child. Glory took the child to the resuscitation room and cleaned the baby. Now it looked like the one in Johnson&Johnson advertisement. I held the baby close to my bosom. It exhibited its sucking reflex. I felt a change in my estrogen and progesterone levels. I longed to have a baby of my own, to curdle and feed my little soul. ( Opps then I remembered marriages are hell with perky adds like this). But married or unmarried, every woman should undergo labour just to experience the thunder of having a baby. Just this flash of thought if expressed to my parents, they would put me into a jail of restrictions, hence I buried it in my mind.
I wonder how men feel when they have a baby of their own. I have to discuss with someone. But believe me or not men (male nurses) find it very hard to attend labour and three cheers for all those who do it.
Photo courtesy: oliviermartins
Photo courtesy: oliviermartins
