Sounds of Life

We arrive at the hospital gates
mere seconds apart.
Two ambulances with lights flashing,
Sirens trailing off as we pull up
At the kerb.

They open their doors first,
Exposing their patient to nosey bystanders.
Some look shocked.
Some smile.
Some look away.
Pretend they don't see.
Or hear.
The hiss of the oxygen,
The ping of the monitor,
The instructions of the crew,
All the Sounds of a Life
being saved.

They turn right and disappear,
and as they do,
We turn left.

Our patient is bursting with life, albeit
In pain.
She's Expectant,
Ready,
Anxious.
Scared and excited all at once.
All of a sudden, she screams.
She screams and curses and yells and cries.
And then another noise. A sigh.
And a second cry.
All the Sounds of a Life
being born.

Hysterics

As I mind my own business walking around the local supermarket someone I've never met starts a conversation. 

"You don't remember me, do you?" 

I get nervous when I hear things like that. She'd walked past me down one of the aisles a few minutes earlier, and gave me a funny look that I just shrugged off. Her daughter, probably three-years-old, was sat in the half-trolley, half-car, trying to grab anything off the shelves that took her fancy. I recognised the constant struggle with a toddler, and was pleased that I no longer have to deal with it. Having said that, bigger kids, sometimes bigger problems.

"Sorry, I don't remember." 

"Well, do you remember my daughter?" 

"Also not. I'm sorry. " I'd put the idea that she could have been a patient out my head, as I live and shop some distance from where I work. 

"Well, really, you should remember her more than me, as you met her first!"

"Pardon?"

"Well," she said, clearly enjoying the exchange as much as I was confused by it, "this is Aleesha, and you and your colleague brought her into the world!" 

A few seconds passed as I regained my composure. 

"Oh! Wow! I've never met anyone I've delivered before!"

"Well, now you have!" She turns to Aleesha, just as the toddler's about to take some chocolate from the shelf.

"What do you say to the nice man?" 

Aleesha quickly hides the chocolate in her car, looks sheepishly down at her feet and mumbles a barely audible word. 

"Sorry..." she says, as mum and a very strange man burst into hysterics. 

Loco Parentis

The door is opened by a middle aged woman, cigarette hanging off her lips, her attitude delighting us almost as much as the smoke in our faces.

"You take this bag, and I'll bring her out in a minute!" She dumps a pink hold-all in my surprised arms, and shuts the door almost completely, leaving us in the pouring rain. The inch of artificial light shining between the door and the frame means the gap is just wide enough for us to hear our patient and her cries of pain. Our requests to be allowed in to at least see and start to assess the patient are met with defiance.

"You stay out there. I don't want your muddy boots in my house. I told you she'll be down in a minute."

The tirade changes direction and is re-aimed at the patient.

"Come on already. They're here. And you make sure that you don't have any of that gas stuff they're gonna offer you. You don't need it!"

A minute or so later, Mina appears. 18-years-old and a week overdue with her first baby, she looks just about ready to pop. She has a look about her that's a mix of excitement and anticipation, as well as fear of the unknown.

We invite Mina into the back of the ambulance, and ask her whether she'd be more comfortable sitting on the chair or lying on the trolley. She chooses the chair, and as she sits down, another contraction begins. I write the exact time down on my glove, ready to time the frequency and length of each contraction.

Her pregnancy notes suggest that all has been well for the duration, that the health of mother and baby is satisfactory, and even, from just the day before, that the baby was head down and ready to be born. Her vital signs are normal, and contractions now two minutes apart. She seems to be at the stage of labour that makes most ambulance staff nervous about a BBA, a baby Born Before Arrival at hospital, and start to think about the mess they're going to have to clean up.

I offer Mina some entonox, the magic pain relieving gas. She takes the equipment in her hand, only for her mother to snatch it away.

"I told you, you don't need that rubbish. I never had any when you were born, and you're certainly not going to have any with your baby either!"

Mina looks downtrodden.

"I'm sorry", I say to her mother, "but you're not the patient in this case. If Mina decides she wants the gas, then she is more than welcome to use it".

"You. Are not. Her mother", she spits through gritted teeth, "And you're not going to make the decisions. She's MY daughter, MY responsibility, and it's MY decision!"

"You're absolutely right, it's not my decision. But it's not yours either. It's Mina's. She's old enough to make her own decisions. If she wants to use the entonox she uses it. I understand you're almost as anxious as she is, but right now you're not the patient. Mina, would you like the gas?"

She's terrified, struggling with the conflict between the pain she's in and her mother's overbearing presence. She nods an almost imperceptible "yes", and I hand her the entonox once again, just as another contraction starts.

"Well, if she keeps using the gas, then I'm not going with her to the hospital!"

Shocked looks are exchanged between Mina, her mother, and the crew.

"That's your choice! You decide! Yes gas, no mother!"

Another contraction starts, and I tell them both that we're leaving, as this baby wants to make an entrance, sooner rather than later. Mina screams with the contraction, takes another few lungs-full of entonox, and her mother storms out the back door and back into the house.

"You do it on your own then!" she screams, as she slams the door behind her.

Mina's resolute, and tells us to go, as her partner should be at the hospital within the hour anyway.

The transport is relatively uneventful, other than the contractions strengthening and becoming more frequent, causing us to move Mina onto the trolley. Just in case. We arrive at hospital, and Mina moves across onto the delivery suite's bed. As she does so, her waters break, and a baby's head appears.

"Stay with me", she begs the two of us. We do.

A minute later, her baby boy is born, and in loco parentis we witness her joy.

"Thank you, both of you. And don't worry about my mother. She'll be up here apologising soon enough. Stubborn cow that she is."

We congratulate Mina, refuse to have our photo taken with her and the baby, and head back to the ambulance to pack away the trolley.

As we sit back in the front completing the call, a car races into the car park, its driver rushes straight past us and into the department, begging to be allowed to see her daughter.