The Honourable Midwife. Lilian Darcy

       CHAPTER THREE

      ‘AND Dr Cassidy wants to be told the moment there’s any change in her numbers or her appearance or—’

      ‘OK, so any change at all, basically,’ summarised Jane Cameron, the midwife who was about to take over baby Alethea’s care for this shift.

      It was already four o’clock, and Emma was late finishing. She still felt reluctant to go, and didn’t understand why, until Pete Croft appeared in the doorway.

      I was hoping he’d show up again, and I didn’t want to leave until I’d seen him, she realised.

      ‘Still here?’ he asked vaguely, and she nodded, feeling foolish.

      ‘I’m about to head off,’ she said.

      ‘What about the mum? Where’s she?’

      ‘She wanted a same-day discharge.’

      ‘You mean she’s already gone?’

      ‘Her mother took her home about half an hour ago. There was no medical reason to say no. Unfortunately.’

      ‘Yes, we would have liked to keep her here for the baby’s sake.’

      ‘She was feeling good. No temp. Stomach so flat already you’d hardly know she’d given birth.’

      ‘What’s the mother like?’ he asked. ‘Rebecca’s mother, I mean. Susan. I’ve only had her in and out of my office for such trivial things that I barely remember her.’

      ‘She seems very sensible. I gave the instruction sheets about post-partum care to her, not to Rebecca.’

      ‘Rebecca wouldn’t read them?’

      ‘Or follow their suggestions if she did, I suspect. Um, Jane, I’m going to head off,’ she added to the other midwife.

      ‘Yes, go. You’re late already.’

      ‘Let me take a look at her,’ Pete said, speaking to Jane. He picked up the baby’s notes and glanced through them. ‘Dr Cassidy’s been here again,’ he murmured.

      ‘See you tomorrow,’ Emma said to no one in particular, and Pete only glanced up for a second as he muttered an acknowledgement of her words.

      Emma and Pete saw too much of each other over the next two days, but all of their contact revolved around the two small newborns in Emma’s care, and if there were any small windows for a more personal interlude between them, neither he nor she chose to open those windows up.

      Emma was happy to work another long shift on Wednesday, her mood closely tied to baby Alethea’s progress, or lack of it. Patsy McNichol was an almost constant presence while her little Lucy remained in the neonatal annexe, but by Thursday morning the baby girl had begun to feed with consistent strength and appetite, and was looking so good that, in the absence of further problems, she would soon be moved to Patsy’s room, ready for discharge on Friday.

      Rebecca Childer had only been seen in the unit once, very briefly on Wednesday morning, since her same-day discharge on Tuesday afternoon. During her visit, she had to be coaxed to talk to her baby and to touch her. She seemed frightened that allowing herself to love the baby might prove too painful, and she seemed frightened of the baby, too—so fragile and tiny and different from the fat, healthy, pink ones she’d seen on television commercials for disposable nappies and baby food.

      Alethea was still in a precarious condition, with her respiration the biggest problem at this stage, despite the fact that she’d now come off the respirator and was on a mask. Her breathing alarm went off regularly, because she would simply forget to breathe. Emma usually just tickled her feet to get her started again, but it was an indication that she was fragile.

      Nell had ordered a precise and detailed monitoring of every aspect of the baby’s system, including the recording of every millilitre of fluid that went in and out, every nuance of temperature change and oxygen saturation reading.

      The heart murmur wasn’t clear or conclusive, and Nell was reluctant to perform tests straight away. Not until Alethea was breathing better. Not until her weight had started to claw its way back to what it had been at birth, after the normal initial loss. Not until the drug they’d given her to close that patent ductus had had a chance to work.

      The potential need for transport to Sydney or Melbourne remained Nell’s greatest concern at this stage, and she’d muttered a couple more times in Emma’s hearing, ‘Something’s not right…and yet the figures suggest she’s doing well. Am I borrowing trouble here?’

      It was heart-rending to see the difference in size between Alethea and the two healthy babies born in the unit since her own delivery on Tuesday morning. Patsy herself talked about it in poignant terms in relation to her own tiny Lucy.

      ‘To me those other babies look so huge,’ she said to Emma on Thursday, just before lunchtime. ‘Almost unnatural. Like the offspring of giants. Yet I know that it’s my baby who’s the wrong size. And she’s lost a hundred and fifty grams since she was born. When will she put it back on and start to gain?’

      ‘Soon,’ Emma promised, because she was promising herself the same thing about both babies. ‘That weight loss is normal. She’s feeding, and that’s great. She’s getting fluid, and she’s getting your antibodies for immunity.’

      ‘Will I really be able to take her home with me?’

      ‘We hope so. It’s looking that way.’

      Patsy was able to hold her baby easily at least. With Alethea, however, the process was far more of an effort, and Emma had to schedule it into her day in order to fit it in. It had to be done with care, given the equipment to which she was still attached. If Rebecca herself had been here, Emma would have had more time.

      But apart from that one uncomfortable visit, Rebecca stayed away.

      Her mother was the one to come and see Alethea. She seemed to love the baby very much, but was obviously torn.

      ‘My daughter should be doing this. Is my coming in just encouraging her to pretend this isn’t happening?’ she said to Emma on Thursday afternoon, and Emma didn’t really have an answer. She was pleased that the baby had someone, and wondered if Mrs Childer would have spent even more time here if she hadn’t been so worried about Rebecca’s lack of interest.

      Nell came up to the unit several times a day, poring over the detailed figures noted on Lucy’s and Alethea’s charts. Alethea was passing urine, which meant her kidneys and heart were both doing their jobs. Her feeds came via a nasogastric tube, which she occasionally seemed to be fighting. That wasn’t a bad sign either. Some babies were too weak to fight the discomfort of the tube. She also had an IV line for medication and fluids.