THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING BENJAMIN
Episode I – Deliverance
I’m not an Alpha male, I’m a Beta male: incomplete, slightly unstable, with some known issues. I need to get out of Beta soon though: ten months ago, Mrs JC and I moved from London to Southwold, on the Suffolk coast, with our six-week old baby. Six weeks old! It was a startling time. She was our first. The move was our first. It was all rather traumatic. We moved into an old cottage behind the lighthouse and settled into small-town life. Now Mrs JC’s maternity leave has ended and she’s gone back to work, leaving me in charge: a full-time dad in a small-town world. I need to quantum leap, from young man to young father, unreliable to responsible, and fast.
How did this happen? How did we get here? It’s hard to say. Looking back, we lived in London, we both had jobs and neither of us had a baby. Our flat was in Hampstead. It was small, but beautiful: a first floor Edwardian house conversion on a quiet street, nestled in the Village between the high street and the Heath. The rent was so expensive that it would cause minor embolisms if you dwelt on it for too long. So we didn’t. Friends would say, “It’s so expensive! Why don’t you move somewhere cheaper?” The answer was, of course, because we’d have to move out of Hampstead. Beloved Hampstead, with its winding, cobbled streets, its charming hills, its expensive Italian delicatessens, its overpriced cafes. I loved it. I enjoyed living somewhere where children, not crack dealers, played in the street, where the only graffiti was pink and blue chalk and where the noise pollution was only ever a piano or violin being practiced. We didn’t have a garden, but we had the Heath - seven hundred and ninety acres of protected ancient woodland, meadow and glades; a piece of the countryside trapped as London spewed outwards, with muntjac deer, ring-necked parakeets, swallows and woodpeckers, kestrels and sparrowhawks, pipistrelle bats and tawny owls populating its trees, fields and grassland. Being scared of both birds and game meant that I didn’t appreciate any of them, but it was good information to know. It was a small flat, with no outside space and precious little inside space. We had to be clever. I’d been discouraging physical gifts for years (digital only or cash please) and I operated a strict one in, one out rule on vases. I was also ruthless at throwing things out.
“Where’s my wok?” Mrs JC would say.
“I threw it out,” I’d say.
This is how we lived. Then we had a baby. The pregnancy did not go quickly. If I’m honest, it dragged. Nine months, three trimesters, six ante-natal classes, two scans and countless time on the internet researching buggies. I felt like we were stuck in the event horizon of a black hole, with time moving at a fraction of its normal speed. People told me that having a baby would turn my life upside down. This was no bad thing, I thought. My life was already upside down so a seismic inversion might get me back to normal.
“I want Baby JC to be born in the early hours, like I was,” I said. “I want an ambulance to rush us to the Royal Free - and a long labour - I want a long labour, so we lose track of time and don’t sleep for days.”
“I do not want those things,” Mrs JC said.
I threw myself into our NCT ante-natal classes, huddling round plastic pelvises and visual vaginal cutaways, sitting on giant rubber balls with half a dozen other couples, each as tired and overworked as we were. Our teacher, Suzie, was a middle-class hippy who loved nothing more than to get down on her hands and knees to moo and moan, as though reliving her own labours. She’d talk to us from her giant rubber ball, barefoot, grinding her pelvis at every opportunity. When whale music played during our times of relaxation practice, we stifled hideous giggles like naughty schoolchildren. And then there was the V-word. For some unknown reason, Suzie pronounced it vaGEEEEna, instead of vaGIIIIna. This caused some confusion for me. Before the first session began, all the couples gathered in Suzie’s living room for tea and biscuits, to Get To Know Each Other. Suzie and I were talking about the difficulties of labour when I dropped some of my chocolate digestive on the floor.
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” she said. “The VAGEENA is very cleverly designed.”
I presumed she was talking about her vacuum cleaner - I felt sure I’d seen a VAGEENA 2000 last time we were in John Lewis.
“Oh, they’re amazing,” I said. “You wouldn’t believe what I found in Mrs JC’s last week - half an aspirin, a voucher for the Co-Op and a scale model of the Apollo 11 command module.” We didn’t have much one-to-one contact after that.
I tried to read a few books. I’ll be honest, they weren’t that interesting. It wasn’t my nipples that were becoming engorged. All I needed to learn was what happened during labour. The baby was growing; that was good enough for me. And everything I did read compared the size of your foetus to that of a corresponding fruit or vegetable. Your baby is now an avocado. Your baby is now a melon. Now, your baby is a cantaloupe. I couldn’t eat greens for weeks.
“This is ridiculous,” I said to Mrs JC. “I can’t eat my vegetables.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “There’s melon for pudding.”
I dipped in and out of one book when I had to. We had piles of them. What did people do before these books? Having a baby was not the same as taking a course. I decided that it was far better to rely on instinct and wing it. I started to experience Couvade syndrome - phantom or sympathetic symptoms - but Mrs JC didn’t believe me.
“You’re being ridiculous,” she said. “I don’t believe you.”
I showed her the Wikipedia page, but she still didn’t believe me.
“I feel nauseous and I need to wee all the time,” I said.
“That’s because you drink beer,” she said.
*
During this time, I discovered that almost everything I’d been lead to believe about pregnancy and childbirth was completely wrong. This made me very angry. Firstly: unless you have unusual circumstances or complications, you’re not going to get rushed to hospital, you’re not going to deliver your baby in the car park. In fact, you’re more likely to get sent home from the hospital, several times. Not as exciting, eh, Hollywood? Bastards. I felt betrayed. Secondly: your due date is baloney. A guess - and a vague one at that. They measure it from the time of the woman’s last period. It’s nothing more than a rough estimate, with at least a two week margin of error either side. Can you imagine if Apple did that when estimating shipping times? There would be uproar! Thirdly: pregnancy does not last nine months! I know, I know: this is nuts. The one thing that everyone knows about pregnancy is that it lasts nine months. Only it doesn’t. It’s forty weeks - which, of course, they begin counting from the date of your last period. Fourthly, there’s a high chance (one in four) that you’ll have a caesarian, even if you don’t want one. Suzie talked a lot about the medicalisation of childbirth. Doctors want to get the baby out as quickly and safely as possible. To them, that means cutting it out. Midwifery is a dying art. God bless the midwives. The fifth is the worst: meconium. Black poo. Why had no one EVER told me about the black poo?
“This is meconium,” Suzie said. “Your baby will poo this for the first few days.” I couldn’t believe it. The baby in the video was excreting black tar. “Why has no one told me about this?” I said, looking round the group. “Did you know? Did you?” They didn’t. “Why did you not tell me about the black poo?” I yelled at my father down the phone that night. “I mean, black poo - of all the things you’ve told me in my life, how come you never mentioned that babies poo black tar for the first few days of their lives?”
“Meconium,” he chuckled, as though reliving some wonderful memory. “Ah yes, I remember that.”
*
It was 6am: a full twenty minutes before our alarm was set to go off. I was asleep. Mrs JC was stirring.
“My waters have broken!” she said, sitting up.
“Like the first morning?” I mumbled through a fug of unconsciousness and pillow.
“My waters have broken!”
I looked at the clock. It said 6.02am. I tried to snooze her.
“Why are you patting my face?” she said.
“Sleep,” I said.
She got up and ran to the bathroom. I got up slowly and followed.
“What’s all this stuff all over the floor?” I said.
“Amniotic fluid,” Mrs JC said. “My waters have broken - Bubsy is coming today!”
“What? Are you sure?” I said. I tried to find my iPhone. There was nothing like this in my calendar for another two weeks.
“Yes - we’re early,” Mrs JC said. We both stared at each other and laughed. Nervous, excited, child-like giggles. We ran back to bed and pulled the covers over us. We talked and laughed and sent out messages to our family. It also meant that I didn’t have to go to work. “I’m not coming in,” I said on the phone. “We are GO for birth.”
“We should tell Karen,” Mrs JC said. Karen was a good friend who had stayed over after dinner the night before. She was asleep on the sofa-bed in the living room.
“When she wakes up,” I said.
Suddenly, the landline started ringing in the living room. It was six o’clock in the morning. Who would ring us at six o’clock in the morning? And who used landlines? The answerphone kicked in.
“LIE DOWN ON THE FLOOR AND CALL AN AMBULANCE!” my mother shouted into it. On the sofa bed, Karen burst into premature consciousness, confused and startled and began to do as instructed. Mrs JC hobbled in.
“Don’t worry, it’s just Ben’s mum. My waters have broken and she still thinks it’s 1978.”
*
Later that morning, Mrs JC and I were being yanked up an elevator shaft in the Royal Free towards the maternity ward, which was on the fifteenth floor. We’d phoned first, to see if we needed to come in for an examination as our waters had broken.
“Come in for an examination,” the midwife said. “Your waters have broken.”
“Like the first morning?” I said.
“Excuse me?” she said.
“We’ll be there in a minute,” I said.
The maternity ward was lilac and shaped like a square doughnut. I’m not sure what was in the middle - perhaps nothing - but it was easy to navigate. They hooked Mrs JC up to a CTG to measure the baby’s heartrate, pulled a curtain round our bed and left us to admire the views over Hampstead.
“I think I can see our house,” I said.
“This is bloody painful,” Mrs JC said.
“Look - there,” I said.
“I don’t care if we can see the rings of bloody Saturn,” Mrs JC said. “Hold my hand.”
A woman in the advanced stage of labour was wheeled into the room. She moaned loudly, snorting like a pig, occasionally crying out in pain. Mrs JC and I exchanged looks from behind our curtain. Then, another voice and the clatter of doors swinging shut:
“Trudy! Where are you?!”
“I’M IN HERRRRRRRRRRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUE,” the woman said, in a primitive, earthy, hilarious cry.
“I think that must be Trudy,” I said.
We both wrapped ourselves up in spasms of muted laughter, with the CTG going crazy next to the bed.
“These are interesting results,” the midwife said when she returned.
“There was an incident,” I said.
*
“What shall we do now?” I said as we walked out of the hospital. “Are we ready?”
“I need a shirt to deliver in,” Mrs JC said.
“I don’t own any shirts,” I said.
“I know you don’t. Let’s go up into town and have a look in a few charity shops.”
“Are you ok to walk?”
“I think so - if I take it slowly.”
Charity shops in Hampstead were a like a jumble sale at Harrods. In Oxfam, I found a rail with shirts tailored in Mayfair and Jermyn Street; from Turnbull & Asser and Armani - all for under three pounds.
“Look at these shirts!” I said to Mrs JC. “Can I buy a shirt?”
“No you cannot buy a bloody shirt - I am IN LABOUR.”
Mrs JC had not travelled well.
“Yes, but, Jermyn Street,” I said, offering her the label. This meant nothing to her.
“We are here to find me something to deliver your child in,” she said. “This is NOT a shopping trip for you.”
“I’ll be literally two minutes,” I said.
Twelve minutes later, I heard Mrs JC outside the changing room saying, “I don’t feel too good - can we go home?”
“But we haven’t found you a shirt?” I said.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said.
“Let me just pay for these,” I said. I bought five shirts then we went home and rested. I was glad to sit down. I’d worn canvas trainers into town and their thin soles had made my feet ache. Mrs JC looked through my purchases.
“This one might fit me?” she said.
“That is a white Armani shirt,” I said. “It has intricate hand-stitching on the placket front. It probably cost about £120. I don’t think you should give birth in it.”
“You could have it back afterwards.”
“I don’t think I’d want it back afterwards.”
“It’s the only one I’ve found that’s big enough though.”
I looked at my new Armani shirt; I looked at its intricate hand-stitching. I looked at my pregnant wife, carrying our first child.
“I have some other shirts in my wardrobe that might fit better?” I said. “This is very baggy.” I jiggled it around in the air, to demonstrate its terrible, wanton bagginess. Mrs JC didn’t say anything. I sighed.
“Okay then,” I said. “Just - never mind.”
*
Our second trip occurred late in the afternoon. By now, the contractions were closer and more intense and my hand was being squeezed with more force. Up the elevator shaft we went.
“Could you take a look at my hand while we’re here?” I asked the midwife.
“No,” the midwife said.
Mrs JC was examined again. We were at 3cm. This, in cervical terms, is nothing. It’s like Base Camp at Everest. 7 is the magic number. 7 grants you admittance to the mythical land of Maternityward, to the place of Birth-Oom: like Narnia, but more hygienic. Mrs JC pushed her forehead against the glass window that looked out over hundreds of people who weren’t in labour, getting ready to leave work, coming out of shops, sitting in cars, cramming into buses.
“Don’t make me go home don’t make me go home don’t make me go home,” she wailed.
“Come on,” I said. “We’re going home.”
*
It was now almost midnight: eighteen hours, four baths and two arguments later. I pulled up outside the Royal Free’s main entrance. It was in darkness.
“How do we get in?” I said.
“I don’t care,” Mrs JC said. She was in another place altogether. Suzie had said this would happen. “Labouring mothers go into a very separate place,” she said. “It’s very primeval.” Then she mooed.
“You don’t expect a hospital to be shut,” I said.
“Park the car,” Mrs JC said. She started to get out.
“Where are you going?” I said. “Hang on!”
Mrs JC was wandering across the tarmac, heading for the Speech Therapy Unit.
“Wait!” I said. “You’re heading towards the Speech Therapy Unit. And you’ve left your notes here.”
I ran out of the car and tried the main doors. They were locked. I caught up with Mrs JC, steadied her, and told her to wait while I parked the car.
“You catch me up,” she said.
“Bloody hell,” I said. I pointed her in the direction of A&E. “Go into A&E and get the lift from there,” I said. “Be careful!”
I ran back to the car, drove out of the hospital and parked it in one of the resident bays across the road. That way, we wouldn’t have to worry about keeping the meter topped up. I ran back to the hospital, expecting Mrs JC to be in the Maternity Ward by now. Instead, I found her clinging to the wall of a corridor outside A&E.
“You haven’t got very far,” I said.
Mrs JC didn’t say anything.
*
The elevator squealed as we passed the seventh floor.
“Quick,” I said to Mrs JC. “We need a birth plan.” As a middle-class couple expecting our first baby, we were supposed to have written out a Birth Plan over lattes and biscotti weeks ago. “Explore what you want your birthing experience to be,” Suzie had said. “Write it down and take it with you to your Maternity Centre. Hand it to your midwife.” We were told about birth rooms and water pools, balls to bounce on, ropes to swing on. She told us about soft music and dimmed, mood lighting; natural childbirth and the evil, surgical interventions of doctors.
“Minimal drugs. Minimal intervention,” Mrs JC said.
That was it. That was our Birth Plan.
“You’re in charge,” she said. These were rare words, with good reason. Now was my time though. As we passed the tenth floor, I rehearsed my lines to myself. Before we came in, Mrs JC had been lying on our bed, squeezing my hand (which had already started to bruise).
“I feel I want to push,” she said.
“Please do not push,” I said.
“I feel I want to,” she said.
“Try and do the opposite,” I said, fumbling for my iPhone on the bedside table. I googled the situation. It was a good situation to be in, just not in your bedroom at home. I read on to see what the signs of advanced labour were. I memorised them. They weren’t going to send us home this time. The lift doors opened. The Maternity Ward was quiet and dark and very lilac. Mrs JC was making strange noises. “I want an epidural,” she wailed. “I want an epidural.” “Of course you can have an epidural,” I said. “Why don’t we see what the midwife says first though?”
We approached the desk and I explained what was happening. Then I said, “The contractions are running into each other and she says she can't help pushing.”
The midwife said, “Come this way.” We were in.
*
“Lie still so I can examine you,” the midwife said. We’d been led into a private room. “This room was going to be for another woman, but you need it more than her.”
She was gruff and impolite, but she had a job to do so I kept quiet.
“It hurts!” Mrs JC said.
“I need to examine you,” she said.
“I know but it really hurts,” Mrs JC said. “Stop stop stop!”
“Fine,” she said, snapping off her latex gloves. “If you won’t let me examine you then you can go home. The other woman can have this room.”
“Hang on a second,” I said. “We’re not saying that. My wife is happy to be examined but you are hurting her.”
The midwife looked at me. “She can have gas and air,” she said.
“Thank you, yes - gas and air,” I said, wondering why this hadn’t been offered from the start.
Mrs JC started to inhale and relax. The examination proceeded.
“Seven centimetres,” the midwife said.
“YES!” I said, with a Henman-style fist-clench.
The midwife stared at me again.
“Is this a birthing room?” Mrs JC said. “I want to be in a birthing room.” Her voice was distant now, introverted, spaced-out.
The midwife turned her incredulous stare to Mrs JC.
“This will do fine,” I said. “Really. Thank you.”
“What about the giant balls?” Mrs JC said.
“I think we’re past that stage,” I said.
“Somebody will be with you shortly,” the midwife said, and left.
“What a total cow,” Mrs JC said.
“I know. Did you see the way she whipped off her gloves?”
“I hope we don’t get her for the delivery.”
“Seven centimetres,” I said. “Result.”
“Yes, well done you,” Mrs JC said.
I was hurt by this. It had been my mission over the last eighteen hours to keep Mrs JC as relaxed as possible, to facilitate rapid dilation. This was the fruit of my labour and I felt like my contribution needed to be acknowledged, perhaps even celebrated. However, I was wise to keep these feelings to myself. There would be plenty of time for glory afterwards. There was a knock at the door and a woman entered.
“Hallo,” she said. “My name is Estelle. I’m going to be looking after you tonight.”
Estelle was an extraordinary woman. She was Jamaican and spoke with a rich, creamy accent. Her hair had been worked into an astounding sixties beehive and her eyelashes were long and sparkled in the soft light of the room.
“I usually do Critical Care in Essex,” she said. “But they were short-staffed here.”
Estelle set to work. I felt sorry for her. Ours was the most boring delivery she’d ever worked. At one point, she sat on a stool and flicked through a magazine. Towards the end, Mrs JC refused to push.
“You have to push,” Estelle said.
“I don’t want to,” Mrs JC said.
“You HAVE to push,” Estelle said.
“I don’t know how to,” Mrs JC said.
“Just push down, like when you go to toilet.”
“No.”
“Quick!” said Estelle. “I need you to turn around.”
“No,” said Mrs JC.
“I need you to turn around.”
“No.”
“Turn around or you’re going to tear.”
Mrs JC turned around.
“Now, push down!”
“I can’t!”
“Push down!”
“I don’t know how!”
“Push down! Go to toilet!” she cried.
“This is the worst pain I’ve ever known!” Mrs JC said.
“Push down! Go to toilet!”
“Push!” I said.
“Go to toilet!” Estelle said.
“ARGGGGH” Mrs JC said.
Then, it was all over.
***
The Importance of Being Benjamin by Ben Johncock is out on submission now. He is represented by David Godwin Associates.
Oh this was great. It captured the whole ridiculousness of giving birth that people so often forget about - and I still had a lump in my throat at the last line!
Posted by: Sarah | June 24, 2011 at 08:45 AM
Thanks Sarah - so pleased you enjoyed it! X
Posted by: Ben Johncock | June 24, 2011 at 10:49 AM
It's hilarious and proves once more what Neanderthals men still are. I cried too though.
Posted by: Steph | June 24, 2011 at 10:57 AM
Brilliant!
Posted by: evie winter | June 24, 2011 at 11:30 AM
Ok, Benjamin. You made me laugh (a lot). You made me cry with laughter in fact. Loved the whole thing. Brought it all back and made me so so glad I'm not in the labour ward or anywhere close to it any more. Teenagers (once you get them there) are much easier. Trust me. And if Baby JC is already reading CS Lewis in her cot she's obviously a genius.
Posted by: Lucy Coats | June 24, 2011 at 12:03 PM
@Steph What the devil?! I'm sophisticated AND sensitive, me!
@Evie Thanks! :)
Posted by: Ben Johncock | June 24, 2011 at 12:03 PM
I'm presently sat in a hospital, waiting impatiently. Thankfully it's not the mat unit. This has helped me pass 10 minutes in a state of amusement, rather than contemplating self-harm. What fun. Cheers.
Posted by: Mike Richards | June 24, 2011 at 12:12 PM
Cheers Mike! Although I read your comment as "Thankfully it's not the MAN unit". Glad to have averted self-abuse nevertheless.
Posted by: Ben Johncock | June 24, 2011 at 12:50 PM
The universe did not implode. Instead you wrote a hugely funny and very sweet piece. I laughed out loud twice, which is not good as I am on a train!
Posted by: BucksWriter | June 24, 2011 at 01:23 PM
Thanks Claire! Thanks very kind of you to say so. I always enjoy making people laugh on public transport :)
Posted by: Ben Johncock | June 24, 2011 at 01:29 PM
This is dangerous to read in the office - I was howling with laughter when I should have been working!
Takes me right back....
Posted by: Sue Ransom | June 24, 2011 at 05:32 PM
I LOVED this! Laughed till I cried! Keep it coming, I want more! :-)
Posted by: Vicky MacKenzie | June 24, 2011 at 08:48 PM
You capture the madness so beautifully. I love birth stories, they always get choked up. And I too have tell of glove snapping midwitches.
Posted by: Lucy | June 24, 2011 at 09:35 PM
It's brilliant Ben. Fab! It took me back to 1978, which was clearly a very good year xxx
Posted by: Delores Johncock | June 24, 2011 at 10:59 PM
My mum ladies and gentlemen! Thanks mum! :)
Posted by: Ben Johncock | June 24, 2011 at 11:18 PM
Oh Ben--You are one very clever, funny man! Thanks so much for making my laugh so hard this morning. Only downside was it made me miss having you here in Hampstead! Looking forward to reading more...Bless you my friend.
Posted by: Jeanie Hosken | June 25, 2011 at 07:19 AM
Just read this out loud to my o/h who does not do blogs. Both of us were rolling around laughing at the image of you trying to find the snooze button on your poor wife's face. And yes, the first delivery is the most shocking. Just wait until you get to your fourth...
Posted by: M. Clarke | June 25, 2011 at 09:29 AM
Fabulous piece of writing!! Brought back so many memories... and several very similar experiences. And - you all survived. Result! I think you should send this to some women's magazines btw.
Posted by: Sue Cook | June 26, 2011 at 02:15 PM
Big thanks to everyone for the lovely comments - they are very much appreciated x
Posted by: Ben Johncock | July 06, 2011 at 10:51 AM
V V good, really enjoyed it....get writing need the full book!Love your narrative style
Posted by: Penny Fuller | July 08, 2011 at 10:00 PM
Excellent! It simultaneously entertained and terrified me!
Posted by: Cally | July 18, 2011 at 08:14 AM
Thanks Penny! Thanks Cally! Really pleased you enjoyed it. And there's nothing to be terrified of, I promise ;)
Posted by: Ben Johncock | July 22, 2011 at 01:58 PM