A visit to the midwife

21 weeks

The midwife's name is Sherry, like the fortified wine. She asks my wife
does she mind if a student observes? No, that's fine. It's all right if
my husband joins us, isn't it? Of course it is, of course. And so I am
admitted.

We pull up chairs, close enough so we can hold hands, touch shoulders,
exchange excited glances as Sherry deciphers the notes from the last
meeting. We lean forward eagerly, earnestly. Tell us what we do next,
our faces say, tell us it's all okay, you know, no 'complications'.
Sherry is sweet, like the fortified wine. She tells my wife that the
bloods are fine, no complications, and asks does she want to carry on
with the hospital or start appointments at the surgery. That way you
get to see the same midwife, get to know the person who visits after
the birth. You don't want a stranger in the house, isn't it?

Sherry doesn't say anything to me, and that's fine. Really. I'm not the
one who's going to have to go through with all the pregnancy thing, I
won't have to endure all the pain. My arse is still the same shape it
always was and my nipples won't end up pointing at the floor. So I look
around at all the laminated information sheets blu-tacked to the walls
with advice to mother on breastfeeding and diet. I like the pictures of
mum holding baby above her head and they're both smiling at each other
and I know a beautiful relationship will emerge from all the tick boxes
within the buff file on Sherry's lap. I don't mind that there aren't
any pictures of men in the room or any references to fathers or male
partners, I just notice it. And I don't mind that Sherry is talking now
like she has totally forgotten I am here. It's okay, no
complications.

Besides, Sherry is tasty, like the fortified wine. Long-legged and
busty with a short skirt, that provides an entertaining view of her
thighs as she sits before us tapping a syringe in readiness to take
some blood. A sleeveless knitted top hugs her, the extremities of fat
bra straps peeping out from the edges running along her downy
shoulders. So I look at her as she talks to my wife and find myself
wondering if she has had a baby, and whether, when she unleashes her
breasts from the engineering feat beneath her jumper, her nipples point
at the floor. And if she has had to lie on the tissue-covered couch on
the other side of the room and expose her body to the inquisitive eyes
of strangers. It doesn't matter either way. I just wonder.

At the bottom-end of the couch, there is an angle-poise lamp, its
single bulbous eye aimed in a direction which makes it a little overly
obvious what it will be looking for when it is switched on. Soon we are
huddled around the couch, me, Sherry and the silent student, the
curtain discreetly drawn around us protecting us from the empty room.
No need for the angle-poise alien on this occasion; another time maybe.
Sherry just slides a jelly-tipped humming device, which looks and
sounds a bit like a vibrator, across my wife's bare belly. Some hairs
have sprung out from the top of her knickers, and I feel for her at
this mild intrusion into her privacy, repressing a vision that flashes
across my subconscious of the same woman, legs akimbo, screaming and
blood-soaked, her modesty wholly violated.

The dildo produces a whooshing, swirling sound as it travels, which I
realise is coming from within my wife's tummy. It is as if I have a
sea-shell against my ear. The noise is gentle and rhythmic, like a
breeze circulating through a deep, silent cave. I am being transported
to a magical place I do not comprehend. This other world is somewhere I
have been but so long ago I have forgotten I was ever there. I am
soothed and transfixed by this mysterious place, this world that is the
beginning of the world. The being that is coming into being
occasionally thumps against the object disrupting its peace, which
produces the tinny feed-back of a teenager's amplifier.

I picture little limbs flaying instinctively here and there, then
visualise a real, fully-formed infant smiling up at me from a catalogue
changing-mat, kicking and punching the air for no reason, little
cocktail sausage limbs wriggling like an insect's, as if controlled by
some off-stage joy-stick. This worm-like It, in its far-off fairy-tale
world, floating like a refuelling aircraft from the power cable hooked
to its belly, I am, I realise, connecting it more and more to my own
oxygen-sucking world on the outside. This is really happening!

And then I hear a sharp, regular tapping from the dildo's woofer. The
heart, the midwife sighs. And my wife grins up at me. So it's alive,
that's good, she says. And we both smile. Relieved. Amazed. Still
floating ourselves - on the crest of wonderment.