B: Morning has broken

I made a simple request as we went to bed on Thursday night. "Come
sweet slumber, enshroud me in thy purple cloak".

There were four of us in the bed; my wife, our baby (still safely
tucked away), TENS and me. Rather surprisingly, we all slept through
until the alarm went. Well, TENS was ticking away, but he doesn't
really count.
The midwife and her trainee called round for a routine appointment. We
told them about the night before, and a quick examination showed that
my wife was 5cm dilated. All I could think was :

Blimey ! That's practically halfway to being born, isn't it ?

I looked out of the window, and I could see all of the lessons learned
at our ante-natal classes and our Birth Plan suddenly sailing into the
distance. Internally, I invoked Plan B. Plan B is simple. Plan B is
Blind Panic. In my mind, I was out of the door and into the car and
halfway to the hospital. I realised that neither my wife nor the
midwife nor the trainee were showing any signs of urgency. As Birth
Partner, the job of panicking was my responsibility, and quite clearly,
I had peaked too soon.
We were to wait for further contractions. When they became regular and
strong, we were to call the delivery unit and hit the road.
Wilco.
*
Friday. Phew, what a scorcher.
We had lunch outside in the shade. Eating salad was never such an
effort. Heroically, I braved the heat and walked round to the local
shop to buy ice-lollies. With perfect timing, my wife finished her
Solero and the contractions started coming on. Strong.
My wife was strolling around the house, TENSed-up, increasing the zap
and using the sofa for support when the contractions peaked. All I
could do was watch, wait, ask if she was OK and rub her back. Not
exactly what you might call BUPA-level care, but what else could I do
?
The contractions kept on coming. We phoned the Delivery Unit at
Addenbrooke's and they said "Come On Down!". So, at 5:10pm, we set off
for the hospital.
Five minutes later, we were still trying to get out of our own road.
All along the 12-mile drive, we were caught in POETS-day traffic;
nothing serious, but every second that we were delayed added to my
stress, and - I'm just guessing here - my wife was none to happy about
having contractions in a car that was stuck in a series of minor jams
on a hot afternoon.
Of course, there was always the fear that we wouldn't make it to the
hospital. I took a fast-forward from that scenario and imagined the
conversation a few years later :
"Dad, where was I born ?"
"In the front seat of a Vauxhall Astra at the Waitrose traffic lights,
just south of Cambridge".
"Is that why I've got a funny name ?"
"Yes, Trumpington, it is."
I didn't fancy trying to deliver a baby armed only with half a bottle
of Evian and a packet of Tesco's roasted cashew nuts. (Mind you, the
cashews were organic, so you can't ask for a much better start to life
than that, can you ?). I wanted to cause a bit of a scene. I wanted a
policeman to turn up on a motorbike and I wanted him to escort us to
the hospital with lights flashing and sirens wailing, just like on the
tele. Rather less dramatically, the traffic lights obliged and we
cruised to the hospital safely and sedately.

We parked up, grabbed our luggage and sweltered our way across the
grounds to the maternity unit.
It was uncomfortably hot outside, but inside was something else. The
delivery unit of the maternity wing is in a south-facing building with
big windows and no air-conditioning. This is great for the newborn
babies; not so great for the mums-to-be, the staff and the hangers-on
(like me).
We were greeted by the crew, shown to Room 6 and told to make ourselves
as comfortable as possible. And so began a long, long night.

Previously :-
A: The Night Before