The newspaper competition's first prize seemed idyllic: flight from Dayton, Ohio, for three days in London, followed by relaxing five day crossing from Southampton to New York on board the luxury liner Queen Elizabeth II. Only there are two slight hitches: the winning couple are expecting the imminent birth of their first child, and it is winter in the north Atlantic. Suffice to say, the ship's doctor is blissfully unaware of the woman's delicate condition until he is woken from his postprandial afternoon nap when her waters break, on the fourth day of the voyage, 500 miles east of New York in mountainous seas and a force 12 gale.
“Oh dear, Mrs H,” he says, “you are 8 cm dilated.”
“My last Hb was 9.5, doctor.”
“Uuum.”
The scene is set: a calm, physically robust 32 year old registered nurse from Ohio accompanied by her rather nervous school teacher husband prepare for the birth on board an ocean liner. “I don't need any analgesia, thank you,” she says with alacrity. The first stage goes like clockwork. On “six deck,” deep in the bowels of the great steel ship, the movements in the massive seas are mercifully dampened, though still clearly discernible, with the roll and pitch coming at fairly predictable intervals.
“I want to push. I want to push.”
“OK. You are fully dilated now; at the next contraction we'll get you to push down hard into your bottom... Push, push, PUSH. Relax, relax. Well done. Deep breaths. Wait for the next one... Push, push, PUSH.”
But the second stage is not progressing. The woman is getting tired and more than a little distressed. The husband, standing at the head of the couch, is looking increasingly apprehensive as he hesitatingly mops her glistening forehead. “It's alright, honey. It's alright.” he says in a tremulous voice.
“I can see the head now, Mrs H. Wait for the next one. Nearly there. Push, push, PUSH” But it won't come. The doctor senses his fragile veneer of calm serenity and supreme confidence starting to slip. God forbid if this delightful couple discover that he has not delivered a baby for well over 10 years—and that was only as a humble senior house officer with full hospital back up. In his six month obstetric residency he'd only done one forceps delivery, under specialist supervision.
“`Neville Barnes,' I think, sister,” he said quietly with the suave panache of the Queen's obstetrician. “Or maybe a Rigley's... What have you got in the cupboard?” (“It's only going to be a `lift out'” he reassures himself.) “Mrs H, your baby is almost out, but you are very tired. You need a little help.” Mr H stands ashen faced, silent and still. “Not a problem, Mr H. Routine. Thank you, sister.”
Plenty of lubrication “You can't use too much” is all he remembers from his resident job. He turns away to practise locking the blades. No anaesthetic. Little time now. Never mind.
“Relax,Mrs H.I'm just inserting one forcep...Now the second.”
“Aaaah.”
“Sorry. Relax, relax.” Sudden panic, hastily suppressed—the blades won't close. Another faint memory: “Don't force. Remove, re-lubricate, try again.” He takes a slightly different angle of approach.
“Aaah.”
The blades easily lock into place. “You'll feel me pulling a little bit, but don't worry, baby is fine and will soon be out.” Christ, the episiotomy. No wonder they were difficult to apply. Minimal local anaesthetic infiltration. No time. “Just a little cut coming.”
“Aaaah.”
Blood everywhere. He motions to Derek, the attendant, to move closer behind the husband, who has declined a chair. Pull, scream. Pull, scream. Pull, scream. The head won't budge. At the fourth pull, he tries to coordinate with the feeble remnants of a contraction, almost pulling his patient off the couch, but to no avail.
Panic. Panic. “Don't worry, Mrs H. Let's have a rest—relax.” He steals a glance at Carol, the senior nurse. Her eyes say it all. Pause. “Deep breaths, Mrs H, deep breaths.” Large droplets of sweat from his forehead plop onto the green surgical towel covering her modesty. For a moment there is peace, and then the ship starts to roll, ponderously and deliberately. It is almost slow motion, but enough to throw pans and instruments from the trolley. A thought: maybe, maybe.
“What's happening, doctor?”
“Everything is alright, Mrs H. All fine, just waiting for the next contraction.” Hang the contractions, they were insignificant now. He waits for something else: it seems an age, but the huge steel beast starts to move away from him. He wedges his boot against the base of the couch, leans back in the opposite direction to the roll, and, at its greatest extent, pulls until he almost shoots off the stool. A scream, and out it comes. What a glorious sight.
Next morning, the ship docks at New York's West Side. A flurry of media people turn up to witness a serene looking Mrs H suckling a contented baby girl, the only baby born on this illustrious liner in her 40 years of sailing. Lauren Elizabeth is 18 years old now and entitled to dual nationality in view of her unique birth on a British registered ship in international waters. The doctor, also older, has more grey hair than he deserves, but then he aged considerably one stormy night when he performed the first wave-assisted delivery.