Last Tango in Toulouse (6 page)

Once the decision had been made to move, and with the knowledge that I was soon to be released from all that hard work and commitment, I somehow managed to regain a little pleasure from my garden. I spent some relaxing days getting it ready to put the house on the market, freeing the beds of tangled weeds and turning over the soil which had become deep and rich during the twenty-five years I had cared for it. I looked fondly at the trees I had planted all those years ago, now well established and perfect in this setting. I pruned the roses, mulched the soil surface and even planted some vegetables for the summer months, knowing that I wouldn't be there to enjoy them. I felt no temptation to dig up plants and take them with me – not even the rare treasures I had painstakingly collected over the years.
A new life on the farm would liberate me from my twenty-five-year obsession with gardening and I was more than happy to let go of all the plants, in spite of the pleasure they had once brought me.

Occasionally I wondered if I was losing the plot a little, undergoing such a radical change of heart. But it was all part of the new direction I was heading in – the future – which wouldn't involve an ‘obligation' to keep up the image of the perfect wife, mother, gardener, writer, lover, cook and friend. There were many moments when I found it hard to believe it was really me making all these changes. It was as though a different woman had stepped into my shoes and was walking onwards, taking the real me along for the ride. The prospect of change was exciting, but it was also at times quite terrifying.

During my six months in France I desperately missed my grandchildren – much more than I missed my husband or even our own four adult children. Our daughter Miriam has three boisterous sons aged between seven and two and she enrolled at university to do a postgraduate degree. Her plans were suddenly thwarted when she discovered she was pregnant with a fourth child. These days large families are the exception, especially with parents as young as Miriam and her husband, Rick – both in their late twenties and already very much tied down with family responsibilities. Miriam was shocked and rather dismayed when she first realised she was carrying another child, but she quickly adjusted to the idea because she had so enjoyed her pregnancies and subsequent homebirths with Eamonn, Sam and Theo. I was still in France when she phoned me in tears, lamenting her career being put on hold for another child. However, within days she phoned back, laughing and excited at the prospect of another baby, and we discussed the possibility that perhaps, this time, she may have
a daughter. In our family we have been very lucky with our mother–daughter relationships. I had a strong bond with my mother Muriel, who died suddenly after a lifetime as a heavy drinker and smoker, and I also enjoy an open and loving relationship with Miriam. I secretly hoped she would produce a girl so that she too could experience the joys of this female to female rapport.

Miriam and her entire family moved to Bathurst only eight weeks before the baby was due and she found the process stressful. Babies tend to be larger with each subsequent pregnancy; this baby was huge and pressing heavily down inside her pelvis. Packing up an entire house and juggling the needs of three other children took its toll. By the time the removalist truck had left she looked and felt exhausted. Unlike her earlier pregnancies, in which she had felt highly energised and powerful, this time she felt rundown and lethargic, so I spent a lot of time dashing back and forth between Leura and Bathurst, cooking meals and helping with the mountains of washing. When the birth was imminent I moved in with the family, sleeping on the sofa bed in the rumpus room. The three boys were well primed and prepared for the new arrival and this time – a first – Miriam had booked into the local hospital, just one block down the road.

There were various reasons for this decision, the first and most important being that there didn't appear to be a trained homebirth midwife operating in the district. The escalating cost of insurance has had a profound effect on independent midwives all over Australia, making it almost impossible for them to afford to practise – a similar situation to the one facing obstetricians in the private medical system, especially in rural areas.
Miriam and Rick were also rather strapped for cash, having just moved into a larger house and living on a single income with three hungry boys to feed. Homebirths are not covered by many private medical funds or even by Medicare, so those who opt for a home delivery must scrape together several thousand dollars to cover the midwifery fees. Lastly, Miriam had decided that, as she was so exhausted, a quick trip to hospital and back would be less work than having a home delivery. There's a great deal of mess to consider when you squat down and have a baby in the front room – groundsheets and dropsheets and water baths and medical equipment. It takes precision planning and organisation by the family, their support system and the midwife, and Miriam wasn't feeling up to it. She just wanted to pop this baby out then come home to a clean, quiet house with her darling family all around.

Usually, Miriam goes into labour about a week ahead of the due date, but this time she went full term and then nearly two weeks overdue. Each day the baby seemed to grow larger, making it difficult for her to walk, let alone bath and feed the other children or do any housework. Thank heavens I was around to help on the home front. As the days drifted by we discussed possible reasons for the late arrival – and finally I ventured to suggest that perhaps this baby didn't want to be born in hospital. There are so many factors involved in the onset of spontaneous labour and even to this day the medical profession doesn't really understand what triggers those first few genuine contractions. Miriam was having plenty of strong tightening sensations but established labour simply didn't want to kick in. In desperation we began to search for a midwife who might be persuaded to do a homebirth – I even offered to cover the fee should it be required.

After several hours on the phone we discovered a community midwife who once did homebirths in the district but was eventually squeezed out because of the insurance situation. She kindly came to visit and agreed that she would be prepared to deliver the baby at home, but there was one small hitch – all her delivery equipment was locked inside the community medical clinic and she wouldn't be able to retrieve it until Monday morning. It was Saturday, and the clinic closed for the weekend. We decided that if nothing happened before Monday, we would proceed with the homebirth plan. Miriam suddenly seemed so much more relaxed and happy and we began making practical preparations for a home delivery – baking bundles of sheets and towels in the oven, wrapped in brown paper, and preparing a sterile pack of tiny clothes for the newborn; exactly the same preparations we had made together three times before. Even though Miriam and Rick had felt quite comfortable with the idea of going to hospital, they were now thrilled at the prospect of changing their plans at the last minute and having the baby at home.

On Saturday night we fell into bed early, reasonably exhausted. Miriam hadn't been sleeping well because of the size of the infant. She couldn't get comfortable, and needed to get up and walk around from time to time when her back ached or erratic contractions woke her. I was woken at dawn by three small boys clambering over my bed and the family's overexcited Jack Russell terrier bouncing on my head. We tried to pass the Sunday as quietly as possible, with Miriam alternating between resting and walking. Rick took the boys to the park for a few hours and I continued with the mammoth task of keeping ahead of the washing. I wondered how it would be when there was also a new
baby to wash clothes for, and cloth nappies rather than disposable. It was a totally daunting prospect.

In the wee small hours of Monday morning Miriam wakes me with the brisk words ‘It's on'. Obviously, this baby isn't going to wait for the midwife to pick up her delivery gear. We gather the small boys from their beds and, because it's late June and freezing cold, layer them with jumpers and socks, dressing gowns and slippers. Initially, they seem bright and cooperative, joining in with the spirit and excitement of the occasion. We have to throw buckets of tepid water over the ice-covered car wind-screens before we can reverse up the driveway. In spite of our planning it's all rather chaotic, strapping cold and irritable children into car seats. Even the dog wants to come, so we have to stop the car and dash back to lock him inside the house. Miriam can barely sit on the passenger seat for the strength of the contractions and she is leaking fluid everywhere.

The hospital is dark and locked up. We have to find a buzzer to alert the nurses in the casualty department. En masse we troop along dark lonely corridors to the delivery rooms. There is a woman in the last stages of labour in the first room we pass, groaning and panting and reminding us how intense childbirth is. The delivery rooms are plain but adequate, even though the building is very old. There's a large comfortable room with a bed and several lounge chairs, and a bathroom with a deep, welcoming bath. Miriam wastes no time in jumping into the hot water with Rick massaging her back. With her last two births she spent most of the labour in a large portable watertub provided
by the midwife – it was big enough for Rick to get in and support her – although she always hopped out at the last moment when it was time to push. This bath is a conventional size, but Miriam finds the hot water comforting. We have phoned Miriam's close friend, Sandra, who is coming to help, and also my son Aaron's wife, Lorna. Miriam helped when Lorna was giving birth to their daughter Ella six months previously, and the two women have developed a close bond.

I also phone David in Leura so he can come quickly to Bathurst and take the small boys home. Unlike homebirth, where siblings wander in and out of the birthing room, having them in the hospital delivery room doesn't feel right. They quickly become bored and restless, and I am torn between trying to keep them amused and supporting Miriam in her labour. After the boys have been whisked away by their grandfather the atmosphere in the room becomes more relaxed and convivial. We share jokes between contractions and apply hot towels to Miriam's belly and back when the pains restart. We're a well-organised little team of five, so the hospital midwives leave us to get on with the job, doing just routine checking of foetal heartbeats as required.

Not long after daybreak Miriam starts to make the guttural sound in her throat that tells me she is ready to start pushing. I have been with her every step of the way through all of her births, a role that I treasure as a mother and grandmother. When her first son was born at their little house in Canberra, the midwife encouraged me to ‘catch the baby' as it emerged, so that I could hand this precious new life to his mother. It was one of the most important moments of my life and my joy at each impending birth hasn't diminished.

Now I gaze from the hospital window at the new day. The rooms are on the second floor and the view to the surrounding countryside and hills is breathtaking. Even more so because of the sparkling white frost that has blanketed the entire landscape. I motion to Miriam, between contractions, suggesting that she have a quick look at this magical day that is about to herald the arrival of a new soul into the world. She groans impatiently at my suggestion, feeling far too weighed down to walk to the window. At that moment she is overwhelmed by her first pushing contraction, so I dash out the door and inform the midwife who has just come on duty that we are about to have a birth.

What follows is organised chaos. A bell rings and the doctor on call is summoned even though we know he won't be required to do much except watch. The midwife who will crown the head makes up a soft mat for herself so she can kneel on the ground – not the conventional hospital delivery mode but always Miriam's preferred position, on her knees with her head buried in Rick's lap. Sandra and Lorna continue to apply the hot towels to her back, and I take up a position to photograph the baby being born. Each birth has been well recorded and this one will be no exception. Just as the head – and a very large head it seems to be – is emerging the doctor rushes in, smiling and looking a little flustered. He's barely made it, and in coming into the room has blocked the natural light from the window that will make all the difference to my photographs.