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coochiequeens · 9 months

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Doctors and nurses who are not willing to listen to their patients should be replaced

BY VICTORIA SMITH

The third time I went into labour, I was determined to avoid getting told off. With both of my previous births, I had somehow managed to get things wrong. My errors the first time: going to hospital too early, then, when I returned three hours later, “leaving it so late”. The second time: ignoring assurances that I didn’t need to come in yet, then giving birth in the car park — an event I later discovered was being used in antenatal classes as an example of women “not planning ahead”.

“My previous births have been fast,” I said, when I went into labour with my third, “so I’d like to come in now.” I was speaking to the woman at the midwife-led unit that is the only option where I live. (If you need a caesarean section, you have to be transferred to next town.) “Third babies are notoriously difficult,” was her response.

What an odd thing to say to a woman already in labour. The “notoriously” suggested it wasn’t based on any actual evidence, but rather a kind of folk wisdom. It felt as though I was being warned not to tempt fate, not to assume that this baby would just pop out. I saw myself being categorised as one of those arrogant women who presumes to know her own body, only to be taught a harsh yet much-deserved lesson. “Third babies are notoriously difficult” sounded not unlike “third-time mothers shouldn’t get above themselves”.

In fact, I have never been particularly cocky about childbirth. When I was pregnant with my first child, back in the days when the Right-wing press were still obsessed with famous women being “too posh to push”, I wondered if I might be able to get an elective caesarean myself. I did not particularly care about childbirth being a wonderful experience, or about “doing it well”. I didn’t care if the Daily Mail thought I was a joke.

What I cared about was not having a child who would face the same difficulties as my brother, who was starved of oxygen at birth. This has had serious consequences for him, and for the rest of my family. Just how serious is hard to gauge. He was born traumatised; there has never been a before to compare the after with. What there has been instead is the hazy outline of an alternative life, one that runs parallel to the one he has now. It’s a life that began with the problem being identified sooner, with him being delivered quickly, perhaps by emergency caesarean. The difference between this and his actual life comes down to something small: mere moments, mere breaths.

I was born three years after my brother, in a larger hospital, where my mother was induced and monitored carefully. There is something very strange about being the sibling who had the safe birth. It feels as though I stole it. There is a constant sense of guilt, as if my life — my independence, my choices — constitutes a form of gloating. “This is what you could have had.” Everything I do feels like something owed to my brother (do it, because he can’t) but also something taken from him (you shouldn’t have done that, because he should have done it first).

Still, my family were fortunate, insofar as my brother didn’t die. Current reports on the Nottingham maternity scandal reference 1,700 cases, with an estimated 201 mothers and babies who might have survived had they received better care. What strikes me, reading them, is the enormous gulf between the cost of a disastrous birth and the trivial, opportunistic way in which childbirth is so often politicised — with mothers themselves viewed as morally, if not practically, to blame if anything goes wrong.

As a feminist who concerns herself with how the female body is demonised, my interest in debates about birthing choices is more than personal. I have read books railing against the over-medicalisation of childbirth, aligning it with a patriarchal need to appropriate female reproductive power. I have also read books protesting the fetishisation of “natural” birth, suggesting that it infantilises women, that it implies women deserve pain. To be honest, I find both arguments persuasive and dismaying. Both are right about the way in which misogyny and professional arrogance can shift the focus away from meeting the needs of women and babies. I feel a kind of rage that we are told to pick a side.

Representations of the labouring woman are so often negative: the naïve idealist, the “birthzilla“, the birth-plan obsessive, the woman who is “too posh to push”. This latter stereotype has gone hand-in-hand with a veneration of vaginal births, and stigmatisation of caesareans, that has had sometimes disastrous consequences. Midwives at the centre of the Furness General Hospital scandal were reported to have “pursued natural birth ‘at any cost’”, referring to one another as “the musketeers”; at least 11 babies and one mother died. But their approach was sanctioned by their employer: the 2006 NHS document “Pathways to Success: a self-improvement toolkit” explicitly suggested that “maternity units applying best practice to the management of pregnancy, labour and birth will achieve a [caesarean section] rate consistently below 20% and will have aspirations to reduce that rate to 15%”. Proposed benefits to this included “a sense of pride in units”.

Responses to maternity scandals now express horror that such an anti-intervention culture ever arose — responses in the same press that denigrated women such as Victoria Beckham and Kate Winslet for not giving birth vaginally. Instead, newspapers now stoke outrage over “natural” treatments during NHS births, such as burning herbs. Women have been shamed for having caesareans, but they have also been shamed for wanting births with minimum intervention — as though they are selfish and spoilt for seeking control over such an extreme situation.

In his memoir This Is Going To Hurt, former doctor Adam Kay writes disparagingly of women who arrive at the delivery suite with birth plans:

“‘Having a birth plan’ always strikes me as akin to having a ‘what I want the weather to be’ plan or a ‘winning the lottery’ plan. Two centuries of obstetricians have found no way of predicting the course of a labour, but a certain denomination of floaty-dressed mother seems to think she can manage it easily.”

Wanting to have some control over your experience of labour — which will hurt you and could kill you or your baby — is not akin to some messianic aspiration to control the weather. And in his mockery of the woman who wants whale song and aromatherapy oils, ironically, Kay deploys the same silencing techniques that might intimidate a woman out of seeking the very interventions he so prizes. What he and others do not seem to grasp is that their arrogance is a problem, regardless of which course of action they champion. It makes women feel they can’t speak, for fear of inviting hostility at their most vulnerable moments. It’s true that none of us knows our body well enough to know how we will give birth. But, looking back, I find it utterly insane, not least given my own family history, that one of my biggest worries during labour was “please don’t let anyone get cross with me”. Then again, I don’t think that fear is unrelated to the desire to remain safe.

Birth is not a joke. It is not a place for professional dick-swinging or political one-upmanship. I cannot describe — and, as I am not my mother, cannot fully understand — the shame of feeling that you “let down” your child before they drew their first breath, that they will forever suffer because of it. You watch an entire life unfolding and that feeling is there, every single day. This is the fear of the women in labour who are characterised as either idiots mesmerised by fantasy homebirths or cold-hearted posh ladies who can’t take the pain. If things go wrong, they are the ones who will bear the consequences, reflecting every day on what might have been, if they’d only done more.

When people discuss their siblings, my mind does wander to the one I don’t have, the one who was born safely. Perhaps he would have a job he loved, or one he hated, but in any case a job. Perhaps he would have a partner. Perhaps he would have children, and I would be their aunt. Perhaps we wouldn’t get on, wouldn’t even speak, but he’d have a life of his own. I know he thinks about this too. I wonder if the professionals who presided over his birth have thought about him since.

My third labour was not, by the way, “notoriously difficult”. My third son arrived into the world safe and well. No one can say why him or me, and not my brother. Mothers may long for control over birth, for which we are mocked; but we do not have it, for which we are blamed. Politics still takes precedence over our needs, and the needs of our babies.

#Traumatic births #Doctors not listening to women #There's no such thing as a birthzilla #Women aren't too posh to push #Doctors are so posh they schedule cesareans to accommodate their schedules not the mothers #Furness General Hospital Scandal #This is going to hurt #Keep Adam Kay away from women #Women wanting a say in their births are not acting like they want to control the weather #Nottingham maternity scandal #If the baby suffers during a traumatic birth it's the mother who will providing the care after they come home from the hospital

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thelampisaflashlight · 8 months

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Everything Goes On Pt. 1

[Surprise, it's divorce. Angst. Not suitable for younger audiences.] Below the cut.

"I just think I want... I think what we want, what we are, as a couple has changed." Aether says, his hand on Dew's knee as they sit side by side on their shared bed -the one that Dew decides in that moment that he'll never sleep in again- he rubs soothing circles with his thumb, but his touch feels... wrong now.

Dew crosses his legs and ignores the faint tingle left behind by Aether's warm hands.

"What I want..." he forces the lump in his throat down, "...is to stay together."

Aether sighs and it sounds...

Cold.

Distant.

Less empathetic more... tired.

"Dew..." he starts, pausing to rub his hands down his face before patting them against his thighs to ground himself and force the words he wants -no, needs- to say out, "...I want... wanted-"

Dew winces at the other's correction.

"-I wanted us to be together, too, but our priorities are... they're just different now. I have things I want that I can't force you to give me." Aether says, clasping his hands in front of him in his lap, "I'm... I'm leaving the abbey. I'm going home-"

"This IS your home..." Dew whispers, unable to speak any louder for fear of his voice cracking, "...Why are you doing this...? Why... Why are you doing this to me?"

Aether makes a sound, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.

"Because it's not about you."

The words hit Dew like a slap across the face.

Because it's not about you.

"It sure fucking feels like it is." he hisses, standing up and facing Aether, who casts his own eyes upon the floor, "W-What..."

Fucking dammit.

"What did I do?"

The ghoul lifts his head and meets his gaze, no softness, no adoration...

No love.

"Nothing." Aether says, "And that's half the problem."

Dew's eye twitches.

"Nothing?? I've done nothing??" his eyes go wide, his chest grows tight, "I-"

"Emotionally speaking... you just... aren't the same."

"...What?"

Aether pats the bed.

"Sit back down."

"No..."

"I said sit." Aether growls.

Dew swallows... but he does sit.

He does sit, and he hates himself all the more for it.

"To be honest," he begins, "I've felt this way for a long time now. Maybe I should have said something sooner, then maybe we could have talked things out... I led you on, and, for that, I'm sorry-"

"You're not." Dew thinks, "You don't regret it at all."

"-but beyond sex-"

Dew closes his eyes and pretends he's anywhere but here right now.

"-what have you ever actually done for me?"

Silence.

"Name one thing."

Silence.

"...See? Doesn't feel good, does it?" Aether says after a moment, "So, yeah, there it is. I was trying to spare your feelings, but, well, I don't even know if you have feel-"

"Stop."

"Dew-"

"I know what you're going to fucking say, and fuck you."

"...Okay, that's fair. I crossed a line there."

Dew stands again.

"So we're done then?" he asks, gesturing broadly at the room around them, "Four fucking years..."

"Four fucking years!" he shouts, wanting desperately to throw something, but instead lowering his arms at his sides, clenched fists turning into open palms, "...Four years, Aeth. We've been together for four years, we were... we were building a life together and now you're just... you're throwing that away?"

"When I think about the future I want..." Aether says, getting to his feet and heading for the door, "...you're not a part of it anymore."

Dew stops him, opening the door and stepping outside.

"Then at least let me be the one to leave first." he remarks calmly, a small, sad smile on his face, "I guess I don't have to tell you to gather up your things, since I already saw the boxes folded up in the closet earlier."

"I-" Aether frowns, but Dew cuts him off again.

"I hope this makes you happy... because I'm certainly not." he says, "But, ya know, if what you were going to say is true, then I never knew what that felt like to begin with."

Aether says something, but it's muffled by the sound of the door shutting in his face.

Dew lingers in the hallway for a moment, dazed.

Maybe Aether is right and he doesn't have feelings, because all he feels right now is numb.

He breathes in a sharp inhale.

Unsteady.

He turns and makes his way down the hall, moving with purpose even if he isn't sure where he's going.

Normally, when he's upset, he goes to his room.

Their room.

But now he has nowhere to go.

So he goes nowhere.

And, man, does nowhere look a lot like the loft above the second floor of the library.

He scales the ladder without much thought and nestles himself in the large beanbag chair that nobody uses but him.

It's old and worn and conforms perfectly to his body, encompassing him in comfort he can't bring himself to enjoy.

He lays there, staring at the ceiling for a while before reaching into his pockets for his phone, but coming up empty.

"Right," he thinks, closing his eyes, "it's back in the room charging."

He'll get it later.

Maybe.

Annoyingly, by the afternoon, word has gotten around about their break-up.

Not that Dew has said anything about it, he's been too busy counting the cobwebs accumulating on the ceiling -the new librarian is afraid of heights and gets too shaky on the ladder to clean up here, even when he holds it for him- but from the chatter down below, Aether must have told everyone himself.

"I can't believe they lasted that long."

"Honestly, if I was Aether, I would have just kept hooking up with him until it was time to leave-"

"I wouldn't have dated him to begin with, Dew's too unstable..."

"You're taking that guy's side? Imagine being Dew right now, that was probably the only chance he had at a steady relationship"

"He'll be over it in a week tops."

"A week? I give him a day. Dude doesn't care about anyone but himself."

Sure, kick him while he's down.

He deserves it.

"I heard-"

A loud clap echoes through the library, startling the gossiping siblings into silence.

"If you have time to talk, you're clearly not reading or trying to study and have no business here." a stern voice announces, "So get out and let others make use of the space."

There's a bit of shuffling and the sounds of chairs being moved before Dew hears the door to the library click shut, and the voice from a moment ago calls up in a far gentler tone.

"Stay up there as long as you need."

"...Thanks, Quincy."

Dew can't see him, but he can sense the librarian's eyes on him, even from down below.

"...I'll be okay." he adds, "So don't worry about it."

"I'm not going to say it, but you know what I mean." Quincy says.

"Maybe in a day or two, when it's not... ya know. Fresh."

"Right. At any rate... I'm working late tonight, so I'll leave the lights on a little longer than usual."

"...I appreciate that."

By the time Dew leaves the library, the sun is setting outside, and he can feel his back click from laying in the same position all day.

He thinks he should be hungry by now, too, but despite how empty he's feeling otherwise, his stomach feels... fine.

He doesn't really like eating when he's sad.

Makes the food taste funny, but he knows he can't just... not eat.

A slice of bread or maybe some chips.

That's all he wants, but-

Laughter.

Dew freezes in the doorway to the ghouls' living room, stares across the space to the kitchenette and sees...

"So I said-"

Aether.

Aether and...

"Said what?" someone asks, sounds like Swiss, but everything seems so distant all of a sudden.

Everyone.

Everyone's standing around in the kitchen with Aether.

Laughing.

Laughing like his world wasn't just shattered.

"So I said-"

Said what.

What are they talking about?

Are they... are they talking about this morning?

Is that why they're laughing...?

They're all...

"Dew?"

...They're all laughing at him.

He's not sure what gives him the strength to walk away.

What makes him think twice about going over there and beating the shit out of each and every one of them...

...but he hates that the voice of reason in his head -the one telling him to consider the possibility that he just walked in on an unrelated conversation- sounds like Aether.

And, as he walks down the hall, he hates the fact that he can't hear anyone -can't hear Aether- walking after him to check on him when he's clearly not...

"I don't even know if you have feelings."

Dew swings at the imaginary Aether in his thoughts and misses, because of course he would, and slams his fist hard into the stone wall beside him.

Pain shoots through his knuckles as the rough rock tears at the thin skin there.

Dew gives a wordless scream and hits the wall again.

"Too unstable."

Fuck.

"Doesn't care about anyone but himself."

FUCK.

"...Fuck..."

Maybe he is unstable, but...

...If there's one person in this world Dew couldn't give less of a shit about....

...it's himself.

"You asshole, that was your job..." Dew hiccups, "...You were supposed to care... you were supposed to love me... You SAID you loved me..."

"-but beyond sex-"

...Is that all he was good for?

Is... is that the best he has to offer someone?

He... he tried so hard to show Aether he loved him.

He told him all the time, too!

Even when... even when he wasn't sure.

Dew blinks away his tears, pulling his sleeve over his palm to rub it over his eyes.

He sits down on the floor, back against the wall.

"...Satanas..." he sighs, "...maybe I should be the one going home..."

Ah.

Right.

Home.

That used to be where Aether was -still is when he tries to imagine it- but more pressingly, through the fog of misery clouding his mind, home is where his phone is.

He gets up, slow and zombielike, and trudges along with his head dipped down low.

"Don't think, just get in, get out." he tells himself, "You don't care, you don't have feelings, so this won't..."

...Hurt.

Dew stares at the suitcases sitting open on the bed.

Sees them half full with Aether's things, and...

"I bought him this shirt." Dew says, picking up the funkily patterned polo shirt from the top of the stack, pinching the soft fabric between his fingers, "..."

The first tear is hard.

It takes more effort than he expected, but once his claws hook into the seams, it practically falls apart in his hands.

But it doesn't... it doesn't scratch the strange itch in the back of his skull.

He needs...

He turns to Aether's beside table and pulls the drawer all the way out without a second thought.

Dumps the contents on the bed and grabs the pictures that flutter down a bit slower than the bulkier parts of the mess.

Pictures of him.

Pictures of them.

Pictures of the so-called "good times"...

The stupid fucking polaroid plastic is impossible to rip in one go, so he grabs the barber scissors from the bathroom.

He makes a fine confetti when all is said and done and lets it fall across the bed.

Still not enough-

Dew throws Aether's things in the hallway.

Lets the suitcase smack against the opposing wall.

Throws the stupid fucking matching mugs they bought at some tourist trap while in a city countries away.

Throws the scrapbook he was working on for their stupid fucking anniversary-

...and then his phone chimes.

Across the bed, long forgotten in his rage.

And, damn, if he doesn't want to throw that, too, when he sees his own stupid fucking smiling face squished against Aether's on his lockscreen.

#lamp writes #nameless ghouls #dewdrop ghoul #aether ghoul #ghost band #the band ghost #ghost bc #ghost band fanfic #This is going to hurt

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