Page 32 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

Alex had clearly been unable to prevent Fenton from going ahead with his plan. The knowledge was upsetting, but not unexpected. Doctors rarely challenged each other’s practice.

Sister was busying about, and now wheeled a trolley of tools to Fenton, who had taken a seat at the foot of the couch and was currently placing Mrs Lennon’s legs in metal stirrups. He had still not addressed the woman directly.

‘First size, please, Sister,’ he ordered, and Sister Marshall handed him the first dilator, aimed at opening Mrs Lennon’s cervix – the neck of the womb. D&C. Dilation and curettage. Glancing at the tray, Maisie saw dilators in increasing sizes, as well as curettes – spoon-shaped scrapers with which Fenton intended to empty Mrs Lennon’s womb of its contents. She looked away.

‘Now then, Mrs Lennon,’ Fenton said chirpily, ‘if you can manage to exercise even moderate self-control, we shall get along nicely.’

Mrs Lennon did not appear to be listening. Her eyes were closed, her hand still holding tightly to Maisie’s and her lips moving in what Maisie strongly suspected was prayer. Internally, Maisie began the rosary. Our Father, who art in heaven . . .

She was on her eighth Hail Mary when Fenton grunted in satisfaction. ‘All done! Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?’

Mrs Lennon didn’t respond, but her lips continued to recite whatever prayer or litany she was using to survive each moment. Sister Marshall released the woman’s legs from the stirrups, and Mrs Lennon’s eyes opened, searching for Maisie’s straight away. ‘Is it over, Maisie?’ she asked, her voice faint and weak. Maisie nodded; if she’d tried to speak she would either have burst into tears or railed at Fenton.

She and Sister Marshall then tended to Mrs Lennon, who seemed to be in a great deal of physical pain. Fenton, of course, had not bothered giving her ether. ‘You’ll have cramps and bleeding now for about a week,’ he explained on his way out the door. ‘It’s basically a miscarriage.’

Mrs Lennon shook her head slightly. Not a miscarriage. They all knew it.

‘I’ve booked her a side room in A Ward,’ Sister told Maisie once they had finished tending to Mrs Lennon. Maisie nodded approvingly. There was no way the woman would cope in the main bay among postnatal mothers and pregnant women on bed rest. ‘We’ll wheel her there once we’ve cleaned up.’

Despite wanting to stay there holding Mrs Lennon’s hand, Maisie knew she had work to do. So she and Sister tidied up, then Maisie mopped the floor while Sister brought the ‘clinical waste’ and the used instruments to the sluice room. Clinical waste. Such a horrible phrase.

It was time to go. Together Maisie and Sister Marshall transferred Mrs Lennon to a hospital bed then wheeled it along the corridor and into A Ward.

‘In here.’ Sister Campbell was there to meet them, pointing out a single room on the right-hand side of the inner corridor. ‘Sister Hanna has kindly agreed you can be assigned to Mrs Lennon this morning, Midwife Canavan.’ She glanced at the woman, who had closed her eyes again. ‘How are her observations?’

‘She’s physically stable,’ Sister Marshall replied. ‘Everything within the normal range.’

Physically stable. The human body was a tremendous thing. Within a week or so, Mrs Lennon would recover – physically. But what about mentally? Spiritually? No one was saying it out loud, but what had been done to Mrs Lennon just now was likely to have created wounds that went deeper than the action of curettage. Moral wounds. Spiritual wounds. How in God’s name can she ever recover? And Maisie remained dubious about Dr Fenton’s absolute certainty that Mrs Lennon would definitely have died had she gone ahead with the pregnancy. Definitely? Really? The whole thing felt wrong.

Mrs Lennon seemed dazed, absent. Once the others had gone, though, she turned to Maisie, gripping her hand tightly.

‘Maisie, Maisie, I keep thinking that I did the wrong thing! I’m evil. Evil I am! A mortal sin! How could I have done it?’ She began to cry, and Maisie handed her a box of tissues, then put a soothing hand on her shoulder, perching on the edge of the bed.

‘You didn’t do anything, Mrs Lennon. It was a medical decision, completely out of your hands. You might have miscarried it anyway. That scar you have is massive, you know.’

‘Aye, I suppose so.’ She blew her nose, pulling another paper tissue from the box. She put a hand on her empty womb, and fresh tears started. ‘My baby is gone, because I told yer man to kill it! What mother would do something like that?’

Sweet Jesus, this is a nightmare!

‘And what sort of a life will I have now anyway?’ Mrs Lennon continued. ‘I’ll be ashamed in the chapel. Father Wallis – I dunno what he’s gonna do to me!’ She gripped Maisie’s hand. ‘He wouldn’t excommunicate me, would he?’

I wouldn’t put it past him, the sour oul’ get. ‘Nobody needs to know about this,’ Maisie said firmly. ‘You had a miscarriage, that’s all. Nobody ever talks about miscarriages or stillbirths anyway.’

Mrs Lennon shook her head. ‘I can’t go to confession because I’d have to tell Father Wallis the truth. And there’s no point anyway because he’ll not give me absolution for a mortal sin. It’s against the rules.’ She sobbed, pressing a fresh tissue to her face, and Maisie leaned to hug her, unsurprised to find she was also crying. What a feckin’ mess!

‘And another thing!’ Maisie could barely make out what Mrs Lennon was saying. ‘I can never let my Danny near me again in case I fall pregnant. What sort of marriage is that?’

God, she’s right. The woman couldn’t risk another pregnancy. ‘Could you maybe get one of the doctors to tie your tubes?’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It’s a way of making sure you can’t get pregnant, even if you do have . . . marital relations.’ She felt herself flush at speaking of such things in this context.

Mrs Lennon was shaking her head. ‘Not a chance. I heard about that – though I never knew they had to tie up tubes to stop you falling pregnant. But everybody knows that’s a sin too, in the eyes of the church. And I have to never sin again. Ever. God, how am I supposed to go on? I’m a failure. As a wife. As a mother. As a Catholic.’

‘No! Listen to me, Teresa. You are not a failure. You are a good woman. You had to go through a medical procedure that saved your life, so that you can be there for your three children.’

‘Ah, my wee ones! How can I ever look them in the eye again? How can I look anybody in the eye, now that I know what I am?’