Page 43 of Heartbreak for the Irish Midwife

Friday had finally come, and it had surely been one of the longest weeks of Alex’s life. As he made his way to A Ward to check on the women there, he reflected that already he was beginning to feel at home here. After giving a cheery good morning to the midwives – Sister Campbell, Peggy, and Priscilla, he headed down the ward.

Mrs Watson had thankfully got past the engorgement stage of her milk coming in, and her baby was now feeding ‘like a wee trooper!’ as she put it.

‘Ah, that’s great news, Mrs Watson!’ he said cheerily as he checked over the baby, who was still showing signs of being a little dehydrated, but the night sister, before going off duty, had assured him that Mrs Watson had been awake most of the night, feeding the child for hours, and the morning nappy had been reassuringly wet. Things were going in the right direction, but still he wrote in the notes that his recommendation was continued monitoring. If necessary they could give the baby a bottle of his mother’s own expressed milk – which he was loath to do, as everyone knew it interfered with a child learning to feed at the breast.

‘How is Mrs Lennon?’ Alex asked Sister, having returned to the ward office. Sister grimaced.

‘Still as bad. Physically, everything is within the normal range. But nobody can do nothin’ with her. You’re welcome to try, Doctor. She’s on her own at the minute.’

‘Has she had a medical review this morning?’ Sister shook her head. ‘Right then.’

Making his way out of the main bay, he knocked on Mrs Lennon’s door.

‘Come in!’

‘Good morning, Mrs Lennon – Teresa. I’m Dr Lowe. We met yesterday?’

She looked awful – pale, and drawn. He would bet fifty pounds she hadn’t had a wink of sleep. There was a pile of used paper handkerchiefs beside her, and she was clutching two in her hands.

‘I don’t remember,’ she said vaguely, and he held her gaze sympathetically, swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat.

‘Not a bit of wonder,’ he managed. ‘You had a hard day, so you did.’ She nodded, dabbing at fresh tears. Once she was calm again, he asked, ‘Can I check how you are physically? Your blood pressure and all?’

She agreed, and so he sat on the edge of the bed to check her blood pressure and temperature. Both, as Sister had found earlier, were normal.

‘How’s the bleeding?’

‘Bad, like.’

‘Have you plenty of pads?’

‘Aye. I think so.’

He took a breath. ‘And how are you in yourself ?’

‘Not good, Doctor. I should never have let him do it.’

Maisie’s wisdom came to him. What was it she had said yesterday? ‘There’s things in life that you can do something about, Mrs Lennon, and there’s things that are completely out of your control. You know?’

‘I suppose.’ She seemed vague, distracted, as if her mind and heart were elsewhere. He had seen people like this before, after a bereavement or an accident. Hopefully the anguish would soon start to ease for Mrs Lennon, for he was at a loss to know what to do for her. He had learned all the surgical techniques, he knew the physiology of pregnancy and childbirth really well, but no one had taught him what to do in a situation like this one. She is bereaved, grieving. He put a hand over hers. ‘I am so, so sorry for your loss.’

Her tears started again, and she scrubbed at her face with a hanky, creating patches of red in the pallor. At that moment, the door behind him opened.

‘Good morning, Mrs Lennon! How are we this morning?’

Fenton! Alex looked away, rising from his perch on the edge of the bed. The man’s arrogant bravado was both unwelcome and inappropriate. He was too loud, too brash, and altogether too . . . jolly for the situation.

Mrs Lennon, conditioned to a lifetime of deference, said, ‘Good morning, Doctor,’ in a small voice, but Fenton was barely listening. He had turned to Alex and was eyeing him balefully.

‘You’re the junior houseman who was with Russell yesterday, are you not? What is your name?’

He should know my name by now. ‘Lowe. Dr Lowe.’

‘Well, Dr Lowe, this is my patient, and there is no need for you to be here. Now scarper.’ He made a dismissive gesture with his fingertips, as if brushing away dirt. His expression dripped with disdain.

Scarper! Had the man really just said that? Alex’s jaw hardened. He had no intention of scarpering, and stayed put.

‘When can I go home?’