Call the Midwife: A True Story of the East End in the 1950S
to her again, more persuasively and urgently this time.
“No,” said her mother.
Liz tried a third time.
“ Morirá! Morirá! ” (He will die.)
The effect on Cochita was dramatic and immediate. She opened her eyes wide, desperately trying to focus on the people around her. She saw the equipment and the white coats. I think her clouded brain took it all in and she struggled to sit up. Liz and Len helped her. She looked wildly round at everyone, thrust the baby down between her breasts, and folded her arms over him.
“No”, she said. Then repeated louder, “No.”
“Mama, you must,” said Liz softly. “ Si no lo haces, morirá .” (If you don’t, he will die.)
Conchita’s face was blank with anguish, but something was going on in her mind. One could almost see her struggling to get her thoughts under her command. Struggling to think, to remember, she held her breasts and the tiny baby fast, and glanced down at his head. The sight of it must have been the catalyst that brought it all together for her. Her mind seemed to clear, and a fierce, determined look came into her huge black eyes.
She looked round at each of the people in the room, her eyes finally clear and focused, and said with perfect confidence: “ No. Se queda conmigo .” (He stays with me). “ No morir á.” Then, with more emphasis: “ No morir á.” (He will not die.)
The doctors didn’t know what to do. Short of tearing her arms apart with brute force, which Len would not have allowed, and grabbing the baby, there was nothing they could do.
The paediatrician said to Liz, “Tell her that she can’t look after it. She hasn’t got the equipment or the know-how. Tell her the baby will be taken to the finest children’s hospital in the world, and will have expert treatment. Tell her he cannot live without an incubator.”
Liz started to speak, but Len stepped in, and showed his true strength and manliness. He turned to the doctors and nurse.
“This is all my fault, an’ I must apologise. I said the baby could go to hospital without consultin’ my wife. I shouldn’t ’ave done that. When it comes to the kiddies she must always ’ave the last word, she must. An’ she don’t agree to it. You can see she don’t. An’ so the baby’s not goin’ nowhere. He’ll stop ’ere with us, and he’ll be christened, an’ if he dies, he’ll have a Christian burial. But he’s not goin’ nowhere without ’is mother’s consent.”
He looked at his wife, and she smiled and stroked the baby’s head. She seemed to understand that he was on her side, and the battle was over. She looked at him with confident love, and said quietly, “ No morir á.”
“There you are,” said Len buoyantly, “he won’ die. If my Connie says that, then he won’t die. You can take it from me.”
And that was that. The doctors knew they were defeated, and started to pack up their equipment.
Len graciously apologised a second time, thanked them for the trouble they had taken, and said again that it was all his fault. He offered to pay for the expense of the ambulance, and the time of the medical and nursing staff. He offered them a cup of tea in the kitchen. They declined. He gave them one of his winning smiles and said:
“Go on, ’ave a cup. Yer got a long journey and it’ll warm yer.”
He had such an engaging way about him, that everyone agreed to accept the hospitality, even though they were cross about the wasted journey.
He and Liz helped the team downstairs with all their equipment, and the GP and I were left alone. He had hardly spoken during the past three hours or so, and I liked him for this. We knew that we had a huge responsibility, and that both mother and baby could still die. Conchita’s condition had been serious, but now, with the loss of two pints of blood, it was critical.
“She must have blood,” said the GP. “I have taken a sample for cross-matching, and as soon as the blood bank can supply it, I will set up an I.V. We will need a district nurse to stay with her while it is going in. Can you Sisters provide one?”
I told him I was sure of it. He said, “I’m going to start antibiotics at once, because she is breathing only into the upper lobes. I would like to listen to her chest, but I doubt if she will let me, because of the baby.”
He was right - she wouldn’t. So he drew up an ampoule of penicillin and
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