Call the Midwife: A True Story of the East End in the 1950S

was so great that I almost laughed.
     
    But there was more to see.
     
    The chin of the baby was now on the perineum and Sister carefully inserted the speculum into the vagina, pushing the posterior wall backwards, rather like using a shoe-horn, so that the baby’s nose and mouth were exposed. She asked for a swab, which I handed to her, and she wiped the baby’s nose and mouth free of mucus.
     
    “Now she will be able to breath, and will no longer be dependent upon the placental blood supply.”
     
    It was astonishing to hear a gasp, followed by a tiny cry. The baby’s face could not be seen, yet her voice could be heard.
     
    “That’s what I like to hear,” said Sister. “Did you hear that, Betty?”
     
    “Not ’alf. Is she all right, poor little thing? I reckons as how she’s goin’ through it as much as what I am.”
     
    “Yes. Your baby’s quite safe now, and with the next contraction she will be born, I assure you. I think you have a torn perineum, but I can’t see it because it’s behind the speculum, nor can I do anything about it, because if I remove the speculum your baby will not be able to breathe.”
     
    Another contraction was coming. ‘This is it,’ I thought with some relief. Delivery of the head had so far taken only twelve minutes, but it had seemed like an eternity to me.
     
    The contraction was strong, and doctor was exerting considerable pressure. Sister drew the baby’s body downwards until the nose was level with the perineum, and then swiftly upwards over the mother’s abdomen. The movement took no more than twenty seconds, and the head was delivered. I nearly sobbed with relief.
     
    The baby was blue.
     
    Sister held her upside down by the ankles.
     
    “This blue tinge is not serious,” she said. “It is to be expected. I must make quite sure that the airways are clear. When she starts to breathe strongly and regularly the colour will improve. Pass me the mucus catheter, will you, please?”
     
    I was not trembling any more, so was able to do this without fear of dropping it.
     
    Sister inverted the baby, and held her in her left arm. She then inserted the catheter into the baby’s mouth and sucked very gently at the other end to draw any fluid or mucus away. One could hear a bubbling sound as fluid entered the catheter. She then cleared each nostril in the same way. The baby gave two or three big gasps, and coughed, then cried. In fact she let out a tremendous scream. Her colour rapidly changed to pink.
     
    “That’s a lovely noise,” observed Sister. “A few more screams like that will make me happy.”
     
    The baby obliged, and screamed lustily.
     
    The cord was clamped and cut, and the baby wrapped in warm dry towels and handed to Betty.
     
    “Oh she’s lovely,” exclaimed Betty, “bless ’er li’l heart. She’s worth all the pain in the world.”
     
    It’s a miracle, I thought. The mother literally forgets the agony she has been through the moment she holds her baby.
     
    “It’s Christmas Day,” remarked Betty. “We must call her Carol.”
     
    “That’s a lovely name,” said Sister. “Now we must get the placenta out, and I think you had better stay where you are because there is a tear, as I thought, and it will be easier for the doctor to stitch you up in this position.”
     
    Doctor was drawing up a syringe and said to Sister: “I am going to give ergometrine now, to promote the expulsion of the placenta.”
     
    She nodded.
     
    I did not ask why. It was not normal practice to give ergometrine in those days, unless there was undue delay of the third stage, or severe bleeding, or an incomplete placenta. As I noted earlier, oxytocic drugs may be given routinely today, immediately after delivery of the baby.
     
    Within a couple of minutes a contraction came on, and the placenta plopped out into the kidney dish held by the Sister.
     
    “Right, I’ll hand over to you, doctor.” she said. You can take my place, now.”
     
    This was easier said than done though. Sister tried to get up, but couldn’t. She gave a gasp of pain.
     
    “My legs! I can’t feel them. I’ve got pins and needles.”
     
    Not surprising, poor thing! She had been kneeling on the floor for over half an hour, in the same position, concentrating wholly on the work she was doing.
     
    “I can’t move. You’ll have to help me, my legs have completely gone to sleep.”
     
    The gallant doctor put his arms round her and pulled. She must have been