Confessions of a Bad Mother by Stephanie Calman Read Free Book Online

C-section, which is rare. He also, I discover, departs from the
conventional wisdom that women too frightened to give birth normally are vain,
pathetic time-wasters who should be pelted with boiling vodka and wear a bib
embroidered with a ‘C’ of shame.
    ‘Remember,’ says Peter, on our way in. ‘You
don’t have to justify yourself.’
    ‘Four thousand pounds, remember?’
    ‘I think you should definitely justify yourself.’
    I put on my grooved orange top from the French shop that makes me look
like a pumpkin. Mr Silverstone is a consultant, and consultants are protected
by layers of nurses, house officers and registrars to keep the likes of us
away. Yes, we have been referred to him, but as anyone who’s ever tried
to see their consultant knows, they’re like celebrity chefs. Their names
are on the menus, but when you go to their restaurants, they’re never the
ones cooking the actual food.
    ‘I’ve got some – issues to discuss,’ I explain
to each nurse, midwife and doctor. ‘And I’m only going to discuss
them with him.’
    Mr Silverstone inhabits a small room at University College Hospital,
London. Thin and smartly dressed, in a blue cotton shirt and tie, he exhibits
the neat, modest movements of someone who doesn’t need to draw attention
to himself. There’s none of the swagger traditionally associated with
consultants. The nurses do not back away like geishas when he comes down the
corridor. He talks to his staff quietly and courteously. He’s not unique
in medicine by any means, but he stands out.
    The minute we sit down together, I feel more optimistic and I can tell
Peter does too. After all, if I fall to bits or go off my trolley, he’s
the one who’ll be left holding the offspring. The atmosphere is
pleasantly civilized, as if we might be equals. Indeed, he gives the impression
that rather than a whole person escaping from my nether regions, we could be
discussing something more aesthetically enriching, like a new kitchen.
    I describe my fears, and wait for him to tell me to pull myself
together.
    He clasps his hands together between his knees, and leans forward. He
has been listening so intensely that for a moment the whole infrastructure
– room, building, city – seems to fade away. There is nothing else
there except – well, it feels a bit like love. Afterwards I remember that
Sigmund Freud is said to have listened like that, in a way that caused his
patients to proclaim that they had never been listened to so completely in
their lives. He says: ‘Have you considered a Caesarean
section?’
    I have gone in, not knowing how to face the biggest fear of my life, and
come out feeling – allowed. I consider starting a cult to worship
him.
    We have extra drinks that night to celebrate. We’re meeting Ray
and Sarah, some old friends, who are going to have a baby at around the same
time. We’ll have so much to talk about!
    We sit down in the restaurant, and as soon as we mention our triumphant
visit to Mr S, we’re in trouble.
    ‘You do realize,’ says Ray, ‘that having an epidural
harms the baby?’
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I say.
    ‘And so does pethidine. All pain relief, in fact.’
    This is our first experience of Men Who Don’t Believe in Relief
For a Pain They Won’t Be Having – and it’s fascinating.
    ‘Would you have, say, a circumcision without an
anaesthetic?’ I ask him.
    ‘That’s so bloody stupid!’ he snarls.
    Sarah and I look at each other.
    ‘What are you planning to do?’
    ‘I’ll just leave it to the doctors,’ she says.
    ‘Well … they don’t always know best,’ I
venture. I am thinking of a friend who was told ‘ Your baby’s
    dead ’ after the lead of the fetal heart monitor had fallen off.
    ‘Are you saying you know better than doctors ?’
    ‘Well, these days midwives are more—’
    ‘This is just stupid,’ says Ray again. Peter attempts to
lighten the mood.
    ‘A bloke at work told me