Page 1 of Statistically Speaking
Part 1
Then
Chapter 1
Ten Tiny Fingers, Ten Tiny Toes
October, eighteen years ago
“You’re doing great,” the midwife says, glancing up at me from between my trembling, sweat-sheened knees. “Keep going, my love, just keep going.”
She is trying to be encouraging, trying to be kind, trying to help me through this. I know that none of this is her fault, but still, I kind of want to punch her in the face.
I ignore her and concentrate on counting my breaths, counting the precious moments of calm between waves of agony.
At my side, Geoff with a G is murmuring words of encouragement while pointedly averting his gaze from the war zone that is my lower half.
“Brilliant, Gemma,” he mutters, eyes skittering, his skin pale and waxy. He looks as though he’s in so much distress that you’d think he was the one doing this.
None of this is his fault either, but I want to punch him in the face as well.
I grunt and screw up my eyes and push so hard when I am told to that I feel as though I might pass out from lack of oxygen. My fists are scrunched around creased hospital sheets, my hair is stuck to my forehead in damp clumps, and I can tastesalt on my otherwise dry lips. I push, and I pant, and I want to give up. Actually, I don’t just want to give up; I think I might want to die.
In the background, the music is doing nothing to help. I’d put together some songs, back when I thought listening to them might make a difference, but now that just seems silly. As if Robbie Williams singing about angels could help with this. It’s definitely not Robbie’s fault, but if he were in the room, and I had the spare energy, his face wouldn’t be safe either.
Mainly, I want to punch myself in the face—because this ismyfault. And it is so much harder than I thought, than I ever could have imagined it would be. It is nothing like it is on television—but then again, neither was the act that started it all. There is nothing magical about any of it, nothing beautiful or perfect. Just pain, and worry, and a weird sense of loneliness.
Your first love and motherhood come with such loaded expectations. They are the moments that are supposed to mean something. To connect you to something bigger than yourself. To make you feel special.
That’s all bullshit, I reckon. If losing your virginity and having a baby were sold the way they really are, nobody would ever do either of those things, and the human race would die out. If they were billed as “pain and worry and a weird sense of loneliness,” nobody would be in such a rush to do either, would they? We’ve all been conned.
Life isn’t rainbows and unicorns. It’s sludge-gray drizzle and feral rats. Then again, I am not in the best of moods.
I am sixteen and I am having a baby. I am pushing a real-life human being out of my lady parts, and it hurts. It hurts alot, and I left “tired” behind about twelve hours ago—now I am well into “so exhausted I may never leave this bloody bed.”
I knew it would be painful, but I wasn’t prepared for the exhaustion, the sense of defeat, the feeling of failure—the suspicion that I might not be able to do what millions of women have done for millennia, squatting in deserts and on bathroom floors and in the backs of taxis. I am too crap to even give birth properly.
I want to cry, for so many reasons—but I am too wrung out to spare the tears. I feel another wave of pain and get yelled at to push, and I try, I really do, but I have nothing left to give. All of me has floated away in a cloud of despair and sheer knackeredness.
“I can’t do this!” I scream. “Please, just make it stop! Make it stop!” I bite my lip hard, three times, tasting blood on my tongue.
Geoff with a G looks even queasier, but he takes hold of one of my hands, squeezes my fingers, and says: “You’re okay, Gemma. You can do this. You know you can.”
He doesn’t sound very convinced, but it is something to cling to. Kind words, a kind touch. A kind man. It calms me enough that I take in more air, gulping it in greedily.
“Gemma, you’re nearly there, love!” says the midwife. I’ve forgotten her name. Something Irish, I think, even though her accent is pure East London. This is my third midwife—I have gone through a few shift changes now.
“You said that hours ago!” I scream at her. “You were lying! You’re a bloody liar!”
The midwife actually laughs out loud at this accusation. It is a strange sound to hear floating up to my ears, a tinkling of amusement as she roots around, as she inspects, as she probes.
“Gemma, I can see her head!” she adds. “And I’m not lying—I can see her head, and she has lovely red hair like you, and she is so ready to come and meet you—come on now, one last big push for me!”
Red hair. Huh. I’ve always hated mine, but for some reason I feel weirdly pleased that she has it too. Like it’s a connection we will always have, no matter what else we lose. A twine of ginger reaching down through the ages. I grip hold of Geoff ’s hand, tighter than any sane human being would appreciate, and I push, growling out a long stream of air, forcing myself to find that last shred of strength that I need. I lean forward as I do it, squashed up and folded and as concertinaed as my malformed body can get.
I hear Geoff and the midwife speaking words that don’t register; I feel a flickering sensation behind my eyes, a high-pitched ringing in my ears, the world around me a blanked-out, buzzing void: nothing exists but me and this moment and doing this one thing. The most important thing I have ever done.
I am sixteen and I am having a baby. A baby girl, with red hair. I let out one scream, put all my energy into helping her into the world, and know that I am spent. That I have nothing more to give. If this is not enough, then this is not happening.
