Their Miracle Baby
Chapter 2: Late Autumn of 1967
- - Poplar, Late Autumn 1967 - -
"Timothy," she pleaded with her son, "you are not walking all the way from the train station."
"I'll be fine, Mum," he reassured her. He was to catch the train tomorrow after his final exam of the term. Shelagh was insisting that Timothy wait for his father to retrieve him, but Timothy wouldn't have any of it. He knew Patrick was especially busy with house calls during Cold and Flu season. In fact, he told her that he was looking forward to attending his father on his rounds. He hadn't done so in several years, but relished the idea of making house calls as a physician-in-training and getting some firsthand experience.
"Timothy," she attempted to induce a sense of guilt in him. She hoped he would not want to upset his heavily pregnant mother. She did not succeed.
"I'll not argue with you, Mum," he said with an unusual amount of finality. "I'll be home in time for supper, I promise."
Shelagh released a heavy sigh. "Very well."
She could almost hear him grinning. "Smashing. Give my love to Angela."
"I will, Dear."
"I love you, Mum, I'll see you tomorrow."
"I love you, too."
They said their goodbyes and she placed the telephone back on the receiver and returned to the kitchen, to finish dinner. Angela had been spending much of the afternoons with school friends, in an effort to give Shelagh some peace and quiet during half-term. Shelagh wasn't able to pretend she wasn't grateful.
Supporting her lower back with her left hand, Shelagh tasted the stew. A pinch of salt and a slightly more generous addition of pepper later, a pain tightened in her back. She grabbed the counter top with one hand and messaged her back with the other. She had been having mild Braxton Hicks contractions all week. Of course, she had informed Sister Mary Cynthia, but neither were overly concerned at this stage. She still had three weeks - or so - to go.
- - The Next Day - -
The trip home from University was uneventful, but Timothy was glad it was over. He was a little later than he thought he would've been, but he expected Dad and Angela to still be out. He had to admit he was looking forward to some quiet time with Mum. He didn't know a lot of men his age who genuinely enjoyed spending time with their mothers, but most men his age didn't remember falling in love with their mothers when they were ten years old and she was a nun.
He let himself into their home, not knocking, to find Mum bent over the table in the foyer, gasping for air.
"Mum!" he put his arm around her back, supporting her. She leaned against him heavily.
"I thought it was Braxton Hicks. I was wrong," she breathed.
"Did you call Nonnatus?!"
She nodded. "The line was busy. I decided to boil some water while I was waiting for the line to clear. My waters broke."
Timothy looked past her to the kitchen floor. Sure enough, the rug was damp and there was a small puddle on the floor in front of the stove. Seeing as the contraction had subsided, he helped her to the settee and rushed back to the telephone.
Poplar 459.
"Nonnatus House, Midwife speaking."
Sister Winifred, thank God. "Sister! Mum's waters broke!"
"Timothy?"
"Yes! Timothy! Dad's not home yet."
"Stay calm, Timothy," she told him. "Sister Mary Cynthia and Sister Julienne are on their way. Make sure she's comfortable. Round up the delivery pack, and prepare some warm towels."
Timothy nodded emphatically. "Of course, stay calm. I will. I promise."
"There's no need to convince me Timothy."
Just then, Mum called out with another contraction and the kettle started whistling. He unceremoniously hung up the phone and dashed to the kitchen to remove the water from the stovetop. The contraction was over by the time he made it back to the settee. He pretended not to notice her tuck her drawers under the cushion on her other side.
She gripped his arm. "Timothy, the delivery pack is on the high boy in the nursery. And get some towels, please."
He did as his mother said and attempted to regain his wits. She cried out again whilst he was out of the room. They were coming fast.
He retrieved some towels and placed some on the settee, next to her, and some on the floor between her feet. He also retrieved a bowl, for the placenta. He also had the good pair of pinking shears, which Mum never permitted anyone to use. She, herself, only used them for fabric.
"Timothy," she panted, "come up here," she pulled him next to her. He sat next to her and gripped her hand. She reached down with the other hand and her eyes went wide. "Oh, God," she breathed.
At this point, Timothy knew something terrible was about to happen. In all the years he had known her, he had never known her to take the Lord's name in vain.
"Baby's crowning." She looked up into his face. They were both struggling to maintain some semblance of calm. "This is going to put you off Obstetrics, for sure," she said. "I need you to deliver Baby."
Timothy was silent for a moment, unsure what to say or do, for that matter.
"It's right way 'round," she said. He wasn't quite sure if she was explaining it to him or reassuring herself. "And the contractions are-"
Regular. She was going to say regular, but a contraction interrupted her speech.
Timothy summoned his courage and took his place on the floor in front of his mother. Step mother. Unrelated pregnant woman. His attempt at distancing himself from the situation was failing miserably. He gripped her knee in what he hoped was a comforting manner. She gripped his hand in return.
"Ready?" she asked.
He nodded. Timothy took a few deep breaths in rapid succession, preparing himself to take a look at what he was doing.
Mercifully, the front door opened.
Dad didn't even have time to call out his customary "Dearest, Timothy, I'm home!"
Instead, they both shrieked for him. "Patrick!" "DAD!"
He rushed into the room, and Timothy couldn't have stood faster. "Why didn't you call the midwife!?"
"We did!" they returned hotly.
Dad dropped into the place Timothy had vacated, and swiftly pulled off his overcoat and suit jacket. He had barely gotten his right arm out of the sleeve when Mum cried out again.
Timothy couldn't bear to watch, but he couldn't bear to look away.
"That's good, Shelagh," Dad said, "the head is almost born."
The contraction was over and Mum reached out for Timothy's hand. He sat on the settee next to her and put and arm around her back.
"The head is born, Shelagh," Dad looked up at him, appearing extremely professional. "Next contraction and we'll have baby."
With the next contraction, Dad said precious little until a baby's cry filled the room. Timothy looked at Dad, who was weeping with an ear-to-ear grin. "Clamps and scissors, Timothy, please." Timothy got up from his perch and retrieved his father's medical bag. He handed Dad the clamps.
"It's a boy, My Love," Dad said as he clamped and cut the cord.
Mum leaned back into the settee, but reached out for Baby Brother.
She was crying. Dad was crying. Timothy then realized he had a few tears in his eyes as well. He now understood why the Sisters of Saint Raymund Nonnatus undertook this profession. Delivering babies, while the direct result of a decidedly un-nun-ly act, was the greatest miracle of creation.
"Timothy," Mum breathed, "take him for a moment?"
He nodded and retrieved the precious package wrapped in a hand-knitted blanket. He moved gently around the room as his father delivered the afterbirth.
"Midwives calling!" Two nuns whirled into the room like a dervish.
The scene they saw was unlike what Dad had walked in on, but was equally bizarre. Timothy stood in the far corner, holding his baby brother. Mum reclined, exhausted, on the settee. Dad knelt between her knees, one bloodied hand on her thigh, the other holding her hand tightly.
"They'll never believe it," Sister Mary Cynthia said at last. "Doctor Turner's baby was early."
- - End Chapter 2 - -
