The Night My First Grandchild was Born

I had the privilege of being present at the birth of my first grandchild. Even now, ten years later, the memory still moves me profoundly when I remember that special night. But in the early stages of her pregnancy - when my daughter told me she had decided on a home birth - my anxiety reflexes immediately kicked into gear. My three children were delivered in hospital and a home birth seemed like a risky alternative, especially for a first baby, who would be born in a birthing pool with only a midwife in attendance. I kept these thoughts to myself but Ciara is an astute young woman. She sensed my misgivings and arranged for me to meet the midwife, who would deliver her baby. From the moment I was introduced to Philomena Canning I relaxed. Her friendly, insightful and professional manner reassured me that my daughter would be in capable hands.

    The months passed. Ciara asked me to be with her during the birth and on an evening in May I received the phone call. It was time.

 When I arrived at Ciara’s house she was already in labour and relaxing in the birthing pool. Well…relaxing as much as one can relax between contractions. Philomena took one look at my face and gently but firmly guided me towards the sofa in the next room. She told me to put my feet up and breathe deeply. She asked about my own birthing experiences and explained that daughters often replicate the trajectory of their own mother’s labour. Behind her kindness I knew Philomena  was advising me to let go of my anxiety. It had no place in the birthing room. And so I did.

    The hours moved on. My grandchild was not going to come quickly into the world. My daughter stuck to her decision to deliver her baby without pain management and, apart from some homeopathic remedies, she soldiered on.   

   In the early hours of the morning she asked myself and Philomena to give her and her husband some time alone. We sat together in the kitchen where Philomena talked about her time in Australia where she had worked in the Central Australian Desert with  Aboriginal women. Their ancient cultures are steeped in the rituals of natural childbirth where a tradition called Grandmother’s Law recognises the wisdom and love of the grandmother and the importance of her place in the birthing experience. 

   Despite her relaxed manner I knew Philomena's ears were attuned to every sound my daughter made.

    “Is the baby coming?” I asked at one stage when a particularly strident cry came from next door.

    Philomena shook her head “Not yet,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’ll know by her voice. It’s a special cry a woman makes when her baby is ready to come.”

    I've never forgotten her calm, confidence as we waited to rejoin Ciara and her husband in the birthing room. She knew everything was okay but she was allowing my daughter the freedom to control the direction her birthing journey would take.

    I remembered the last time I gave birth. My previous two babies had been born after short, uneventful labours but my third child was induced. Her birth turned into an emergency and she was whisked away immediately after she was born. I glimpsed a little blue body disappearing in a nurses's arms but no one told me whether she was alive or dead. That time, as I lay waiting for confirmation, was one of the most frightening, forlorn experiences in my life. Thankfully, a young nurse came into my cubicle and assured me my daughter was okay. She also began to tell me what had gone wrong but, immediately, the sister on duty entered the cubicle and ordered her out. The sister also brushed off all my attempts to find out what caused the emergency. I was never given that information.  

    This was all so different. When we re-entered the birthing room there was a subtle shift in the atmosphere. Candles glowed in the darkened room as we held Ciara's hands and encouraged her through the final stage of her labour.  My granddaughter flowed smoothly into the birthing pool, a mermaid flash of black hair and adorable, pummelling fists. In one fluid movement Philomena lifted her from the water and  placed her in her mother’s arms.

    While we rejoiced over this beautiful baby Philomena busied herself with the practical necessities and administrative duties. Dawn was lifting when she left us. I, too, stepped into a new dawn as a grandmother. My daughter and her husband, clasping their new baby, climbed the stairs to their bedroom to begin their lives as parents.

    As you can imagine, I was surprised and appalled when I heard that Philomena has had her HSE indemnity revoked two weeks ago, without any investigation or explanation from the HSE. A strong campaign has been mounted in her support. People from many walks of life are involved but at the core of this support are the woman who have had first-hand experience of Philomena Canning's skills as their midwife. I want to add my voice to that support – but, also, to share my personal experience of what it was like to spend a night in the company of this pioneering, professional and admirable midwife who helped to bring my first grandchild into the world.  
Further information on http://philomenacanningcampaign.com/ 

Under My Bed - New Fundraiser for Barnardos

What was under your bed when you were a child? A discarded teddy, comics, old records, tapes, CD's, a doll with a broken arm, a much-loved book, lurking monsters, witches, fairies, Peter Pan? The list, real or imagined, is endless -and that is what the  www.undermybed.ie  team, Karen Lee and Amy Dawson, set out to discover when they devised this innovative and creative fundraiser for Barnardos.

The idea evolved while the two friends were sharing a bottle of wine. By the time the bottle was empty they had filled their notebook with the names of people they would approach and ask to write about that childhood space under their beds. I was delighted when asked to participate and spent a nostalgic few days digging out and discarding old memories until I came to my most dominant one - those childhood nights when the wind sang fiercely around my house and the rain against the window reminded me of witchy fingernails tapping the glass. The crackling sounds of the shipping forecast would rise through the floorboards under my bed and I'd huddle deeper beneath the blankets, knowing that my mother, in the room below, was turning the dial on the wireless in an effort to find out if the ship my father sailed on was safe - or in the throes of the storm.

Karen and Amy received a terrific response to their request and they have now assembled a patchwork of childhood stories from some of Ireland's most recognisable names and faces. For further information check www.undermybed.ie.   The  fundraiser will be held from 16-18 January 2014 nightly at 7:30 pm in Smock Alley Theatre, Dublin - and promises to be a really entertaining night. Tickets: www.smockalley.com and www.entertainment.ie are priced at €30 and all proceeds (every last cent!) will go directly to Barnardos. 

 

Another Danish Invasion

Reports in yesterday's paper suggest that Irish bacon is not what it appears to be and retailers are telling porkies to their customers. It's possible that some of our bacon could originate in Denmark and other EU countries.This is my take on the issue. 

I met a pink and portly pig. We were flying with Ryan Air.

Although I tried to be polite I could not help but stare

The hat he wore is often seem on football leprechauns

A ginger bread, his jersey green, he claimed his name was Sean.

He said, "My bacon is the best. It’s Irish guaranteed.

My fate decrees that in this life my function is to feed

Breakfast roll man and those who like an early morning fry

With rasher and white pudding, and sausage piled high.

 I looked him in the eye and said, “Your hat is very striking

 But hidden underneath you’ve got the helmet of a Viking.

 Take you Danish ham hocks, your trotters and your snout

 As Margaret Thatcher would have said ….OUT! OUT! OUT!  

Goodbye - Dear Characters

Today I finished my novel. My characters, ghostly and cliched when I began, have developed personalities, struggled for dominance, behaved outrageously and, occasionally, obediently, lost weight, gained weight, aged, grew wise but seldom sensible, fell in an out of love, schemed, deceived and, in general, led me on a merry dance down cul-de-sacs and wide boulevards where they had no right to loiter. I bade them goodbye with a certain regret, rather like the mood that takes us when we wave beloved visitors from our doorsteps, sorry to see them go but looking forward to relaxing back into our own company.

As they slouch out of sight, I find myself suffering withdrawal symptoms. It’s a restlessness that will take days to overcome as I clear my desk, wipe my brow and pop the cork on the champagne. For over a year they claimed my heart, soul and mind with their conniving. Now they are boxed in place, ready to be dissected, hopefully, by an eagle-eyed editor who will discover hidden traits that have escaped me.  When the painful process of editing begins I will view them with fresh eyes as we are again reunited in those final stages of publication.

It’s possible  I’ll dream about them tonight. I often do. Strange, to create characters who did not exist until they invaded my mind then had the audacity to enter the realm of my dreams. Goodbye characters. It was nice knowing you. Now, will someone please pour me another glass of champagne before the next batch of characters come marching into view. Hic!

Now You See It - Now You Don't

Will someone tell me why - when it's so easy to catch a cold, a bus, train or plane, small ones misbehaving, cheating spouses, lying politicians, robbers and rogues, someone staring, a clip across the ear, a cold sore, a cricket ball, a good night's sleep, a catch-you-later promise, inappropriate infections, computer viruses, hives, hair lice and a tiger by the tail - it's impossible to catch FRUIT FLIES!

The Eloquent Senator Norris

Women have a tough time in politics. Two recent examples - Lapgate, so called because Tom Barry TD pulled a reluctant and surprised female colleague onto his lap in the middle of one of the most important and contentious issues to come before Dail Eireann  - the long-over due legislation of the X Case which will allow abortion in very limited and specific circumstances. The other more recent example was David Norris's verbal attack on Regina Doherty in Seanad Eireann when he accused her of 'talking through her fanny.'

The following poem is a tribute to the eloquence of Senator Norris.

   

The Eloquent Senator Norris 

Oh, David, you’re a terror when you decide to fire

Verbal bullets primed with misogynistic ire.

A woman has a ‘fanny’ – that fact we can’t deny -

But it is not a mouthpiece with which to make reply.

You may be incandescent but is it right to hog

The floor of Seanad Éireann with a sexist monologue? 

In fact, your own vocabulary is not exactly sparse

Yet when have we accused you of talking through your arse?

You speak about linguistics and discussions academic

But sexist rough and tumble has always been endemic

In the Dail and Seanad where bombastic eloquence

Is used as substitution for a dose of common sense.

© Laura Elliot 

Knees Up In the Dail Bar

Sometimes you've just got to laugh at the antics of politicians - even when the subject matter is serious, as is the current contentious debate on the long overdue legislation of the X case. The following poem is my salute to the deputies in Dail Eireann who, when forced to work into the small wee hours, really show their mettle. 

           KNEES-UP IN THE DAIL BAR
Some were saying rosaries and singing songs of praise
Twenty years engagement in political affrays
Was drawing to conclusion within the hallowed walls
Of Leinster House where T.D’s had been setting out their stalls.

James was quite determined to legislate with speed
The verdict on the X case, a judgement once decreed.
Lucinda claimed that ‘group think’ was a cultural disgrace.
So Enda rapped her knuckles to put her in her place.

Amendments were debated as nocturnal hours flew
Eloquence was at its best served with a brew or two.
Abortion is a woman’s right? Abortion is a crime?
The T.Ds in the Dail Bar heard no one calling time.

Some deputies were wavering because they feared a belt
From a bishop’s crozier if they protected women’s health.
But no one thought to check the bar where whiskey and the beer
Had made them rather frisky – or so it did appear.

Now it was reassuring to know that T.D. Tom
Was engaged in horse play – and not acting the gom.
A lass on lap without permit was only having fun
Abortion’s just a woman’s lot – when all is said and done.

Oh, it was a jolly knees-up that took place in the Dail
As deputies decided to stand or take a fall.
Abortion through the back door? A woman’s right to choose?
Argued in the Dail Bar with scruples and with booze.

© Laura Elliot