Chronicles of a labour ward and a baby ready to come into the world

I have not written here for three weeks. Three weeks is a mighty long time. A lot can happen – or change – in that blink of space. Hell, even this newspaper doesn’t look anything like it did three weeks ago.

I know you don’t really care to hear this but I’ll say it anyway: I haven’t written here because I had a flimsy excuse then a solid reason. My excuse for the first week is that I couldn’t ignite the creative spark to meld my ideas together into a story.

In a single word, I was lazy. It really doesn’t matter now how much effort I put in to overcome my laziness and almost beat the deadline. Almost. In this life, almost counts for naught.

My reason for last week is that I had gone into preterm labour. You heard right. I was eight and a half months pregnant, and my body was prepping to evict my baby out of the cramped dark wet quarters they call a womb.

Growth curve

It wanted him out. My doctor said it was OK if he got out now. GB thought the same thing. I said, No way, he’s too little; never mind that he has consistently been two weeks above his growth curve.

I was not ready to have him home just yet: His shopping is incomplete. His hand-me-down furniture from his big sister, Muna, has not been repainted yet. The clothes from Toi Market are yet to be laundered and pressed. I haven’t scheduled for a professional bump shoot.

Admitting me in hospital

I don’t know if my new nanny is here for the long run…Yeah, I know, I know. My concerns are foolishly trivial. None of this prepping matters much, to be honest. If our boy made his debut right this moment, we’d be ready for him. The world already is.

Anyway, my doctor ended up admitting me in hospital for two days so they could manage the contractions – Thursday and Friday, they let me back home on Saturday.

I was admitted in the labour ward. It was ironic that while other women were there to get their babies out in as few hours as they could, I was there to keep mine in for a few more weeks as my body can. It was like we were all passengers in a train that was moving forward and backward at the same time.

The labour ward doesn’t sleep. Never has. The human body here doesn’t know the difference between night and day, it doesn’t follow the strictures that come with keeping time from a clock made from the hands of man.

There’s a twisted beauty when these labouring women are floating about in the nothingness and everything of their body’s internal clock. That magic is rudely halted when a baby is born and the nurse takes note of such details as ‘3068gms. 12.43am.’ Only then is the tether of time restored.

I could have gotten some much needed hours of extra rest while in admission but this absence to register time robbed me of the luxury.

Worse, the nurses woke me at odd hours to give me my meds, check my blood pressure or hook me up to those monitoring machines that echo your baby’s heartbeat.

I have to tell you, it was reassuring hearing the steady rhythmic thump of his heartbeat. It comforted me. Erased the ugly thoughts that found me at those odd hours in the middle of the night. I made the royal mistake of forgetting to pack my Kindle – reading at these devilish hours always puts me back to sleep.

I am back home now and in excellent health, thank you very much. You would think that someone – a reader, a strange reader, or you – would email to check if I am OK. What with everything happening in the world right now.

My Ol’Man would have if he didn’t already know what was going down. He asks after me whenever he doesn’t find me here on Saturdays. He asks from my Mum, in that way fathers asks about their children from their mother, a roundabout show of love and care.

Anyway, if you’ve read this far in then you know I’m going nowhere with this story. This is just me saying I missed you– missed being here – and that I am swell. I am grateful for this moment. I don’t know what time it is. I am writing from underneath a tree, the sunshine tickles my toes.

The air is redolent with poetry. I can feel my boy in my belly dancing the gwara gwara. I had a delicious lunch – githeri, cabbage, beef fry and some sexy avocadoes – and later, I will go out for a swim. I am content. How are you doing?

[email protected]. @ craftit