Sunday, 26th June 2005.

The bed's too big without you

I should have known. Irony has a nasty habit of jumping up when you least expect it, and while you can plan for these things, and be rewarded accordingly, it's often a lot more fun when weird stuff happens completely by chance. We had such an encounter this afternoon, when I stuck the 1980s MP3 CD into the car radio this afternoon, and found that the first song the random function picked up was by Adam and the Ants. So Emily and I pulled out of the drive and out of Sutton Courtenay, tackling the speed humps on the long road that winds along by the power station, on the way to the hospital for Emily's induction, to the powerhouse new romantic cry of "Staaaaaand, and deliver...".

The John Radcliffe is a large, imposing complex that sits in the middle of Headington, surrounded by trees and terraced houses and a building site that seems to have been there for years. A large new children's block in bright pastel colours stands impressively against the skyline when you drive in, but we were heading for the women's centre. After getting ripped off by the overpriced car park, we headed for the maternity wing and were checked in by a slightly harassed-looking nurse, who directed us up to the fifth floor in an automated lift, complete with perky automated announcer asking you to mind the doors.

Emily is in one of the side rooms that they reserve for people who need to be on their own for a while: as someone who needs to be induced and who is going to need as much privacy as possible when it comes to certain gynecological procedures, it made sense to put her somewhere safe. The room overlooked a large expanse of white concrete, a dozen rooftop fan units and an enormous chimney billowing out over the sky. In the distance, forestry glinted in the afternoon sun. We were seen by a midwife who only vaguely resembled her I.D. card, which worried me until I could see that it seemed to be a pattern amongst the staff in general - and while it would be easy to get paranoid about this I'm really not the conspiracy theory type, and decided to put it down to the fact that working in a hospital apparently ages you very quickly.

For those of you who don't know the routine, the induction process itself happens in stages. First they monitor the baby's heartbeat and position and check your blood pressure every five minutes or so (or so it seemed, anyway). Then they measure cervix dilation (if any) and assess whether they need to administer a gel, which is supposed to hurry the process a little but which should only be used if the dilation really needs helping along. With a bit of luck this will kick-start the labour process - if it doesn't, they will break your waters manually the following morning, and then if that doesn't work they put you on a drip for hours while they feed you hormones. A caesarean is the last resort, and fairly unlikely to occur as a result of the baby just not wanting to come out - generally the hormones work and they usually only cut you open in the event of something getting stuck.

Helen - our first midwife - measured the cervix and said that she didn't think it was necessary to administer gel, but then she wisely sought a second opinion from a more experienced midwife, who decided that gel was probably the best option. It was quite amusing watching both midwives awkwardly feeling around trying to locate Emily's cervix, which seemed to be moving around for some reason - or it would have been, if it hadn't been so obviously uncomfortable for her, even though the midwives commended her for looking so relaxed.

After they'd put the gel in place (not cheap, at £28 a tube) they attached the pads to her again and monitored the baby's heartbeat again - not an easy job when you consider how much it was moving around. We kept reading how towards the end of the pregnancy period the baby gets a little pushed for space and starts moving less, but even if that's the norm it certainly didn't apply to Em, who's had to put up with our unborn child dancing the samba inside her womb every day for weeks now, even as it got almost too big to manage anything but a slow waltz. The two of us sat this afternoon in the hospital side room, as the monitoring station (which bore an uncanny resemblance to our office shredder) printed out a steady stream of graphs that looked like Richter scale measurements, apart from the frequent gaps from where they baby had moved out of range - all the time listening to the unsteady bump-bump-bump inside the womb, followed by the occasional bang when a tiny foot kicked the spot where the pads were taped on.

I nipped out halfway through this, and wandered along the corridor to the day room, only to find a couple from our NHS ante-natal class, cradling day-old baby Amy, and sharing supper with new grandparents. The girl in question - rarely seen out of sports gear - was one of those people we didn't speak to very much, purely out of seating conventions: you sit in similar spots and tend not to mix much in these classes, and while it's friendly enough the sheer number of attendees means there's not the feeling of camaraderie and intimacy that took place in the NCT classes we went to on Monday evenings. Which is another way of saying that I didn't have a clue what her name was, or that of her partner. That said, when I mentioned what a small world it was she informed me that we were the third couple she'd seen from the class during her stay in hospital - and the fact that she neglected to mention who the other two couples were provided a strong indicator that she couldn't provide their identity any more than I could provide hers.

An hour and a quarter of lying on a hospital bed covered in gel and pads will leave you uncomfortable, cramped and in dire need of the toilet, so Emily was glad when they released her for a while. We took a wander up the road into Headington - which is one long row of charity shops, basically - and drank in the cool of the evening before strolling back through the park that sits by the hospital main entrance. The side room upstairs was where I left her an hour and a half ago: tortured, semi-whispered goodbyes before parting, and promises to be back in the morning.

I'm being silly. But it's like she says - this is the first night we've spent apart since before we moved in together, nearly eighteen months ago, and forming that sort of dependence on someone can do things to you. Even now the house doesn't feel right: I've been here on my own plenty of times, but it was always a little cheerier than it is now, even with the cat lounging on the spare bed next to me, keeping me company (or probably just after the dregs of my banana milkshake). It's not a nice feeling and I am glad that it won't be for too long this week - at least if the in-laws visit I'll have someone to talk to. Nonetheless, it's easier for me than it is for Emily, who has only a teddy bear to keep her company in a strange bed. Part of me wanted to stay, but the sensible part knows it's probably best to sleep here tonight, in this slightly colourless bungalow: I need the rest that a carry mat on a marble floor isn't going to provide.

We're on the cusp of parenthood, and it scares me, but it will be fun, and life-changing, and stressful and I'm sure that in due course I'll look back at all this and wonder what I was worried about. Sitting in the hospital tonight, I realised that I'm now absolutely fine with whatever sex the baby turns out to be - I just want to get to the stage where I no longer have to refer to it as - well, 'it'. So I will stay here for a while - until morning, or until they call me - and then it's the next phase, which could last hours or days. Cue marathon / finishing line metaphor, lots of hand-squeezing. We'll keep you posted.

I gave Emily another kiss. "Listen. Just think about it like this...I'm not going home to bed without you," I said, picking up my fleece. "I'm just going off to work, and you're going to take a really long nap, right?"
"Yes, I suppose that works."
"I'll see you tomorrow. Love you lots."
"Love you too."

I left her to her Ruth Rendell, and wandered out of the ward, along past the reception where a midwife was showing a Chinese mother how to handle her baby in the bath, and finally down to the car park. On the way I couldn't help noticing that the female automated voice that announced floors in the lifts had now switched to the clipped tones of an adult male. Perhaps they do it in shifts.