Western Daily Press (Saturday)
A SPECIAL DELIVERY
Aneira ‘Nye’ Thomas’s mother held on to give birth to her daughter at the dawn of a new era in healthcare
THE birth of the National Health Service coincided with the birth of one little girl in South Wales: Aneira ‘Nye’ Thomas, the first baby delivered by the NHS. This is the touching story of Nye’s family – their loves and losses – and the launch of a treasured public service that has touched the lives of every family in the nation.
In this extract, Edna is about to give birth to her beloved Nye as the NHS’s journey gets off to a remarkable start…
TIMING IS EVERYTHING
Timing makes all the difference. Between contractions there is panting, breaths coming quick and fast.
This baby is Edna’s seventh. She lies on the bed in Amman Valley Hospital, exhausted.
It is 1948. The war feels like a more distant memory day by day, and the country is starting to climb back onto its feet. Food is becoming more readily available after years of scrimping. Here, in south Wales, some men have returned; others will never come home.
Edna could be at home, right now. She could have called for a midwife, or “handywoman”, as they were known then. But the house is small and full of children. It seems safer here, in the bustle of the local hospital. Women rush around, carrying towels, hot water, jars of pale white cream, trays of long metal instruments. Their hair is neatly pinned back, their uniforms starched and pristine. She feels a mess beside them, trying to steady her breathing, sweat running down her temples and into her ears. They’ve seen it a thousand times before, she tells herself. Nothing will surprise or disgust them. Just keep going.
Another contraction, now. It’s a big one and it pulls a moan, deep and loud, from her chest. She didn’t know she was capable of making such noises. Its intensity frightens her. A nurse, standing by her side, takes her hand. Behind her head there is a clock, large and perfectly circular. It’s soothing, somehow. The time is ten minutes to midnight.
It’s been a warm summer, so far. June seeped into July with no sign of rain. The fields that spread around Edna’s home, a smallholding she and her husband struggle to maintain, are parched and turning brown. She wishes it were cooler, September perhaps or February even. Pregnancy during the summer can be a wretched thing, but it’s not as though she had much choice.
THREE MINUTES TO MIDNIGHT
The pain is building again now – a knot growing in size deep in her belly. Everything feels like it’s being pulled in, preparing, getting ready.
Nurse Richards stands at the foot of the bed, gripping one of Edna’s feet, watching and nodding. She spots a head, and calls the doctor. The time is three minutes to midnight.
“Edna,” says the doctor, coming to stand beside the bed. “You need to wait. It’s not long now. Don’t push. Just hold on, Edna.”
She recalls, dimly, why they want her to wait. Just hold on, she thinks to herself. Three minutes. Soon, it will be 5 July. She furrows her brow, concentrating on the long arm of the clock above their heads. Three minutes. 180 seconds. It’s a drop in the ocean compared to all the minutes that she’s lived through, but it’s the longest wait of her life. When the clock strikes twelve, everything will be different. She doesn’t know it yet, but her baby will be born into a new world. I hope it’s worth this pain, she thinks, and all the pain that’s come before it. It has to be.
The clock strikes 12 and suddenly everything changes. Now they want her to push; they want her to do it quickly, to respond to that next contraction. It’s all happened so fast, from the long wait to
here, when action is so suddenly required. “Now, push now, Edna!”
Their cries fill her ears and she does as they ask, giving in at last. There is a sound that surely she cannot be making – a shout that cannot be hers.
Nurse Richards is standing at the foot of the bed. Then, as now, her job is centred around observation. She intervenes when necessary, easing a tiny shoulder to prevent it jutting against the mother’s pelvic bone, or – in extreme cases – using the forceps waiting on the tray table. But she knows that at this stage, it’s a battle between the mother and the pain. Once the baby’s torso is clear the rest follows more easily in the final push; Nurse Richards eases it out gently as Edna’s effort finally pays off.
AN EMOTIONAL MOMENT FOR ALL
She feels a sense of great relief, a release, and the room is filled with a harsh cry, deep and loud, coupled with the high-pitched, tinny wailing of a newborn. The screams of the baby are added to the din, but there’s no sound more welcome.
At first, Edna cannot comprehend this new noise. She’s so tired; the air is thick with the smell of blood and sweat. She looks down and sees the nurse wrapping something in a long white shawl, watches her softly wipe bright redness from a face the size of Edna’s palm.
It’s me. I’m shouting. Hello, world!
Edna recognises dimly that Nurse Richards is crying. She holds the baby out to its mother, not trying to hide her tears.
“Well, Mrs Rees,” she says, “You’ve done it.” She smiles as Edna takes the child and cradles her in the crook of her arm. “A baby girl. Looks lovely. She’s a good weight, I reckon.”
The doctor is writing on a large pad of paper; he, too, seems overcome with emotion. “Congratulations,” he says, noting the time of birth. “One minute past midnight.” It’s 5 July 1948.
Edna tries to smile but everything hurts, and she’s grateful when Nurse Richards takes the baby and tells her to sleep. “We’ll look after her, lovie.”