The Birth Crisis in Government Care

What I saw at the labour ward after hours is haunting. To anyone, but especially to expectant mothers, and does not bode well for the next generation:

Indifference.

The three Sisters in Triage can barely stop talking and sharing videos long enough to bark orders at the women coming in with possible birth emergencies. Too scared to talk back, too scared to be anything other than compliant. We know the penalty for being “difficult”.

The lack of compassion screams louder than the beeping machines in the clinical, overcrowded labour room. The two mothers contracting while waiting to be admitted without making a sound. We can feel there will be a price for breaking the silence.

The odd baby cry. The nurse shouting out for check ups. Then shouting at the mommies-to-be if they have committed the heinous crime of falling asleep between contractions, in the middle of the night and through the early hours. The nurse shouting at the mommies if they are "difficult" (that is, expressing the pain of labour vocally).

The urine spattered floors in the bathrooms, where the mothers must fetch, then clean, their urine sample jars. No toilet paper in any bathroom, of course. This is just after the toilets are cleaned. As the night wears on the list of soilage in and around the toilets increases. I will spare you the details that are forever etched in my mind. Needless to say strong thighs for squatting are a must. Plus toilet paper. Plus toilet cleaning wipes for if you really got to do more than just wee.

Instructions are curt, the patience is thin. No explanations, just expected obedience.

The staff chatter among themselves. Loudly. No glances are spared as they stroll past their patients.

There is no miracle of life here. No miracle at all.

This is an ordeal to be survived. No smiles, and laughter, no sense of accomplishment.

Perhaps best summed up by how the patients rights placard has been defaced over time.

Patients help patients to carry bags. Hold the drip while they put on their gown. Share their toilet paper. There is no help from the staff, so we are all we have. We share the common goal of surviving our birth, or worse making sure our baby is not in the middle of a possible health emergency.  

Close to the end of shift. The staff are visibly exhausted. The one is sitting posing for the best possible selfie for her social media update. For over an hour. The other has turned up the music from some or other device, and is singing along. The line of mothers waiting for a check up to be admitted grows, and is studiously ignored. The admitted mommies ignored. The sisters are writing frantically in the files, getting ready for handover. We are referred to as "she" and "her". We are talked about as if we are invisible. Which I suppose we are.

As we pass each other our eyes connect and we share a look. The one that says I see you. I feel you. And most strongly of all: good luck.