Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

The unit sister masked a smile.

'However', Hughes continued, 'there is a way of ameliorating the condition. You'll show Mrs Goodchild what to do, won't you Sister?'

The unit sister nodded.

'And it's very good to hear that you are in such improved form, Mrs Goodchild'.

It's Ms, buster. But, of course, I didn't articulate this sentiment, for fear of sending up warning flags yet again. Especially as I was determined to walk out of here the day after tomorrow in a chemical-free state. So I simply smiled at Mr Hughes and said, 'I really feel like I'm on the mend'.

But when Tony arrived that night, I was on the verge of screaming. This had nothing to do with my fragile emotional state - rather, with the instrument of torture that was currently attached to my left breast. It looked like a clear aerosol can with a horn-like aperture at one end and a reservoir at the bottom. It was attached to an electric power pack. Once turned on, it acted like a vacuum cleaner, sucking all the milk out of the breast.

I had been using this charming device ever since Jack's birth - as they needed my milk to give to Jack up in Paediatric ICU. Initially, extracting milk via this hoover was only moderately uncomfortable. But then my breasts grew hard, and suddenly the breast pump became my nemesis. When I first used it to unblock a milk duct I let out a howl, which made the unit sister cross with me.

'What seems to be the problem?' she asked me, sounding decidedly peevish.

'It hurts like fuck', I shouted, then immediately cursed myself for roaring without thinking. So I collected myself and said in a suitably contrite voice, 'I'm so sorry'.

The unit sister ignored my apology, and instead took the pump and repositioned it on my right breast. Then, placing her spare hand on my left shoulder, she turned on the juice. Within ten seconds, the pain was outrageous - and I bit down hard against my lip, shutting my eyes tightly.

'Steady on', the unit sister said. 'The thing is to build up enough pressure so that the milk duct has no choice but to clear'.

This took another dreadful minute - during which time the solidified breast felt as if it was being squeezed with vindictive force. Don't scream, don't scream, I kept telling myself. But each pressurizing squeeze of the horn made such self-restraint increasingly improbable - until, suddenly, there was this rupture-like spurt, and I could feel a warm liquid enveloping the nipple.

'There we are', the unit sister said, sounding pleased with herself. 'One unblocked breast. Now you'll need to let it keep pumping for a good ten minutes to completely clear the ducts of milk... and then you can start on the other one'.

Tony walked in when I was working on the left breast - and in the final throes of pain meltdown. This tit appeared to be twice as blocked as its counterpart - and having started the extraction process, I knew I couldn't stop, as the leaden feeling intensified fourfold, to the point where it was just as unbearable as this torture-by-suction. Tony's eyes grew immediately wide when he found me gripping the mattress with one hand, while using the other to clutch the dreaded breast pump. My face was screwed up into (judging from my husband's shocked expression) a mask of near-dementia.

'What on earth are you doing?' he asked.

'Shut up', I said, sensing that, any moment...

I let out a little cry, as the duct cleared and watery liquid came jetting forth. Tony said nothing. He just watched me as I continued to drain out the breast. When I was finished, I dropped the pump into a bowl on the bedside table, closed up my dressing gown, put my head in my hands, and thanked God, Allah, the Angel Moroni, whomever, that my stint on the rack was over (or, at least, for today anyway - as the unit sister warned me that I'd have to repeat this charming bit of plumbing several times a day if I wanted to keep my milk ducts cleared).

'You okay now?' Tony asked, sitting down on the bed.

'I have been better', I said, then explained exactly why I had been engaged in such a masochistic endeavour.

'Lucky you', Tony said. 'How's our chap?'

I gave him an update on my visit this morning, and then told him that I was still waiting to hear from Reynolds this evening about when he'd be moved out of Paediatric ICU.

'The nurse hinted to me it could be as early as tomorrow - as they really think he's doing just fine. Anyway, they want to discharge me in two days' time - so you might have us both at home before you know it'.

'Oh... great', Tony said.

'Hey - thanks for the enthusiastic response', I said.

'I am pleased, really. It's just - I only heard today that the editor wanted me to pop over to Geneva later on in the week. Some UN conference on...'

'Forget it', I said.

'Of course, now that I know you're coming home...'

'That's right - you'll just have to get someone else to cover for you'.

'No problem', Tony said quickly. Which was a relief - because I had never told Tony before that he couldn't do something (having both agreed from the start that we'd keep the word no out of our domestic vocabulary... within reason, of course). But I certainly wasn't spending my first night home from hospital by myself with Jack. Though my husband seemed a little thrown by my vehemence, he slipped into reassurance mode.

'I'll call His Lordship tonight, tell him it's out of the question. And I promise you a great homecoming meal, courtesy of Marks and Spencer. But the champagne will come from elsewhere'.

'Like Tesco?'

He laughed. 'Very witty' he said. 'But, then again, you can't drink, can you?'

'I think I'll manage a glass'.

We looked in on Jack that night. He was sleeping soundly and seemed content. And the nurse on duty told us that Dr Reynolds had okayed his move to my room tomorrow morning - a prospect which terrified me. Because he would be my responsibility now.

But the next morning, I was paid a visit by Dr Reynolds in my room.

'Now I don't want to upset you', he began, 'but it seems that Jack has developed jaundice'.

'He what?'

'It's a common postnatal condition which affects almost fifty per cent of all newborn babies - and it usually clears up in ten days'.

'But how did he get it?'

'Well, to give you the proper textbook definition: jaundice occurs when there is a breakdown of red blood cells and you get a build-up of a yellow pigment called bilirubin'.

'But what causes this build-up up of... what was it again?'

'Bilirubin. Generally, it comes from breast milk'.

'You mean, I have made him jaundiced?'

'Ms Goodchild...'

'What you're telling me is that I've poisoned him'.

That dangerous edge had crept into my voice - and though I was aware of its ominous presence, there was nothing I could do to curb it. Because I really didn't understand what it was doing here in the first place.

Dr Reynolds spoke slowly and with great care.

'Ms Goodchild, you simply must not blame yourself. Because there's nothing you could have done to prevent this, and also because - as I said before - it is such a typical ailment in new babies'.

'Can jaundice be dangerous?'

'Only if the levels of bilirubin get too high'.

'Then what happens?'

I could see Dr Reynolds shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

'Then', he finally said, 'it can prove toxic to the brain. But - and I must emphasize this - such levels are extremely rare. And so far, your son is not showing any signs of...'

But I wasn't listening to him any more. Instead, another voice had taken up residency inside my head. A voice which kept repeating, 'You've poisoned him... and now he's going to be even more brain damaged. And there's no one to blame but you...'

'Ms Goodchild?'

I looked up and could see Dr Reynolds eyeing me with concern.