It’s hard to know what to say when you’re asked what childbirth is like. There are as many answers to that question as there are women. Perhaps it’s how the poet Fiona Benson describes it, as an act of submission “to my body’s wild stampede”; or her contemporary Hannah Sullivan, whose C-section was “like dying at the hairdresser’s”. Sylvia Plath resonates, with her description of having “boarded a train there’s no getting off”, while Dorothea Lasky (“screaming pain on a Sunday”) and Mina Loy (“I am climbing a distorted mountain of agony”) convey the brutality.
Less poetically, I’d say this: there was a moment when I threatened to jump out of the window. And there was another, specifically when my husband said the words, “it’s our boy”, when I felt the exhilarating distillation of the most whole and perfect joy I have ever felt.
I’ve been thinking a fair bit about my son’s birth recently because the maternity unit where he was born (and where, incidentally, I was also born) is threatened with closure, as is the neonatal unit in which he was treated. The number of babies being born in the area has been declining, the North Central London integrated care system argues. And this, as well as staffing challenges and the distribution of neonatal cots, means it wants to consolidate services by closing either my beloved Whittington maternity unit in Highgate, or the unit at the Royal Free hospital in Hampstead.
It is hard to talk about what a local maternity unit means to you, and your family, without becoming emotional; something I share with other local mums who had their babies at the Whittington (I’m sure the Royal Free mums feel just as strongly, and I acknowledge my bias in that regard). I say “unit”, but really what I mean is the people who comprise it: the obstetricians and midwives and surgeons and nurses and healthcare assistants, all of whom play a part in the most transformative of experiences. That is why people can become tearful when they talk about where they gave birth. Hospital staff see you at your most vulnerable and shepherd you through the extremes of pain so intense you want to jump out of a window – as well as the unparalleled happiness when the baby finally arrives. Often, despite massive funding-related challenges to their ability to do their job safely, they go above and beyond what is required.
A friend recounts how when her son came early, a paediatrician was sent to explain that he would need treatment in the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU). She also points out that the Whittington was the only hospital that, throughout Covid, continued to allow birth partners to be present. Another local mother, Gigi Barker, also had a baby in the NICU, and described the staff, as well as the breastfeeding team member who picked up on her baby’s breathing difficulties, as “angels”. “I had pre-eclampsia so I spent a lot of time there in the final month of my pregnancy and every single staff member was amazing,” she says.
Sophie, another mum, praised the all-female team who eventually delivered her daughter by emergency C-section after she was back to back and her head got stuck and began to swell. “There were lots of things within the experience that I could have come out feeling really negative about,” she says. “It’s testament to the quality of the care that I got, that I kept waiting to feel that way, when in fact I just feel, and felt, incredibly grateful.”
These are all births that were challenging in one way or another, which seems to be where the Whittington really thrives, as well as in its neonatal care. One colleague told me how she felt the postnatal care could be improved, “but that when the shit hits the fan, there’s nowhere you’d rather be”.
A former Whittington midwife says that it is the tight-knit team that makes the unit so special. “They put patients first no matter what,” she says, pointing out that the unit is well versed in working with a very diverse population, and that it is trusted by many communities, such as the Orthodox Jewish community, as being able to tailor care to their needs and beliefs. “There are some excellent specialists who risk losing their jobs, and some specialist clinics might disappear. For instance, the FGM clinic at the Whitt, which is extremely renowned.” There is even a dedicated suite for the families of stillborn babies.
It is important to acknowledge that, as with any maternity unit, there will be people whose birth experiences will have been not so positive, and who may be experiencing birth trauma as a result of mistakes that were made. Improvements only happen when we are honest about the bad as well as the good.
Mayani Muthuveloe is a mum of two and co-chair of the Whittington Health Maternity Voices partnership, having become involved in offering feedback when she was examined during her labour without her consent. “At first I didn’t realise anything had happened in the labour and then we were just really grateful that Albert had survived,” she says. “It was during a feedback session that I was like, hang on a minute. This happened. That wasn’t OK.” She broke down and cried. “All the staff in the meeting told me how shocked they were and assured me that they would make sure the midwives changed their practice.”
Mayani’s experience created in her a drive to improve things for other families, her role being what she describes as a “critical friend” of the unit. She believes closing the unit would be shortsighted, and praises the perinatal mental health clinic and the bereavement team, which comprises doctors, therapists and midwives.
Regardless of your birth experience, most people can agree on the essential need for local services, and that’s why the Whittington is such a valued part of its community. I am just one person who will never forget the difference its professionals have made to me and my family. If it were to close, what a loss it would be.
Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett is a Guardian columnist
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