A week after my 45th birthday, I became a grandmother. Of course, I was forewarned. I’d had the full nine months to prepare, but sometimes the knowledge of what’s to come isn’t quite enough.
My son and his partner are a tightknit pair. They’ve known each other seven years or so, much of that time spent under my roof. They now live in the next house along, a five-minute walk away through lush hinterland country, a forgiving distance for fledgling adults. My first surprise was the announcement, but my second was their enthusiasm. The pregnancy had been unplanned, but they were elated. They were to be young parents, though not quite as young as I had been.
I am easily anxious, but careful not to let my anxiety lead. My son’s adolescence had been a trial; he liked to take risks. He wasn’t wilfully self-destructive, but joyful and hedonistic. A pleasure-seeking-machine. My past was littered with catastrophic losses; I’d become attuned to disaster. My son trusted he would always land on his feet. The battle between us had been mammoth. Me: you must stay safe at all times. Him: I will not be dictated to by your past trauma. It was, I admit, a battle I lost. I forced my anxiety into the back seat. It had been a gruelling lesson, but my son had taught me not to let fear be the driver.
And so it was through the pregnancy, my son and his partner blooming with love and hope and excitement, and me, next door, keeping my anxiety quiet. Knowing my son had been right before and he could be right again.
When I first met my son’s partner, she was so pretty I turned away so as not to stare. It’s blinding, I thought, and prettiness can obscure so much. My son’s partner is many things: determined, pragmatic, a do-er. She likes to be prepared. She does her research. For Christmas she makes each of us hampers of homemade lip balm and candles and soap, jams and chocolates in several different iterations. In the years I have known her, she has become hardy. Once a delicate sapling, she has grown sturdy, a tree.
Right before the baby is due my son’s partner decides that she wants me to come to the birth. There has been no mention of this in the nine months before. It is so long since I had my babies. Both my births were a horror show. How will I know how to help? Frightened, I ask a friend what I need to do and she tells me, “They just want your grounded energy. That is all you are being asked to bring.” It is odd to see myself reflected in these words. Grounded energy. I know what this means. My job is to leave my anxiety at the door.
Once summoned, I drive to the hospital. My son’s partner had laboured calmly through the night at home and they arrive at the hospital around midday. I meet them there. The atmosphere in the birthing suite is festive, my son is already flying high. Look how far they have come! They are so close! His partner is steady, quiet, internal, but astonishingly relaxed. They have prepared snacks of all kinds, in ziplock bags. She has several plastic binders of information about things that might help: aromatherapy, particular positions, music, massage, pressure points. I flick through the binders, trying to find my feet. My son is timing contractions, the assigned midwife drops in occasionally to check obs. I settle on pressure points, which are supposed to keep the labour progressing. I move between points, one near her ankle, one on her hand, and press. I press so hard I’m worried it will bruise. She shakes off my concerns, the pain she is managing so different in scale. She is having a baby!
My son’s partner is so quiet, it’s hard for the midwife to tell if the labour is progressing. “She’s quiet,” I say, “but I think there’s a lot happening inside.” And I feel it, somehow, an awareness that there is great movement occurring unseen. She announces that she wishes to shower, she wishes to shower alone. She leaves the door ajar, and we are left, the midwife, my son and I, listening in this liminal space, wondering what will come next. My son’s partner shouts from the shower, a complaint about the lack of hot water, but her tone is sharp, angry, fierce. The midwife’s ears prick, “I think she’s transitioning.”
She gets in the bath and we know she is close. The fast pace has taken the midwives by surprise and a gang of them come in to bear witness. My son hovers near her, serious now, deeply alert. He hands me her phone and says, “take pictures”. She is so calm, so serene, it is making me weep. I snap pictures through tears. She gives birth like a dancer, utterly poised. She gives birth like it is a dance she already knows. I have seen nothing like it in my lifetime. The baby lies directly on her body, half-submerged, eyes open wide, dark and luminous. My son beams with pride, with exhilaration, but he is not surprised. He does not say, “See Mum – see how sweet life can be?” But I am taking note. There is no catastrophe. I try to sink into the moment: pure, wild joy. My son, his partner, their baby. I crouch down to welcome her and she gazes – unblinking – at my face. A sudden rush of love. A granddaughter!
• Jessie Cole is the author of four books, most recently the memoirs Staying and Desire, A Reckoning. More about her here
