laying down the Pinnard

It usually stands, proud and ready, on the bookshelf of my office.  Easy to see, easy to use.

Today it is lying on its side, resting on the soft pink rug that I use on my legs in the evenings as I vegetate in front of the tele, passively resting to the tune of whatever strikes me as the best offering at the time.  Not something to tell the world about.  A picture of ageing and inactivity.


The Pinnard stethoscope - that symbol of midwifery.

This one beautifully crafted on a lathe, in some dark hardwood.  I love its feel, its proportions.  I love the physics of its action: the principle of the sound waves being picked up at its open trumpet-like mouth, and being condensed to make them more audible at the other end.  The connection is made between the little one within its mother's swollen belly, and my ear drum; my brain.  The sounds pulse clearly when the sound waves travel straight from fetus to midwife.

The Pinnard has been laid down.  I have finished using it.  I am reaching the end of my midwifery career, and it's time for me to leave attending births to the younger, stronger midwives.

The Pinnard will now continue to hold memories of my life's work as a midwife: with woman in her transition to motherhood, and guardian of the new generation.


I was woken by the phone call late at night, moments after falling asleep.  The young mother was now in strong labour, and her husband asked me to attend.

Labour had become established earlier in the day.  This young woman was innocently determined to do it herself, yet unprepared for the demands of whatever 'it' was.  Her strong man stood by her, assisting and supporting to the best of his ability.  They were both becoming weary, despite their youth.   She cried and writhed in the birth pool as each contraction mounted.  She looked up at me - "I'm so tired.  Why is it taking so long?"

My assurances and attempts to encourage were altogether inadequate, and it wasn't long before I was arranging transfer to hospital.   Perhaps the Nitrous Oxide gas will take the edge off for long enough for this wee one to progress to that point of no return?

I don't see this as any sort of failure, the change of plan from home birth to hospital birth.  When hospital is needed, I accept and embrace the change.  The time taken in the car as we travel to hospital, and in the routine hospital admission processes, is all time for the labour to progress.

The change of setting was good.  We moved to a large birth suite room.  The calm, fresh presence of the midwife at the hospital gave me strength too.   A couple of hours later a strong, healthy baby is born.

I am content.

Flowers that arrived today.  Thankyou, my dears.

When I finally make my way home I am surrounded by a thick fog.  Driving along familiar streets takes on an unreal status.   The road ahead is invisible: could it be a great unknown chasm in front of me?  My thoughts have taken their own direction under the intoxicating mixture of wonder at the birth of a baby, awe at the processes that produced a mother, and sleep deprivation that my ageing body finds increasingly difficult to accommodate.

Sleep.  Deep, dreamless sleep.

Up and at it again, a bit weary, and still traveling under the influence of that birth.  In the afternoon the late winter sun is shining, and the day is beautifully warm.  We have a walk down to the creek, and home again.

My memories take me to the day our fourth, and last, child was born.   I woke up that morning and looked out the window, and breathed in the warming Spring air.  "This feels like a good day for our baby to be born," I announced.  There was a lot of work ahead.  My babies were big strong babies, and they didn't just slip out.  But that night I went to bed with a sweet new child beside me, and a heart overflowing with joy.