A Night Of Firsts by Kate

At first I blamed the nut roast we'd had at lunchtime. Shouldn't have been so greedy, I told myself as I took the Metro to Mendez Alvaro where I'd arranged to pay a social call to our former flatmates and pick up some post. While I sat chatting to Pete, I got fidgety. No position seemed comfortable. And I had an urgent need to visit the loo. Bloody nut roast.

After a while I made my excuses and headed back to the Metro. The discomfort was now moving into pain territory. Then it struck me - was I having contractions? Surely not, I had four weeks to go and these were awfully close together and now feeling rather strong. Braxton Hicks, I thought, those "pre-labour practice contractions" I had been told to expect.

Once on the Metro I was finding it hard not to groan and grimace as we trundled back towards Pueblo Nuevo. I was haunted by a recent Metro Madrid advert, which depicts a woman in labour and helped by strangers on the trains as she heads towards hospital to have her baby. I tried not to think about it.

The walk from PN Metro station to our flat seemed interminable and a couple of times I had to stop, trying to remember the breathing techniques I had been practicing ready for the birth. I'll be fine when I'm in a relaxed, familiar place, I thought. A fit of chills shook me, then as I waited for the lift in our building, I felt burning hot. What the hell??

I finally got inside and when Theo saw my face and asked if I was okay I did allow myself a grimace. "I think I'm having contractions", I said. He tried to rub my back and help me but suddenly I couldn't bear to be touched. I moaned on the sofa, trying different positions, but no relief. Then another urgent need to visit the bathroom. Once there I realised I was discharging some blood.
"I think we'd better go and see someone," I told Theo and tried to breathe through another contraction.

With admiral presence of mind, Theo threw supplies into a hastily improvised hospital bag (just in case) - something I'd been intending to organise this week, but never mind - and led me to the car. I felt calm, but couldn't pay attention to anything except the contractions, which seemed to be coming at one minute intervals. Theo, meanwhile, battled with the spaghetti of roads and disappearing signposting that marked the route to Universitario Hospital La Paz - a dry run was something else we had been planning to do in the next week or so.

When we arrived, we explained the situation and I was led away for examinations and monitoring. A very jovial middle aged medic checked by cervix "Only 2cm", she said, "I don't think you need to start pushing yet." Ho ho ho. My contractions were monitored for fifteen minutes then another cervical examination. Despite my imperfect understanding of Spanish, I detected slight consternation. I was now 3cm.

"The problem is," I said, "Is the baby's head is here - she is sitting on her arse." The consternation increased and I was scanned. Yep, I was right. At that point, they obviously made the decision to take our baby "out the window" - although I could only surmise this from the way I was being stripped of clothes and jewellery and given a hospital gown to wear and asked when I had last eaten or drunk anything. Nothing since the nut roast, I assured them.

Then Theo was suddenly beside me. "Are we having her now, then?" I asked, just to make sure.
"They're going to give you a caesarian", he said
"Oh, okay." Another contraction to breath through.
"I love you!" Then I was wheeled away. Watching the passing strip lights above my head I could only think how surreal it all was. I felt completely calm - had done since the beginning, in fact - but couldn't quite take in that I was about have a baby.

In the theatre, the kindly but efficient medical team prepped me for the operation. It was a most odd feeling as the epidural took effect and all sensation in my legs disappeared. Thankfully, so did the pain from the contractions, which was a mercy.

A green curtain was stuck up so I couldn't see my abdomen (although the effect was slightly spoiled by the fact that I could see perfectly in the reflection cast on the highly polished monitor arm above me. I tried not to look.)
"Can I touch my baby afterwards?" I asked. I couldn't remember the Spanish for "hold". Yes, they assured me.

I felt myself being shaved, then something pushing into me, which must have been the incision. Then hands were inside my belly and I felt the baby being physically pulled out, her head finally away from the underside of my rib cage. Very, very strange, but not in the least painful.

A moment later, "The baby's out!" and with startling suddenness she was lifted above the screen for me to see. I was speechless. The only word I managed was an awed "Oh!!" before she was taken from my view. Next the pushing and pulling as they stitched up my wound. "I've just had a baby!" I thought.
"Congratulations!" They all cried.
"This is surreal", I said aloud. The time was 00.15.

The next moment, a little bundle was carried to my head, her face towards mine.
"Little kisses for your baby," said the medic holding her. I complied, the surreal feeling growing. Then she was gone again. I still felt calm, especially as they assured me she was fine. Also, a dawning sense of wonder. I couldn't really take it in.

Soon, the stitches were finished, and trailing a drip trolley, I was wheeled out to the corridor where Theo met me.
"You're amazing", he said.
"Is she alright?" I asked.
"She's perfect!!" he said. Then he told me I was being taken to the intensive care unit on the fourth floor for overnight observation and our little Rosie would be monitored on floor eleven. We would be reunited in the morning. He had been told to go home, but he would come back at the earliest possible time - around ten. He kissed me and I was pushed into a lift up to Planta Cuatro.

Up in the ICU, I was checked and monitored and only here did I suddenly become aware how everything hurt. I requested more pain relief. They gave it to me after pressing painfully on my abdomen. Boy, that was agony.

So, hooked up to various drips, catheters, auto-blood pressure-machines, ECG monitors and gawd-knows-what I tried to get some sleep. Actually, I felt pretty relaxed, but sleep was impossible with machines continually bleeping and the blood pressure sleeve around my arm tightening uncomfortably every half hour. I kept thinking "I've had the baby!" and started to wonder what she was like. All I could remember was a pair of blue eyes and a shock of fuzzy dark hair.

As the clock ticked slowly on, I contemplated my situation. I had never been a hospital in-patient before. Never had anything approaching major surgery. Never been inside an ICU. And - oh yes - had never given birth. And now I was a mother, apparently. Another first.

By morning, I was getting impatient to be with Rosie. I had been watching the clock since I had arrived and now I could hardly contain my impatience as they gave me a bed bath and started unhooking me from the various tubes and wires. I was missing Theo, but all I could think about was meeting my daughter.
"Any pain?" asked a nurse. "Yes," I said. She shoved me in the abdomen. Ouch.

Finally, they began wheeling me away. I was taken up to the eleventh floor and into a room where a woman and her husband and baby were already ensconced in one corner.
"Congratulations!" They said.
"You too!" I replied. And then I heard wheels approaching the door. They belonged to a mobile cot which was pushed over to my bedside. In the cot was a tiny, pink baby - our baby. For a moment I just marvelled at her. Then, despite, the pain in my abdomen, I leaned over and took her from the cot and into the bed with me. I just wanted her in my arms. I smelled her and gazed at her in wonder. This was our daughter. The feeling was indescribable.

Then, twenty minutes later, Theo arrived. We embraced and he joined me in my fascination with this tiny new person we had made. Our family. Now we are three.

The Kindness Of Strangers by Kate

So here we are back in Madrid and suddenly I've been promoted on the Metro. In the last few days complete strangers have been giving up their seats in crowded carriages and inviting me to have them instead. This is both touching and gratifying and one of the best bits so far about my abdomen sporting a now unmistakeable bump.

Spaniards - generally speaking - are very much in favour of children, babies and pregnancy and I'm just starting to appreciate that fact. It doesn't help us insert ourselves and our potential new Madrilena into the Spanish ante-natal system (they're chocka and trying to book ourselves to have our now overdue anomalies scan is proving to be a bit of a struggle) but it does bathe things like Metro journeys in a benevolent glow.

So back to the beginning for a quick recap. Theo and I abandon contraception at the beginning of the year and get on with business as usual. Just as the weather gets seriously hot I start feeling unusual. Alcohol and caffeine are suddenly unattractive to my taste buds, my breasts feel a bit strange and I keep getting ravenously hungry, but just don't fancy eating anything. I break out in the type of acne I only get when there is extra progesterone in my system (experience with previous contraception). I can't remember when my last period was, but I start feeling suspicious and report the symptoms to my experienced sister (four children). She admits they sound fairly classic, but counsels against any over excitement about the situation just yet. I don't actually feel excited anyway, just a tad queasy.

Theo has gone off to a residential camp for a week. On the phone I tell him about my suspicions. He forbids me to self-diagnose until he gets back. I pass the next six days feeling disinclined to eat or drink anything sweet. How did I get this virtuous?

Theo returns and we do the pee stick. The line flames up positive even before I have a chance to pull my knickers back up. Theo is very excited about the prospect of suddenly probable parenthood. I feel justified.

The next few weeks pass in a heat haze and Theo is highly solicitous, dealing patiently with my new found fussiness about food and giving me lots of back rubs and foot-massages. I milk it.

We get back to England to see friends and family, lie to the NHS about our current address and book ourselves in to see a midwife and radiographer in Bristol.

The first scan seems fine, as far as these things do. We suddenly realise there really is a living thing in my belly, not just a collection of physical symptoms. We also realise we're two weeks further on than we thought. A bump - still smallish - obediently appears below my midriff. I scour Bristol's charity shops for roomier clothes. The midwife takes lots of blood out of my arm and nods approvingly when I tell her I don't drink or smoke and I fully intend to breast-feed. Theo doesn't watch the blood extraction part.

First hitch when we are told we have a high risk of our foetus (now christianed Fosbury) having Downs Syndrome. This is upsetting news. I calm down a bit when I realise that a 1 in 65 risk still means it's less than 2 per cent. Nevertheless, we opt to have amniocentesis and thankfully that all goes fine.
“Look out for its feet!” says Theo at one point during the procedure.
“Oh, I've stuck loads of needles in babies, don't worry about it,” says the consultant cheerfully. He doesn't on this occasion, thankfully.

A few days later we are back in Spain and the initial news from the amnio is good. The three chromosomes which are affected if Downs Syndrome is present are normal. Phew. Two weeks later we learn that in fact, all the chromosomes are normal and we are growing a female. We change the foetus' name to Fosbella.

Which brings us up to date as, having registered with the Spanish health system, we wait for our next scan (although most possible anomalies were checked at 17 and a half weeks and nothing untoward was seen then, so we're not hugely anxious). Anyway, it seems like a good plan to get it done as soon as possible, so we are considering paying for a private scan or pulling strings to see if we can get one done when we are back in Bristol for a wedding.
Meanwhile, I am busy committing foetal-related words in Spanish to memory. Luckily, being medical, they are largely the same as their English equivalents, just pronounced in a more Spanish way. Disappointingly, “scan” is not “escano ultra-sono”, as we had hoped. Never mind. In the meantime, I will keep on enjoying my new Metro privileges.

our new flat

Our new flat is awesome! It was the last one we looked at - we saw five in total - and though it immediately became our first choice, we'd kind of forgotten how good it was until we actually moved in.

It's pretty large and very well equipped; for a flat to be 'furnished' here in Spain clearly means it comes with plates, pots and pans in the kitchen, meaning that much of the stuff we dug out of our parents attic is largely redundant. The spacious bathroom - many of those we saw were little more than corridors with a shower at the end - comes with both bath and bidet, while our sofa could easily accommodate any guests that don't fit in the spare room. We've got air conditioning, central heating and ceiling fans (none a given in Madrid, despite the massive range of seasonal temperatures) and a view out of our bedroom's covered terrace that looks like it came straight off the set of West Side Story. Even the decoration is good - prints of Dali's and van Gough's and a nicely toned down wooden floor - and at the least to obligatory sideboard is painted the same as the wall so doesn't dominate too much.

Almost better than the flat is the barrio, the surrounding neighbourhood. Mendez Alvaro, where we were living before, was great for public transport links and parks, but not much else - there was no atmosphere to the area. Here in Cuidad Lineal our quiet little street (free parking) is just round the corner from shady avenues lined with useful shops and atmospheric bars. We're a mere 5 minutes walk through pretty streets to the bustling Calle Acala, with it's miles of shops and metro stops. While we may technically be further away from the centre here, we definitely feel closer to the heart of Madrid.

You'll Never Take The Metro Alone

So there I was, sitting innocently in the Madrid Metro, having just said goodbye to Mother and Godmother and on my way to work, when mine and my fellow-passengers' senses were roughly assaulted by what felt like half the Liverpool FC travelling support.

The lads were in high spirits ahead of the big Champions League game against Real Madrid that night, but no matter how harmless their intentions, their sheer numbers, volume and boisterousness made them an intimidating prospect. I would have almost preferred a panpipes rendition of Sounds of Silence.

After hearing, "Eh, eh, where do we get off, eh, eh?" shouted up and down the carriage a dozen or so times, I realised the best way to be rid of their overwhelming company was to ensure they didn't miss their stop, which to my relief, was coming up.

I stood up "Hey, Guys," I rasped, struggling to make my ailing vocal-chords (laryngitis - again) heard above their racket. "Get off at Tribunal and change to Line 10 for Santiago Bernebeu."

"What's that, eh, eh, what's that?" asked one. I repeated my information. By then, we were pulling into Tribunal itself. My suggestion was relayed up and down the carriage.
"We don't get out here, eh, eh!"
"She says we do!"
"Eh, eh, no we don't"
"She's told us we do, eh, eh!"

Another of the Scouse heroes turned to me, "Who d'you support, eh, eh?" he asked, a note of accusation in his voice.
"Bristol Rovers", I said. He blinked and realisation dawned.
"Hey - you're English!!"
No shit, Sherlock.

Liverpool won the tie, a goal to nil, which was good news for keeping breakages and argy-bargy to a minimum in Central Madrid. The inhabitants of the area wouldn't have had much sleep though. Madrilenos may be famous for all-night partying, but even they need a bit of shut-eye on school nights. There would have been precious little of that with Merseyside's finest in town.

The quality of busking is a pain...

I used to really like Simon and Garfunkel. But my appreciation of their work has taken a bit of a dive since I moved to Madrid. It's not Paul and Art's fault. They weren't to know some of their most famous songs would be reproduced on panpipes to oompah backing tracks and inflicted daily on the Spanish Capital's Metro commuters.
Ordinarily, I really like music. I also happen to believe that deserving musicians should be rewarded for their efforts, and that includes decent buskers. But I do object to having music played at me whether I like it or not. At least with other buskers, you have the choice of walking past (with finger inserted in ear) or stopping to listen. When one descends on your carriage on Linea Circular with yet another muzak rendition of El Condor Pasa, Bridge Over Troubled Water or Sounds of Silence, you're stuck with it.
Most Spaniards have developed selective deafness and a thick skin when it comes to handing over money to musical hijackers. Which makes me wonder how many performances of S&G's Greatest Hits (panpipes interpretation) make it worth the hijacker's while.
Maybe I'm being intolerant. After all, riding the Metro isn't exactly the last word in fun and a bit of music is always welcome, isn't it?
No, it isn't. Those people who don't have a companion to talk to during the train journey seem quite happy to be left in peace to read, study or snooze. An over-loud, naff and unasked for soundtrack only serves to add to the other irritations of public transport, like over-crowding, delays and pick-pockets.
The other day, I think I had to suffer no less than four renditions of El Condor Pasa during my journey to work, each by a different busker, yet all sounding the same. Ye gods. If they must panpipe us to death on the Metro, is it too much to ask that they learn a different tune? Something by Pulp or the Sex Pistols or even The Spice Girls? If they could, if they only could...

Buskers

Am I imagining it, or does Paris have a reputation for buskers? Whatever, if it doesn't, it should do. Buskers had been something of a rarity on our trip - we came across a few in Italy, including a 12 year old drummer in the Metro who was making such a huge noise on one drum we assumed it was a whole samba band, but it was only in Paris where they came out in such force and variety.

This old couple playing gypsy jazz numbers in Montmartre ranked among our favourites, but we also saw Michael Jackson impersonators, football jugglers, bad covers artists, bluesmen and those hideous Metro performers who jump on the trains armed with accordions and bad backing tracks. We hate backing tracks; we'd given some money to a pair of teenage girls in Verona solely on the strength that they weren't using a backing track and appeared to be playing their own material. There was one exception to this rule, though and it was also the most inventive bit of busking we'd seen: a Puppet Theatre on the Metro which did require backing music. It was the speed with which the stage was set up and the simplicity of the nonetheless amusing performance with very detailed home made puppets that won us over. Originally, engaging and funny. We had to applaud.