*

Before Magpie, I had been to Hospital a handful of times, three times to birth three boy children – the three kings. Once to have a thickened viscid appendix plucked off my bowel and once for an STD screening that turned out to be discharge from a burst ovarian cyst. Phew. You went to Hospital for a baby and it was a happy place. That’s what my mother and the neighbours said. They shared packing advice, make-up bag, fluffy bed coat, Solpadeine, Epsom salts, prune juice, new flannels, XL disposable knickers, yellow or cream clothing for baby, cream blanket with breathing holes, mittens, babygro, hat, a change of clothes and some snacks for your husband. You reacted accordingly because you knew you should be happy, it was a happy time and you’d be happy with your baby because Hospital was a gift when you went there for a baby. Any misgivings or nerves were shushed. The happenings inside maternity wards were not up for discussion.

If you were heavy all over like a small silage bale, they’d say it was a boy; if you were neat and all forward to the front, slung low like a soccer ball stuffed under your jumper, they’d say it was a girl. But all that mattered was health and happiness (and to make a bowel movement quickly and painlessly afterwards, that didn’t rupture your stitches).

Once or twice I went in secret with a drunk friend and watched as they gawked up charcoal-laced vomit out through a crow-yellow mouth, twisted ankle or a broken nose from falling over in stilettos that got trapped in Galway’s dodgy cobbles. As they spewed out sadness they grasped hard on to the steel roll of the trolley, knuckles pale and blue. I’d claw my foot along the floor and haphazardly begin apologising.

No, she’s not always like this, no, soz, I don’t know her date of birth, or soz, no, don’t know her next of kin either. Soz.

Soz.

Schuch. Schuch. Schuch.

I said over and over and overandoverandoverandtodoverwegooverandoveragain.

Schuch. Schuch. Schuch.

This was how I would herd sheep. Chanting. I use it now to control the pain.

Count it. Chant. Bellow. Watch it. Observe your pain closely.

Then, equate it into a number.

Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten. End. All pain ends at ten.

I also went to Hospital to birth a daughter but we weren’t far enough along to tell whether I was low down or carrying forward or if, perhaps, I was just fat with puffy feet.

She had no heartbeat.

Schuch. Schuch. Schuch.

*

After Magpie it was impossible to focus, everything was hostile – where to fall asleep or in what position, how to avoid having sex with Alex, where to watch TV and what to watch. I flicked aimlessly through Sky Planner. I couldn’t watch the shit I had recorded on Series Link. Not now, gawping at another CSI, or some overfed guy shoving a million meat-feast sandwiches into his mouth in a tacky Omaha deli. I couldn’t coordinate an outfit. Not one for sitting around the house. I couldn’t just listen to the radio. I was unable to do anything with sustained interest or longevity apart from cracking open boiled apple sweets between my back teeth. Though even that had its consequences as the skin on the roof of my mouth had thinned and tasted rusty from sucking the green-and-red drops.