Members of a blogging consortium (they write on the same subject every Friday) have been expounding on the subject of “Pain” today. The funniest that of Paul, yes, of Blackwatertown fame, who took his ‘pain’ to Paris. And devoured it.
I don’t do pain. I never ever even have so much as a headache. Though had three mind crushing migraines (apparently of the male varierty – cluster front brain) when in my twenties. Obviously there is toothache. Yes, toothache. Toothache is amazing. I remember the first time: I must have been about 11. Naturally, it was Saturday morning when it flared up. Never was I more grateful to my father than when he found me a dentist two hours later who relieved me of my first molar. Even him pulling it, hearing the crunch of the roots reluctant to let go was utter bliss. Then I bled. But all was good again. I adore dentists.
Another useless pain when, a couple of years ago, they tried to reset my broken arm manually. Dear dog in heaven. I fucking hit the roof. It was something else. Then they decided it wasn’t going to work. And they needed to operate next morning. So they put me to bed and gave me morphine. Oh the bliss, Sweethearts. If ever I am going to be given a choice of drug addiction – morphine it will be. The Angel phoned the ward every so often throughout the night to see how I was and one of his observations, in wonderment: “The sister kept saying: Your mother is very content. Content?? How can you have been content?” I was. Content. Very. Blissed out. Even more if they hadn’t come round every half hour to take my blood pressure. I am in love with morphine. And that’s that. Anyone and anything I am in love with: Please do stay away from me. I don’t want to know. It’s all too complicated.
However, there is one pain which I wouldn’t have wanted to miss for the world. Childbirth. You can’t beat it for entertainment value. The Angel gave me false alarm on a Tuesday. Thursday morning I drove to Heathrow Airport to pick up my sister. No sooner had I set off across the New Forest labour kicked in for real. I timed it. Every five minutes. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Still, remember we are on the subject of ‘pain’, as long as you have a steering wheel to cling to every wave of a contraction will be easily managed. And yes, I did make it to the airport and back home. I even cooked my sister an English Breakfast in between doubling up before I took myself off to hospital. Naturally, and who can blame him, the Angel was in no hurry to face his mother so we had a long drawn out night. Till, Friday morning, his father had an argument with the doctor and the midwife told me: “This baby has to come out”. Indeed. State the obvious. Once I was threatened with the prospect of forceful intervention the Angel had the decency to emerge before I was wheeled into theater.
My point? My point is that birthing pain is the one and only pain which is most wonderful. Why? Because at the end of it you do have a result. A true result. A miracle. Worth every pain you never thought possible. Yes, a miracle. And that is is how I look at him. A miracle. Coming up to twenty one years.