Daisy was my first midwife at the London hospital where, upon finding out I was pregnant, I’d planned to have a straightforward, perfectly average birth with lots of euphoria-inducing drugs and expert medical attention. That, of course, was before I knew anything about the NHS and its methods.
My 12-week appointment was arranged through my GP. After sitting close to three hours in a waiting room filled with sweaty pregnant women who looked as if they might kill each other for a sandwich, I was shown into an office by a large 60-something woman in a blue smock holding a clipboard with my notes on it. She wore a name tag but did not introduce herself.
First she instructed me to stop taking Pregnacare antenatal vitamins, the bestselling supplement on the market, as they were, in her opinion, ‘complete rubbish’. Then she asked if I’d been drinking.
‘Hardly at all, since I found out,’ I said. This was true — although my English boyfriend offered to pour me a gin and tonic every night after work and rolled his eyes when I declined. His new nickname for me was ‘Health Canada’, a reference to the austere government ministry where my sister worked back home. ‘I’ve had the odd glass of wine but obviously not every day,’ I told Daisy primly, ‘and never more than one at a time of course.’ I watched as her eyes widened and a look of horror spread slowly across her face.
She raised her voice to the pitch of someone commanding a very bad dog. ‘NOT. A. DROP. Do you understand me? This is very important.’ Still shaking her head, she began pelting me with questions: ‘Do you smoke?’, ‘Have you ever engaged in recreational drug use?’, ‘How many units of alcohol a week do you normally drink?’ and finally, ‘What is your faith?’
I laughed, until I realised she wasn’t joking.
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